Day 5

At around 3:30 AM Ben woke me up from my spot in the back of the truck. Incredibly groggy, but only a little stiff, I climbed out, pulled on my shell to warm up, and followed him into the main compound of Villa Creole. Ben was trying to utilize the time in the middle of the night while everyone was asleep to use the minimal (and usually crowded) wireless signal that was available. We needed to figure out transportation and a method of getting cash in so we weren’t helpless. Most importantly for Ben, however, was his responsibility to get his own mother to safety. I could tell this weighed on him, and the longer we stayed in Haiti, the more I felt his urgency to make sure he got her out and to safety.

While Ben used the internet, I pulled a couple of table chairs together, still aching for a few more hours of sleep, balled up to keep warm, and caught a few more winks. After an hour or so of relatively restless sleep– I’m pretty good at sleeping anywhere, but I guess everyone has their limits– I sat up and chatted with Ben. We reminisced about the last couple of days. We talked about the little boy, about his severed foot, his helpless parents. We talked about Doug– our loyal companion who has, to say the very, very least, a lot of personality. We talked about what we could do to begin getting ready to get Ben’s mother out of Port au Prince and safely to the States. We talked about what we could do for Haiti once we returned.

As dawn crept in, dreary-eyed journalists and doctors began slowly emerging from all areas of the compound– some from tents, others from hotel rooms, others from under blankets in the grass. As they had the mornings prior, the doctors rose early, ate whatever food they had with them, stuffed their day-bags, and headed out with the morning light to work, many of them at General Hospital.

The sky turned from cool blue to pale pink-and-orange, and the hotel staff brought out a meager complimentary continental breakfast. I was incredibly grateful for hot coffee (regardless of quality) and juice, yogurt, and some pastries. It seemed so far out of context, especially after days of mostly consuming Clif Bars. I went and alerted our Haitian brothers, who were emerging from sleep and from the truck outside, that there was breakfast. And though part of me felt guilty how accessible these amenities were for me, and how inaccessible they were for the many outside, I poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a pastry and cup of yogurt, and sat down with our “crew,” watching the sun slowly fill the compound with light.

One of the first orders of the day, for Ben and I, was to find a way for Doug to get back to Santo Domingo. It had become clear that his resources were depleted as well as ours, and he wasn’t any good as a rescue worker unless he was able to get back to Santo Domingo and receive aid from the people in his organization back home. He was also a real challenge of personality, and Ben and I decided that for the rest of the trip, we would accomplish the most by breaking away.

Throughout the past several days I had tried my best to be patient with Doug’s temper-tantrums, wild-goose-chases, hyperbolic self-acclimations, and awful bed-side manner. But it was really Ben that seemed to have the patience of Job. Often when Doug was being difficult, I was fuming, but Ben would quietly appease Doug, or seemingly acquiesce to many of his complaints. I understood that, at least at first, Ben felt a loyalty to Doug. It was Doug, after all, that had orchestrated (ahem, conned) his way, along with Ben, onto a plane that brought them in from Florida so that Ben could get to his mother.

But by the morning of that fifth day, Doug had pulled his last antic– even for Ben. And Ben had what he referred to as a “come to Jesus” talk with Doug. Essentially, he shot straight with him. And it was bizarre the impact it had. Instead of retaliating, or throwing a fit, Doug was agreeable. He had no resources, was low on money, and would go back to Santo Domingo where he could contact his people and regroup. Now the only challenge would be getting him there.

Discouraged that we wouldn’t be able to find a way home for Doug, but feeling a sense of responsibility to make sure he made it home safely, we asked around at the now-bustling compound if anyone knew any options for getting back to the Dominican Republic. Somehow through the early part of our search, Doug had befriended some people from The Christian Science Monitor, and before we knew it we were putting his stuff in the back of their large van, and were sending him off with hugs and waves. I don’t think he really wanted to go, because he must have said good-bye four times. Once or twice the door to the van would shut, the engine start, and then our hearts would flutter as Doug would emerge again to retrieve something else he’d forgotten, hug us goodbye again, and then climb back into the van.
But sure enough, by nine o’clock in the morning, we waved and watched the van filled with our friend and the correspondents from The Christian Science Monitor bounce down the road. Ben and I secretly wondered if the nice people on their staff would toss Doug onto the highway after an hour. But we trusted their patience and generosity and went back to the compound, smiling, relieved, bathing in the morning sunshine, and made plans for our day.

We decided that the best option for our driver, his truck, and the rest of our companions, was to send them on home to their families. They had been hired to travel with us up until this point, but we had no money left to give them, and no specific work to offer them. Ben and I would be alright, could find transportation, and had a wealth of resources at Villa Creole that we had access to. So we said good-byes, gave hugs, and watched as they rounded the curve away from us, back to their toppled homes.
Back inside Villa Creole, I cradled another cup of coffee and discussed the days’ plans with Ben, Simon, and a couple of young French reporters. I had a strong urge to go straight to General Hospital to see if their was anything I could do to help there. Another contact of mine, Jakob, who was a Swedish photographer from New York, had been sending me status reports from the hospital. He told me that he’d been able to help the doctors, and they generously allowed him to take pictures as well.

Simon and the two French reporters, who had been working as a set of three most of the week, had already been to the hospital and were making plans to head out into another part of the city. Both of the reporters were on assignment, and Simon, who was in Haiti independently, primarily stuck with them. The compound was pretty well cleared out by ten o’clock. Most of the journalists would work out in the city through late morning and early afternoon and would return by late afternoon to transmit their photos and stories back to their editors.

Short on cash, and pleased at the thought of a nice long walk, Ben and I decided to head down to General Hospital, a few miles away at the bottom of the hill, on foot. I left my big backpack at the front desk of the hotel, packed my day pack with everything I would need for the day including a water-bottle, Clif-bars, my camera, and few other odds-and-ends. I walked down the stairs, past the fallen foyer, the stairs to the second floor dangling above me, and into the bathroom that had been okayed for visitors to utilize.

I looked in the mirror. I don’t know that I’d seen my real reflection in several days. I look haggard. My sinuses were stuffed with exhaust and dust, and there were dirt circles accenting my sleepy-circles under my eyes. I had faint stubble, and hair like Peter Pan’s. I had pulled on a clean white t-shirt for the day, which was at the moment the only thing making me look even remotely presentable. I splashed water on my faces, brushed my teethe, scrubbed out some of the obvious dirt marks, and headed back upstairs.

My plan was to meet Jakob at General Hospital in one hour. The walk was down-hill, but we were unsure just how far it was. An hour? Two? Before we left the hotel compound I handed Ben one of my favorite vintage t-shirts– “No Guts no Glory”– and we ripped it into rags for him to use as a face mask. I had been using the same t-shirt I had torn up my first day in Port au Prince and it had been serving me well. At that we headed out like bandits down the hill.

Taking a long walk through the city was a unique and compelling way to survey the damage. Most of the time one could watch the horrifying scene from the safety of a vehicle. Viewing everything from inside a car gave a false sense of protection, and a very real sense of separation. With a window between you and the fallen bricks and broken people outside, you could watch but not be involved.
Along the way we stopped periodically to chat with locals. One man was selling giant tortoise shells. I stopped and ask if I could take a picture of him with the shells. He struck a dignified pose.

The winding road down the hill from Petionville affords a truly magnificent view of valley below. As we walked, Ben told me about the Haiti in which he had grown up. Although Ben had been born into incredibly meager conditions, he seemed to have mostly fond memories of his childhood in Haiti. After his mother transported him to New York, he had returned often and was always treated like a prince by his family. For those of you well-traveled in the third world, you know there is no feast like the ones prepared for visitors from afar.

Our walk was in some senses light– we laughed and retold the same stories about Doug. As big-hearted as he apparently was, it was such a relief to have the liabilities he carried off of us. Ironically, now with no truck, drivers, or cash, we felt freed to actually help.
But as we walked we also bore further witness to the massive destruction of the city. We walked past one collapsed building after another. Everywhere there were signs that said, “Nous avons besoin d’aide” — “we need help.” As we climbed over crumbled cinder blocks, splintered wood, and exposed wires, we walked past a small cement building that had remained relatively intact. It was sandwiched between two partially collapsed structures, with the spray-painted scrawling in English “God is good.” It reminded me of Ben’s mother the previous day who, on our return home from our long day as a make-shift EMT crew, threw her hands in the air and said in English “Thaaank you God, thank you!” waving her arms. I also remembered the early morning praise songs. I wondered if I’d have had the same perspective in the face of such adversity. Truly, I admired the strength of their faith.

Partially because of the condition of the road, and partially because of our frequent stops, the walk down hill took far longer then I imagined. Jakob, the Swedish photographer, was texting me that he was getting ready to take off. By the time we arrived at General Hospital, he was gone, and the gates to the entrance of the overcrowded compound were packed with Haitians pleading their cases and begging to be admitted. Some had family members with urgent needs, other just hoped that they would get some water or food.
Their hopes were likely in vain as I later discovered that water inside General Hospital was scarce both for the patients who desperately needed it, and the medical staff that were at risk of getting dehydrated as well. Ben and I managed to work our way through the mass of people to a narrow opening in the gate where a few bewildered U.S. soldiers blocked our entry, informing us that the press was being evacuated and no more people were being allowed in without some kind of identification as medical personnel. We told them we were there to help, not take pictures, and they hesitantly acquiesced.

As could be expected part of the hospital had completely collapsed– in fact the nursing education building was flattened. We were told that more then a hundred young nursing students had been crushed. The horrifying smell of the bodies inside wafted throughout the nearby facilities.

Parts of the the hospital complex that had been deemed sturdy were being used as operating rooms, and pre-op and inpatient units. Most patients that weren’t been currently treated were placed outside, where a miniature tent-city had been formed to shade them from the blazing mid-day sun. What formed over the top of the maze of dilapidated hospital beds was a massive network of blankets and tarps, strung with ropes to trees and poles, forming a collective quilt of meager covering.

Ben and I split up and agreed to meet back at the front in few minutes once we’d surveyed the scene. I walked through the constant crowds of people and took in the whole scene. I stopped a couple of times to take a few pictures, but for the most part kept my camera in my bag. Sure enough, journalists were slowly being pushed out. I watched an Australian news crew conclude an interview with a doctor who was clearly in a hurry to get back to his patients. I watched some photographers steal some pictures of a few desperate Haitians, who looked up with big eyes that said, at least in my mind, “Fine, take a picture. I don’t even care. Just take your picture and go.”

One journalist particularly caught my eye, however. She was kneeling alongside her translator at eye level with a patient. I didn’t catch the exact conversation, but her mannerisms with the young man were sincere. Every once in a while she’d tilt her head and say something to the patient, and then look to her translator. The young man would answer and she’d jot a few notes down, hardly breaking eye contact. After what seemed like a great deal of time, she finally lifted her camera and made a gesture that said, “May I?” He nodded, she snapped a couple photos, glancing up at him between shots.

That, I thought, is how it’d done. Make the personal connection. Give them dignity. And ultimately, give them the option to opt out. I realize this isn’t always plausible– and some would find me naive to think that it’s really ever plausible in such circumstances. Maybe that’s true. But it’s ideal. And the interaction not only impacted me, but impressed me as the best example of how to be a good photojournalist.
Before I even had the opportunity to head back to our agreed upon meeting spot, Ben found me. He was heading out with an ambulance crew to pick up people in need of medical care to take them to Sunapi. Ben asked me anxiously (the team was waiting for him) if I wanted to go. I told him no. I decided I wanted to stay and see how I could be of help at the hospital. We had no way of keeping in touch as Ben’s cell phone wasn’t working, so we agreed we would just meet up at Villa Creole later that night. And just like that, we parted ways.
I wasn’t really sure where to be– or who to talk to. There were people at the hospital from organizations from all over the world, including multiple red crosses, and dozens of NGOs. So after making a brief circle of the the ground, getting a feel for the layout of things, I approached a random doctor who simply appeared to be more in charge then other doctors around. Illusion or not, he was the man to talk to. I told him I was a photographer, had no medical background, but was at least a healthy body and would do anything he wanted me to do. I told him I was putting my camera down for the day.

Without a moment of hesitation he slapped a badge on me– he was with the International Medical Corps– and gave me a job: assisting a young doctor named Patrick to put together a new pediatrics ward in a portion of the hospital that hadn’t collapsed. Along with Patrick we assembled a group of young Haitian volunteers and began begging the stout, sharp-tongued Haitian woman who operated as the pharmacist to give us a supplies to stock the ward. Since supplies were terribly scarce, she took her job very seriously as the gatekeeper between doctors in various roles that tried to beg and coerce her into giving them more of this or that. By the end of the day, I’d sweet talked her into giving us pretty much everything on our list, and I think she still liked me when it was all said and done.

Patrick could not have been much older then me. He looked to be 29 years old. But back in California he was an emergency room MD who split his time between the states, and doing work with IMC in Iraq. He was friendly and hard-working and impressed me immediately.
The team of young Haitians that were with me spoke no English, and I no Creole, but we sweated together all day, gathering usable hospitable beds and mattresses from empty, dingy corners of the hospital and corralling them in two large rooms at the top of a stairway in the back portion of the hospital. As soon as a few beds were set up, doctors and nurses were bombarding us with requests to bring children in. There was simply no room anywhere else. Frantically, I continued to haul filthy mattresses in, dust them off, and cover them with hospital gowns so they could start laying children on them.

For the first hour or so of working, there was no doctor in the new pediatrics ward we were assembling. But finally one arrived. She was frantic, clearly stressed. I did everything I could to help her set the unit up comfortably so she could make rounds and give proper care. Her name was Dr. Conde, and she was a Haitian-American from Brooklyn. Other nurses that accompanied her were Haitian-born as well. One of them lived blocks away from me in Harlem.

At first I don’t think Dr. Conde knew what to make of me. I didn’t tell her I was a photographer, just a volunteer with the International Medical Corps– which was true. But the longer I was with her, rushing in and out of the pharmacy, grabbing meager supplies when I could, and helping transport children from stretchers onto beds, the more she warmed to me. And she was a good doctor.

Finally the two rooms that made up the new ward were filled with young children– many of them no older then three– some of them literally minutes old. I was hot and incredibly thirsty when I glanced out the window and saw that the sun was sinking below the horizon. I was losing light, and there was no electricity in the building. I asked Dr. Conde if it would be okay if I took a few pictures. “Of course!” There was no more work for me to do, so I grabbed my camera and made a single round through the ward.

Most of the children I was photographing had seen me around all day. As far as they were concerned, I was a doctor. So when I approached their beds with a smile, there was a warmness already between us. I followed suit with the journalist I had seen earlier. Whenever I took a photo, I made the “May I?” gesture. And sometimes I would even get a smile. There were children with recently amputated limbs, severe burns and lacerations, struggling newborns, head injuries, and on and on.

After I finished taking pictures, I asked the nurses if there was anything else I could do. They had one more request: there were some limited pain medications being given, but the nurses were starting worry. As dusk passed, and darkness set in, they were deeply concerned that in the night, with no pain meds, no one would sleep. That the children would cry in agony all night, exhaust themselves, and exhaust the staff. So I set off on my last mission for the day.

I ran down to the pharmacy to make one last minute inquiry, but found the doors locked and bolted shut. I made a few circles of the compound. Most volunteers had left. The medical help at boiled down to the skeleton crew. But I caught a glimpse of Patrick hauling a man in on a stretcher.

“Patrick!” He looked over at me, clearly exhausted. “We need acedomedophine for the kids.”

He pointed me in the direction of a storage closet that might still be open. “We have some donated supplies we’ve been hiding in there. See if you can get to them.”

As I was walking away something dawned on me and my heart sank. “Patrick!” I called after him again. He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Where are you staying?”

“Villa Creole, in Petionville.” My spirits rose again. “Perfect! Me too. Can I get a ride back there?”

“Of course.”

With that I hurried off to the IMC horde, which turned out to be a few meager boxes of random, mostly useless, medical supplies. But there was adult-strength acedomedophine which could be administered in small doses to the kids. I grabbed a box of it and ran back up to the nurses who almost kissed me.

When I left the ward, it was completely dark. The nurses were making rounds with flashlights and getting ready for another long night shift.
I hurried back to the IMC makeshift headquarters on site and barely made the vanload that was heading back up the hill to Villa Creole. At this point I was well past my deadline for meeting Ben, so I hoped he hadn’t somehow left without me. I piled in with the International Medical Corps crew, who I decided were a pretty likable bunch, and we slowly bounced and bumped our way up hill back to Petionville.
When I arrived at Petionville I managed to scrounge a bottle of water. I pulled two Clif bars out of my bag and sat down at a table by the pool. Virtually everyone, doctors and press alike, had arrived back at the hotel base and were buzzing around me. Ben, however, was nowhere to be seen.

After sitting alone for a few minutes munching on a carrot-cake flavored Clif bar, the IMC crew found me and pulled chairs up around my table. Patrick plopped an ice-cold Red Stripe down in front of me. Most of the day I had been keenly aware of my inability to really help any of the patients at General Hospital. But it was nice to feel appreciated and, more importantly, to feel a sense of community. I sat for a while and chatted with them as they recounted stories from the previous days, as well as from their time in Iraq and around the world.
Around 10 PM, I received a text from my friend Jonathan. Jonathan was a friend of mine whom I’d known for years. We originally met because of a trip I took in 2006 to Uganda. I had stayed with him in Lira, Uganda where he was working to start an orphanage, so we were used to seeing each other in the context of the third world. He traveled far more then I did to impoverished places all over the globe, producing video pieces for various organizations. The night I was contemplating going to Haiti, I had called Jonathan.
“Hey man” I had said, “What are you up to?”

“Oh, just got back to Orange County. Hopefully I’ll be back here for a while.” He hesitated. “Well, actually that’s not true. I’m possibly going to Haiti tomorrow.”

“No way! Me too. That’s actually why I’m calling!”

Jonathan informed me he was waiting for funding for a possible trip to Port au Prince. We exchanged information and he gave me some leads on contacts in Haiti. One of them was an orphanage called Child Hope International.

Jonathan is a rare gem. Once in Uganda we had been driving to meet someone at a local restaurant. It was 10 o’clock at night and we were already hours late. But yet at the site of some street children he recognized, he pulled the van over and spent a half an hour catching up with the boys, making sure they had a place to stay, making sure they had food. He had a preferential view to the poorest– often quoting Psalm 68:5 which calls God the “father of the fatherless.” Fatherless himself, Jonathan has a massive heart for the orphans of the world, and he’s devoted his young life so far to that end.

Jonathan had been to Haiti before and had a lot of quality footage of conditions before the quake– specifically of the orphan situation– which was something few news organizations had. So now Jonathan was working closely with CNN on a documentary on which he later became co-producer, along with CNN’s Soledad O’brien.

Throughout my trip so far, I had been texting back and forth with Jonathan– mostly for general news and to share tips. But now he was texting me, anxious to meet up. I told him I was at Villa Creole. He said he’d been there before and was not far down the road. In a matter of a half an hour he, along with his girlfriend Lindsay, who was there for Food for the Hungry, arrived at Villa Creole.

I was elated to see them. I gave Jonathan a bear hug. He and Lindsay looked at the buzzing makeshift newsroom/compound around them and then assessed me. I was more of a wreck then when I had woken up. Now covered in more dirt, the physical labor of the day had caused me to sweat, the dirt and filth on me to cake and smear, and I’m sure I smelled atrocious.

As they started asking me questions about my situation, I started to become aware of its’ bizarreness. We walked outside of the hotel to the dark driveway where their car was parked.

“Where have you been sleeping, brother?” Jonathan asked me.

“Well, wherever. Last night I slept in the back of a truck.”

“How much money do you have?”

That I didn’t know. I pulled out my wallet and slid the remaining cash out of it. It was then that I realized I had only eight dollars. I didn’t say the amount out loud, they saw it.

“You only have eight bucks?” Lindsay sounded startled.

Well, I had more then that in my bank account obviously, I retorted, but there weren’t exactly a plethora of financial institutions from which to withdraw money.

“Maybe we shouldn’t hang out in the dark out here too long,” I said, “last night there were gunshots over by our truck.”

“Adam,” Jonathan was concerned, “you slept outside while there were gunshots?” The situation was actually starting to strike us as a little humorous. It was apparent to them that I hadn’t really thought about the situation, and we all three laughed a little about it. I probably did look pretty silly– gaunt, filthy, with only eight dollars in my wallet, in a ravaged country far from home, and beaming wildly to them as I retold my adventures over the last few days as if it was all part of a hilarious lucid dream.

“Well, you know something, so far God has pretty well taken care of me,” I said. “I haven’t needed anything.”

“Well maybe us arriving is God taking care of you” Lindsay mused. Almost immediately after she said those words, we heard the “pop-pop” of further gunshots not far from us. We hit the ground. While flat against the ground ducking for cover, with Jonathan’s car next to us, Jonathan smiled over at me, “You’re coming with us.” I agreed.

First, I needed to leave word of where I’d gone in case Ben arrived. At this point it was late, almost eleven. I talked to several of the journalists that had seen me with Ben, as well as the front desk. I told them to tell Ben that I was going to the Plaza Hotel and would be back in the morning. They all agreed, and I climbed in to Lindsay and Jonathan’s car and headed down the road to the Plaza.

The Plaza was a whole other world. It was a fully functioning, fully intact, first-world style hotel. The first thing we did was drop our bags off in their air-conditioned room. I marveled at the amenities. Then we headed over to the hotel restaurant. I filled my plate with food from the buffet and found a seat. Jonathan and Lindsay joined me as well as a young California guy from a small local non-profit. Shortly after I began eating, Soledad O’brien and her producer sat down with us. Everyone began recounting the devastation they’d seen. But mostly, conversation transferred to politics, bureaucracy, and philosophies about the plight of Haiti. As we chatted, I became suddenly insecure of my appearance. My jeans were covered in dust and my fingernails were black. Everyone else here was showered, and under the circumstances, pretty well groomed.

After dinner, I went back to Jonathan and Lindsay’s hotel room and took my first real shower in Haiti. It was, needless to say, so refreshing. I looked down at my feet and watched the gray water drain away.

Before heading off to bed, Jonathan and I went up to the deck overlooking the massive tent city outside in the main square. Anderson Cooper was concluding his evening broadcast. We watched in awe as Cooper did what he does best. It was such a strange site to stand twenty feet from a CNN broadcast, giant floodlights illuminating the tent-city backdrop that represented such tragedy in a country so neglected and spat upon by the rest of the world.

I went to bed early. Jonathan had to meet with CNN producers about his piece, to review footage and talk logistics. I curled up inside my sleeping bag and slept soundly until about 6 AM when the second earthquake shook the grounds of the hotel.

Meet Angi Welsch. (And meet Levi, and the rest of a mixed family of 16). I wrote a lot of stuff that I decided was bollocks. Just enjoy this tiny preview of what really needs to be seen in person. At the very bottom of this post is the piece that I traded with her for. Love LOVE it.

Me making a mess at age 25.

Me making a mess at age 2.

Levi making a mess.

Continued from Day 1 & Day 2.

Day 3.

At approximately 5 o’clock in the morning I heard the panicked and urgent voice of Doug.  He had ripped open the zipper of the tent that Ben and I were sleeping in and was staring down at us through the darkness.

“We have to get those girls to the hospital or they’re going to die.” He urged.  “They’re sitting there under that sheet with basic injuries that are easily treatable and yet they’re going to die.  We gotta do something!”

“Okay,” Ben said, quietly, attempting to shake away his sleepiness.  “I’m up.”

I grappled for my t-shirt and iPhone and stumbled out of the tent.  Still head-heavy with sleep, I brushed my teethe, splashed water on my face, and began packing my day pack with the essentials: a water bottle, meager medical supplies, my camera, and some Clif bars.  I then walked out into the courtyard of Ben’s mother’s house.  The entire property had become (and still is) a safe-haven for families in the community that had lost their homes.  Strewn across the yard where I had slept were blankets, cots, and mats.  But by 5:30 everyone had awoken and was gathered in the far corner of the courtyard.  They were singing Haitian praise songs.

I walked over and sat down on the ground in the midst of the small service.  They were in a rough circle, some standing, some sitting.  Their voices were raised, but still felt hushed in the still of the morning.  The sun had not yet emerged and faint stars still peppered the sky.  I closed my eyes and let their upbeat Creole singing—the words dancing in the air—drizzle down over me.  The night before, I had been sitting with these same people when they had learned the news that more of their family members had been crushed in the quake.  I had seen them wave their arms, asking the sky for unfulfilled consolation.  And now they were raising their arms to that same sky, praising God.

When thinking back to the things I saw in Haiti, it seems trite to make suppositions or formulate axioms that can be garnered from the tragedy I witnessed.  I can’t seem to put pen to paper and write sentences that involve “hope amidst tragedy” or “resilience” without feeling like I’m making lightness out of the great suffering the people of Haiti have endured.  The cost of any lesson learned, of any scales that have fallen from the wealthier West’s eyes, is great—and impossible to justify.  But certain moments while I was in Port au Prince spoke loudly to me.  Certain instances seemed to tear through the story of Haiti’s recent earthquake, and alluded to the larger story of a land that was once referred to as “The Pearl of the West Indies.”

I don’t hope for consolation—just as the people of Haiti don’t hope for some kind of an explanation.  None would suffice.  But they hope—if they hope at all—for a greater, stronger future.  They hope—if they can bear it—for wholeness and opportunity.  Nothing, no amount of media attention, no act of compassion, no donation of time or resources, will replace what they’ve lost.  Nobody can look into the face of the man I met who lost every single member of his family, his home, and give him any thing, any words, that will begin to console his great loss.

So I don’t hope, on behalf of the people of Haiti, simply for the playing field to be leveled—for their misery to be assuaged or quality of life to rise back closer to our standards.  Instead, since I believe in my core that they are children of God, I hope that a greater story will burst through this one.  Because this Chapter seems purposeless.  This Chapter has done such violence to humanity that it’s hard to not put the book down.  But my hope, and I think the ultimate hope of these people, is not that this part of their story will someday feel “worth it,” that they will all be able to look back and say “See—we didn’t even know how great things would turn out!”—because 200,000 lives are not easily replaced, reconciled or accounted for.  No, hope will have to mean something greater that escapes words.  Something we can’t write about or articulate.  Something that can’t be argued, synopsized, or summarized.  Something no poetry or prose could convey.

That is why it was unexpected moments like that 5:30 AM worship service where I sensed hope.  It would cleanse me in a way that I couldn’t plan, extrapolate or articulate.  But it was there.  And I’m trying to carry it with me.

That day went on to be one of the longest of my life.  Ben’s mother had arranged a truck and a driver for us.  We filled two large water jugs with water and I used up my ration of water-purification tablets on one of them.  Several of the young men from the village joined us.  And after two hours of slowly readying for the day, we headed out.

A few houses away four people lay waiting for help.  An elderly woman who had been electrocuted, a middle-aged woman with several broken bones, a young pregnant girl, and a child.  With Ben, Doug, and our driver in the front of the cab, Ben’s mother, myself, and one of the young men from the village in the back of the cab, and a couple others in the back, we headed over to load them up and try and get them to a hospital.

As we made them as comfortable as possible in the back of the truck for what would turn out to be a long day of driving and waiting, I took out my camera to take a photo.  It is strange, to me, the relationship a photographer has with the people in his world.  It is strange how acceptable it becomes to take images of people in the midst of pain or anguish.  In my travels as a documentarian I’ve had to learn the delicate balance that exists in those situations, and in Haiti it seemed like the line on which we photographers walked was as narrow as a string.  In situations like the earthquake in Haiti, mere storytelling can easily become exploitation.  Even the most well-intentioned journalist or documentary photographer can cross lines.  I know I did it while I was there.  But I tried to do my best to keep in step with what I feel is the ethical way of telling a story of this nature through photographs.

For my part, that means thinking through the environment, the position of my body with theirs, the meeting of our eyes, the acceptance of the camera, and the understanding that it’s a give as much as it’s a take.  That when I lift my lens, theirs an unspoken contract there.   That their privacy and their rights are just as important as the best-paid supermodels’.  Greater photos come out of that kind of an exchange.  And the other photos—great or not—aren’t worth it if they rob the subject of humanity—especially when their humanity already seems to have been ripped from them.

So I clicked.  And hope (though I know I failed at times) that those images were gifts to me and to us from the person staring back from them, and not something I took.  And I hope that I was always willing to put my camera down if necessary.  That these two hands were used as best as they could be used—whether that meant holding a child, or holding a camera.

Our rag tag team spent the better have of the morning darting around Port au Prince, attempting to find a place where we could take the injured people we were transporting.  Doug, Ben, and I were in and out of so many places throughout the course of those eight hours it’s hard to keep all of the facts straight.  We stopped by a UN Hospital and were told there was no more room—check the Israel Hospital.  But no one knew where the Israeli Hospital was.  Somebody said their might be room at General Hospital, but somebody else told us it was horrific scene there—practically just a morgue.

We were short on gas—the whole town was—but we kept following as many leads as we could.  We stopped at a compound near the airport called Sunapi.  I’m not sure what exactly Sunapi was.  But inside it’s gates were multiple clinic operations, food, and water.  It also appeared to be the base for several of the rescue and aid teams.  A mob had formed outside of its gates and as we tried to drive our makeshift ambulance through the entrance, young men began piling on top of our truck.  We made it through with the aid of several UN soldiers, and once past the gates attempted to find a place where our patients could get care.

Waiting.  So much waiting.  Hurry up and wait.  We parked our truck near a group of exhausted Dominican rescue workers while Doug ran off to get us in and out of trouble three times with officers from four different countries. And we waited.

While we were waiting a white Jeep pulled up beside us with a small family—a father, mother, grandmother, and child.  The child’s foot was wildly bandaged—bulbous and white with tape and cloth.  He was reclining in the back seat.  Ben spoke with the mother as she explained that something had fallen on his foot during the quake and it appeared to be infected.  Ben told her we would do our best to help her find medical care for the boy.  After that, Ben went to look for Doug.

I poured some cups of water from the jug we had purified, and slowly tipped the cup to the boy’s mouth.  Someone had given me sweet crackers, so I ripped open the packaging and handed a few to him.  He looked up at me with curious but trusting eyes.  I lifted my camera, he gave, and I received.

After some time, Doug reappeared.  “Where’s Ben?!” he bellowed.  I wasn’t sure.  “I found a place that will take them.  Follow me.”  Doug cut off through the compound and I instructed the driver to follow the big loud Canadian.  As we drove through the crowded road that led back toward the front of Sunapi, our vehicle got lost in a sea of buses, cars, ambulances, UN vehicles, and people.  I turned around and saw that the white Jeep with the boy in it was not behind us.  I got out of the car and ran back to where we had been, but the Jeep was nowhere to be found.

We reached a medical tent near the entrance and Doug was enraged.  “Where is Ben?  We have to stick together!”  I told Doug I would run and get him immediately while Doug attempted to find care for the three women and girl.  I ran back through the throngs of people to attempt to find the Jeep and the boy.  I checked every white SUV, but couldn’t find him.  Finally I saw Ben walking toward me.

“Ben!” I grabbed him, “The boy! I can’t find him!”  We were one in thought.  We ran through Sunapi frantically until we finally found the white Jeep.  The facts are fuzzy, but if I remember it correctly the following is what took place:  the boy was now lying on the ground amidst a group of badly injured people.  Authoritatively, Ben grabbed a couple of nurses and brought them to the attention of the young boy.  The boy was probably eight years old.  His parents hovered over him helplessly, seemingly paralyzed to do anything for their son.

The nurses unwrapped the gauze and tape and revealed a foot that had been deeply severed from his toe straight back towards his heal.  The gash was massive and left the smaller, severed portion separated and his bones visible.  Having been untreated for days, it was a mess of tissue and oozing with puss.  The de-bandaging had already put the boy in convulsions of agonizing pain and now the nurses needed to give him a shot—straight to the bone—I  assume to ease the pain.

With his parents hovering over us, and a desperate man nearby grabbing at us for attention, we strapped on gloves and I set down my camera—after snapping a quick shot of the whole scene.  My head was getting heavy.  I don’t handle blood well.  But I focused my attention and gritted my teethe.  The nurses were exhausted and were unable to keep the boy still so they could administer the shot.  So Ben looked at me assertively and said, “Grab his upper body with all your might.”

In Creole, Ben began coercing the boy to be still, an impossible task.  He was, fatherly, stern.  “Hold still, if you ever want to walk again!”

“I don’t want to walk again!!” The boy screamed.

“If you ever want to play football again.”

“I hate football!”

“If you ever want to run!”

“I HATE RUNNING!!”

At this point the boy was grabbing my neck, pulling at my bandana and slapping at my face.  Staring up at me with near-hatred in his eyes as if I was the source of the pain in his foot. I wrapped by arms around the boys upper half, bracing my arms parallel to his torso, lowering my chest over him to try and brace him.  Ben continued urging him to be still and holding his lower half.  Finally we had him still for a moment and nurse quickly stuck the needle deep into his severed foot.

The boy arched his back and bent his head backwards and his screams of pain turned into a silent wheeze.  Tears were pouring down his face and a pool of urine expanded outward from under him, soaking the cardboard under him, as well as my arms and sleeves.

After what seemed like an eternity, the nurse pulled the syringe out of the boys foot and he collapsed onto the cardboard and his wheezing transitioned into exhausted whimpers.  My muscles relaxed.  Ben and I stood.  I had a lump in my throat.  I pulled off my gloves and tossed them to the ground.  I walked away and rinsed my arms off in a puddle of water that had formed from a broken water line nearby.

The location in Sunapi where the boy had received the shot was essentially a holding area.  A pile of cardboard had become bedding for a group of desperate patient overflow.  So Ben lifted the boy from the spot on the ground.  We were now intrinsically tied to that boy, Ben and I.  For Ben’s part, he had a son the same age back in States.  And we both felt a deep sense of responsibility for him.  So we ploughed our way through the crowds of people, weaving our way through a mish-mash of vehicles, towards a medical tent where Doug was impatiently waiting.  All the while I ran ahead of Ben to clear a path for the boy and for his foot that was sticking straight into the air, dripping with fluids.

The boy was given priority and disappeared into the bowels of a dark and smelling tent of injured people.  Meanwhile, Doug informed us that our patients, who were still waiting, exhausted and in pain, in the back of our truck, were not going to be admitted at Sunapi.  Mission failed.  Piling back into the car and exiting the compound I felt numb.  And the rest of the day played out like a blur.  Everyone had different information.  I was in communication with other photographers, aid workers and documentarians from the States.  Texting madly, we tried to find the best place to go for medical care with the limited amount of gas remaining in our tank.

As quickly as Doug was able to get himself into trouble, I must admit he had an uncanny way of emerging heroic in certain situations.  A mile or so down the road from Sunapi we stopped at the UN headquarters.  Doug climbed out of the truck and we all waited, afraid of what kind of problems he might be getting us into.  Minutes later he emerged and waved towards a UN vehicle, instructing us to follow him.  And for the next ten minutes we had a UN escort vehicle that lead us through busy, crowded, panic-ridden Port au Prince to the Brazillian UN a few miles away, right through the gates.

However, they, too, informed us that they had no more capacity for patients.  The excruciating heat of the sun was beginning to bake us.  We resolved to try General Hospital, at last, when the engine wouldn’t turn over.  We were completely out of gas.

Everyone climbed out—all but Ben’s mother who had been waiting patiently inside the truck this entire time—and we pushed the truck outside of the inner gate of the UN, off to the side of the road, and our driver walked off with a gas can.

More waiting.

Outside of the gate of the UN there was a small crowd of starving people spread out in the shade near the wall.  They had been told that at 2 PM they would be allowed in and given food.  While we waited for our driver to return, we chatted with a group of street kids—orphans—gave them some water, and tried to explain (feeling like quite the silly Americans) that we didn’t have any money we could give them.

I took some photos of the boys I met there.  One of which—though it isn’t a very clear photo—struck me as particularly poignant.  A young boy in a baggy t-shirt, a boy with an energetic and humorous extroversion typical of kids that are used to hustling in the streets, had wandered off toward a UN tank about a hundred yards away.  The tank was piled with UN soldiers who were staring down at him.  The part of Port au Prince that we were in was desert-like, dry, flat, and at that moment, very windy.  The boy stood in the center of the road looking up at the soldiers with his arms outstretched, the hot breeze flapping at his baggy shirt.  Though the picture I took is from pretty far away, the image it burned in my memory is vivid.  Pleading and vulnerable, small and desperate, arms wide open in surrender against the might of the world, and yet he will sleep in the street tonight and possibly, eventually, starve.

After about a half an hour of waiting in the sun, Doug, whose health was troubling him, disappeared into the UN compound.  After another half an hour, he re-emerged with an ambulance.  Additionally, Doug himself had been given some medical attention, including a vaccination, and he now had a bag of water bottles, masks, and pills.

After a long day of trying to find care for four desperate Haitians, we finally watched as they were loaded into an ambulance and carried away into the UN compound to receive much-needed medical attention.  Shortly thereafter our driver returned with a canister of gas and we headed out for a grim tour of the city to see if there was anything else we could do before sundown.

For roughly two hours before dusk, we drove through the piled ruins of Haiti’s capital.  We stopped here and there to ask if people needed help.  I took pictures whenever I could.  Ziz-zagging through the dusy streets of the city, my t-shirt-bandana pulled up tight over my mouth and nose, we bore witness to the a crumbled piece of civilization—a city laid to waste.

Bodies had been pulled from rubble and covered with blankets, and many  were still buried under cinder blocks.  The smell of death that resulted filled the air, which was already thick with dust that just never seemed to settle.  With Doug and Ben in the cab with Ben’s mother’s, I sat facing forward on the back tailgate with my two Haitian friends.  I photographed the destruction from my seat in the truck, and sometimes just closed my eyes and let the dust, smells, heat, and wind hit my face.  I wanted to touch and smell the destruction around me—to allow myself to be covered in the dust of these people’s homes.  It felt almost baptizing, the filthier I became.

At one point we passed a yellow tour bus that was arriving in the city from Santo Domingo.  It was filled with doctors, aid workers, and journalists who were just arriving on the site of the destroyed city.  I watched as some of them took pictures and others just stared.  “Just wait,” I wanted to tell them.  “Just wait.  You’ll see.”  A man ran up to the bus, beating his chest.  Ben translated what he was saying.  He’d lost his family—everything—and was pleading in desperation for help.  It was an awful thing to witness.  The man ran alongside the bus, waving his arms frantically, crying out.

In the course of our drive through the city back to Ben’s mother’s house, we saw a food storehouse that had been destroyed—and workers trying to salvage the sheet metal from it’s walls and roof.  Ben informed me the building had been a central distribution center that fed all of Haiti.

As the sun was setting, our truck and crew bounced it’s way down the rocky dirt roads that led back to home base.  Once there, Doug collapsed into a snoring slumber, while Ben and I sat back, taking a sigh of relief for rest, recalling the day’s events, and consuming a delicious Haitian meal thanks to Ben’s mother.

For the majority of my trip to Haiti I was contented to eat Clif bars.  But I was able, on a couple of occasions, to have a full meal.  And under the circumstances was always humbled and grateful.  With all of those that were starving around me, it was hard to imagine how I had stumbled into such luxury: home-cooked food made with the love of a mother, a comfortable mat and blanket to sleep on in the enclosed, walled safety of Ben’s mother’s courtyard.

The night was peaceful.  We all gathered around Ben’s computer to view the photos from the day, and after a bucket shower, I stayed up late exchanging stories and laughter with Ben, Doug, and Ben’s cousin under flashlight.  The light of Ben’s mother’s lantern bounced around the walls of the house as she bustled around us, busying herself with duties of hospitality.

That night it became clear to me how much Ben was revered in his community.  The young men we had traveled with hung on his words and watched him with respect and near awe.  The stars were explosive that night, and I snapped some photos of them before heading to my mat for another deep nights rest—my last decent night’s sleep of my trip, and last night sleeping at Ben’s house.

Well LiNK has some great news– they’re in the running for $250,000 from Pepsi.  It’s exciting and it’s within reach, but they need as much help as they can get.  So do me (and them) a huge favor and head over to the Pepsi’s “refresh everything” page and vote for LiNK.  They’re currently in 8th place.  Let’s get them up to first!

Thanks so much for your help on this!

A North Korean woman (and me in the mirror).

That's China on the left, and North Korea on the right.

I’ve finally finished my photos and slideshow from my trip to Haiti, thanks to “Soundslides,” which is a powerful program for documentary photographers who want to share their work with the world. Click on the link below which will take you to the slideshow and then you can watch it full screen, toggle the sound, watch it with or without captions, and navigate through the individual images.

Click here for the slideshow.  And spread it around, friends– let’s let these people’s voices be heard!

Here’s what I wrote to go along with the slideshow:

I did not go to Haiti with any specific expectations. However, the six days I spent there transformed me both as a photographer and as a person.

As so often happens on trips of this nature, the Haitian people did far more for me than I could ever have done for them.

I have few words to share that would express what these images mean to me, but I hope they can be ones that represent a great sorrow that ultimately points to a far greater hope.

Haiti was once referred to as “The Pearl of the West Indies.” It’s people are strong and beautiful– and though they have seen so much suffering, I hope that it will refine them and teach them to build, and rebuild. The country of Haiti is still a great Pearl, seemingly delicate as the child I watched emerge from the womb in a tent in Port au Prince, but like that child they are filled with a vibrant future that is yet unwritten.

And I greatly anticipate a better story for them all.

-Adam

Please keep in mind that there are lots of words/images to come, but here’s a little taste of what my eyes have seen. Stay tuned for more.

If anyone wants to donate funds towards medical materials and transportation, you can shoot me an e-mail here.  Additionally if anyone in New York wants to donate medical supplies you can drop by my apartment tonight.  I’d like to take down a suitcase of stuff.

UPDATE 1/15/10:

I’m about to head out to the airport.  The support from everyone has been overwhelming.  I now have a huge suitcase full of medical supplies.

Because I’m going down for only a week and things are SO bad in Haiti, I might not even be able to make it into Haiti or Port Au Prince.  There is much help needed and I’m just going to do what I can in the time that I have.  Thank you so much for your prayers and support.  The people of Haiti are really suffering now.  Please find some way that you can help.

I won’t have my computer down there (I’m about to part with it now).  As long as I have phone service, however, I’ll be updating my twitter every once in a while.  If you’re on twitter, you can follow me at www.twitter.com/looseluggage

That is all for now.

Photo courtesy of Jorge Cruz / AP.

In the midst of an unexpectedly crazy-hectic fall, I never had the chance to finish doing post-production and sorting my images from my trip to China. I went to Northern China in October with my good friends over at LiNK to document their work over there.

It was a truly stretching experience both as a person and as a photographer. It was really challenging attempting (and often failing) to get quality, moving photos in situations where I’m not supposed to appear that I have a camera, that I’m white, or that I’m, more specifically, American.

Many of the photos I took I’m not really at liberty to share due to the sensitive nature of the work that LiNK does helping North Koreans get safe passage to countries where they can start to rebuild lives for themselves.

In general I found the people of China to be kind, but serious, perhaps even hardened by their history and by the kind of life that living in a massive communist country provides. The situation in North Korea is tragic and desperate, and I was honored to meet many of the brave people who have either escaped, or are helping others escape to freedom. Below are a sampling of images that the good people at LiNK approved for me to use.

For more information about the situation in North Korea, and to see what you can do to help, please visit LiNK’s website here.

There is so much more I could share but I’ll let the photos speak from here.

First morning out the window.

First night.

Our fearless guide (can't show his face).

We spent a good chunk of our time in China either on the train, in a van, or waiting in-between.

The morning after our long train ride in a sleeper car. It was literally freezing in our car. I could see my breath while wrapped in blankets in my bunk.

Chinese soldiers.

Because I look Swedish and not... well... Korean OR Chinese, I wore a mask a lot. I think it made me look more conspicuous...

Heading off to a shelter under cover of darkness.

The long drive into the mountains.

Three North Koreans in hiding offer us oranges for a snack.

A North Korean woman (and me in the mirror).

Shelter.

I can't remember this man's story. I believe he was trying to get money to purchase safe passage for family?

Without aid and money, North Koreans living illegally in China are forced to live in hiding and in poverty.

Justin up to no good.

Driving to a shelter.

The Tumen or Tuman River (Tumannaya) is a 521 km-long river that serves as part of the boundary between China and North Korea. So yeah, that's North Korea. And yes, those are North Korean soldiers walking out to the middle. I walked to the line on the middle of the bridge and tapped my foot over the line (much to the chagrin of an onlooking Chinese soldier who was quick to scold me and nearly confiscated my camera).

While standing on the boundary line separating China from North Korea, a group of NK soldiers began walking towards us. That's Justin staring them down. It was creepy, but they seemed to be taking snapshots of together at the border of China... like tourists.

Hiking up the hills overlooking North Korea.

Left bank: China. Right bank: North Korea.

Looking down over North Korea.

North Korea.

Many North Koreans are captured trying to cross this river to freedom. Many are simply shot and killed. This particular stretch seemed relatively safe with men fishing along the bank. We stopped, chatted with some of the fisherman, dipped our feet in the cold water, and I grabbed a stone from the river that I now keep at my desk.

This is a series of 3 photos taken while standing on the bank of the River staring across to North Korea.

This photo chills me to the bone. I don't why. These are farmers going to work in the fields. We waved. They didn't wave back. Maybe that's because there was a group of North Korea soldiers with guns standing on the hills up above...

"Coffee shop"

Had 30 hours back in Beijing. This is the Olympic Stadium. Look at the sky-- haziest city I've ever been in.

2 Chinese women being photographed in front of a government building. I think this image is really telling of the relationship it seems Chinese citizens have with Mother China.

Tiananmen Square

So while I was in Rio I let my time there– the people I met, the places I went, the weather– form the story. What resulted is a narrative pseudo-documentary.

There are two prizes: the grand prize of $100,000 is awarded by judges Chase Jarvis, Rainn Wilson, and iJustine. But there is an audience award of $25,000 that comes from the voting system on the site.

Out of over 1,000 videos, I made the top 50, and the polls are open for voting. So do me a huge favor:

1. Go to my video
2. Watch.
3. Vote.
4. Comment.

This will be my last shameless plug of 2009. Thank you all for your support. Screenshots/poster below…

Thanks to Ben Bishop and Caravel for some of the music and for Nimai Coppieters for being my only character (besides me I guess).

I’ve been working on a side project for the last 6 months that is now finally (beginning) to come to fruition.  After 1 photo shoot and a very brief video shoot, I’m moving forward with an international “blogumentary” project entitled “Shake The Dust.”  The documentary, which will ideally be shared in the form of videos, words, and photos through Loose Luggage, will also be cut into a final mini-feature documentary.  It will cover break-dancing and b-boy culture in countries across the globe– from Brazil, to Uganda, to the Middle East, to Cambodia.

As I move forward with this project, which, I confess, is my heart, I must appeal to you all, my friends:  we need funding.  We are shooting next week here in New York City to work on putting together our first webisode as well as a promo to help us begin raising money.  In the mean time, we’re working on researching everything from grants to commercial partnerships to make this happen.

I’m already so excited about the potential of this project– not only as a stand-alone piece of art, but also as something that pushes the future of this blog.

Right now this page will operate as the “Shake the Dust” homepage.  I need a few things from you all:

1. A web designer.  I’m looking for someone with web design experience who wants to jump on board and VOLUNTEER (in hopes of future pay once we get funding).  If you’re interested, e-mail your resume/examples of work to adam@shakethedust.org.

2. Funding!  If you know any grants, public or private donors, or great brands interested in commercial partnerships (or just want to donate a bunch of money yourself) please let me know.  All of our funding is being run through The Harrison Center for the Arts who are acting as our fiscal agent.  They will be insuring that all of the funds are handled properly and with integrity as well as helping make any donation TAX-WRITE-OFFABLE.  Again, e-mail me at adam@shakethedust.org.

3. Dancers/Connections!  We’re working on developing connections with B-boys and street dancers across the planet.  We’re excited to partner with people in places like Cambodia, Korea, Uganda, among many other places.  We’d love to hear from you dancers– and anyone else that is involved in the break-dancing/b-boy world.  Once more: adam@shakethedust.org.

4. Follow me on twitter.

Before I show you a little preview of things to come, I’d like to introduce my partner and cinematographer: Mr. Patrick Jones.  You can check out his reel here.

Thank you all for your continued interest in the things that I put up on here.  I look forward to exciting days ahead…

Cat’s out of the bag:

Shake The Dust from Adam Sjoberg on Vimeo.

“We want to hire a social media whiz (your title will be “Murphy-Goode Wine Country Lifestyle Correspondent”) who will report on the cool lifestyle of Sonoma County Wine Country and, of course, tell people what you’re learning about winemaking.   Did we mention that the compensation was $10,000 per month Plus accommodations in a beautiful home in picturesque Healdsburg, a popular vacation destination in our neck of the woods. Working hours are flexible. And all you have to do is experience wine and good living…”

Now out of around 2,000 applicants, I was selected as one of the top 50.  But it only get’s more competitive from here.  So I need your support in a couple of ways so that I can get this amazing job!

1.  Please please please Watch and favorite my video.

2.  Follow me on twitter if you don’t already @LooseLuggage and RT about my video.

3.  Subscribe to this blog.  Tell your friends about LooseLuggage.com

4.  If you have a blog, re-post this link to your blog.  I can use all the publicity I can get.  Not that people need an incentive, but any blogger that posts this link to their blog will get a bottle of wine and t-shirt on me IF I GET THE JOB.  Just let me know you posted it so I can add you to my wonderful list (first 20 bloggers I should say…

5.  And lastly— if you really believe this would be the job for me, tell your friends, loved ones, enemies, co-workers, etc. etc. to watch my video as well.  If you can’t remember all this information, just tell them to go to www.tastethegoodelife.com (that’s GOOD with an E).

Big gigantic thanks to the Pelz’s for pushing me to do it and believing in me like crazy and to Marcy Guevara for her amazing encouragement and camera-holding ability in the production of my video.

And remember, you can just tell people to go to TASTETHEGOODELIFE.COM.

I love this shot. Brandon is 11.

In the mean time I will try and be more faithful with the posting now that life should be getting back to normal again. I seriously have about 20 or more posts on deck, not to mention all of the day to day stuff.

Here’s some random moments from the past 10 days.

Incidentally, my roommate has an image of a homeless man that is hanging in our apartment.  It’s one of my favorites of his:

Tonight Des, Matt, and I headed over to Columbia University to hear a lecture from Deogratias Niyizonkiza, the founder of Village Health Works.  Deo has been working in Burundi (his homeland) to build a hospital and bring health care to a place that desperately needs it.  It was pretty inspiring to hear Deo’s story (though Des and I came in late… dang New York taxis).   To see a man come from a starving nation to the States, living as a homeless man in Central Park, and then studying at Columbia University and returning to his homeland to open a clinic, was no just inspiring… it was motivating.

You can check out Deo’s organziation, Village Health Works, here. They are in need of funding, and I can tell you from having been to this lecture that it is a worthy cause to give your money toward.  They are making a tangible difference in the community there.  Not only are they bringing health care and clean water to a starving nation, but they’re building bridges between the Hutu’s and the Tutsi’s (who you’ve probably heard of in the news)– bridges that desperately need to be build to restore peace to nations throughout Africa that are not only ravaged by AIDS and disease, but by infighting, warring, and displacement.

I took a portrait of Deo, but in my fumbling, rushed state, it wasn’t post-worthy.  But afterwards, Des, Matt and I went out for drinks and I took a few pictures there.

]]> http://looseluggage.com/luggage/2009/02/matt-des-burundi/feed/ 0 http://looseluggage.com/luggage/2009/02/londoners-show-solidarity-with-palestinians/ http://looseluggage.com/luggage/2009/02/londoners-show-solidarity-with-palestinians/#comments Fri, 20 Feb 2009 19:15:53 +0000 adamsjoberg http://looseluggage.com/luggage/?p=2600

While I was in London, the siege on Gaza was just making headlines.  On the day after 360 Palestinians were killed from Israeli retaliation, a group of people gathered at the Israeli Embassy in London to make a stand and demand that their voices be heard on the issue.  I went over there with some friends to document the rally and show some solidarity.  At times it grew violent, with cones and police helmets being lit ablaze, fireworks being tossed from the crowd, and angry words being chanted.

My friend wrote an article the night of the protest (the first of many protests over the next month).  You can download it here.  Ben studied American Studies and wrote his thesis on American foreign policy in the Middle East.

As this is a very politically charged and complicated issue, and this blog is never meant to be a forum for argument (nor is it very conducive to it), be thoughtful about what response you might have.  But at its very core, hopefully the images help reflect some of the passion and anger that is aroused (regardless of how complicated the situation is) whenever one sees their homeland, and especially their friends and family, endure such suffering.

Well Sean and I kept in touch every once in a while through Facebook, and when I heard he was coming out for another fund-raiser here in New York, I was excited to stop in.  You can check out Sean’s organization, Falling Whistles, on facebook here, or read his inspiring blog entry (that started it all) here.  Also, check out their tour schedule here.

I might be too bold (though I think I am not) to assert that it is around the dinner table that wars have begun and ended.  That surely it must be paramount to the digression or progression of civilization as a whole that we sit in community and eat together.  It is the dynamic combination of two undeniable (even biological) necessities:  the consumption of food (and subsequent digestion of said food) and the sweetness of human contact.

It might be said that when the world, as a whole, stops sitting down to dine together (as traditional family units, disjointed friend groups, or desperate vagrants) we might as well throw our apocalyptic towels in, dump our IKEA plates and half-eaten Asian-fusion entrees into the sink to rot in a stinking pile, and retire to our individual, isolated corners of the world to slump into an oblivion, waiting for the orange fires of destruction to rise over the hills and consume our relationally starved race.

For reasons I’m not entirely sure (or qualified to demonstrate) we have become too preoccupied to bother with this timeless and holy tradition.  We shovel spoonfuls of food into our mouths, our faces covered with our free hand, waiting for it to be done so we can continue living the lie that we aren’t in fact human.

Dangerous though it may be, I chose to host a dinner party the first weekend that I moved here to New York.  New York City, from what I’ve learned in the time that I’ve spent here over the last year, is a city that eats.  There are (at least someone told this to me today) 10,000 restaurants in Manhattan.  New York eats.  But I’m not sure we Eat, in the capital-E-sense-of-the-word.  To sit, pass the plate, and be vulnerable with a community of people.

I think we are afraid we might find out something that we don’t want to know– either about ourselves or our friends. That we’ll find that we aren’t the people we’ve tried so hard to be.  That our politics are unfounded.  That we are blindly religious, or, worse yet, are blithely irreligious.  We’re afraid to dine in the old, ancient, holy way, because we are terrified to find out how inhumane we’ve become.

Our dinner party last night was a success.  I know this because, despite the questionable quality of my cooking, there was much eating.  We were all full-to-the-point-of-sickness at the end of the night, and so I feel half the mission was accomplished.  But there was also dialogue.  Laughter, (good-natured) arguments, and healthy discourse flowed contiually.  We Ate.

At the end of the night no one changed their political views, religious views, or social views in some drastic, life-altering way.  And that wasn’t the point.  But six people came together, had some pasta, wine, and ice cream, and went away a little more whole.  We (I hope) moved in unison, each with our own ideals, perspectives, and dispositions, toward something.  We moved toward the central hub from opposing ends of a great wheel.  As we Ate (with a capital “A”), I believe we were sorting through the mist of a thing far more illusory then food… truth.

And so I will continue to do this thing (#90 on Stuff White People Like), dangerous though it may be.  My family taught me it was important, and my post-college community in Long Beach, California taught me it was paramount.  It’s not necessarily just about consuming food in the presence of friends and enemies.

It is about being alive, and not alone.

So here’s some highlights from today. Sylvester was my tour guide for the afternoon:

We wandered around the fish market and down by the sea. I’ll let the pictures tell the rest of the story…

And I hope it makes you laugh.

And some notable outtakes:

Today was a day was a day was a day.

I need free-lance work.  Shameless plug.