Pictures Not Taken, Pictures Lost

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Be Here Now

Pictures Not Taken, Pictures Lost

I toured the Western U.S. by myself for six months in 1997 and did not bring a camera. I have largely forgotten the people I met and I wish that weren’t true. On balance, though, I am overwhelmingly glad that I didn’t bring a camera. Pictures are about remembering the past in the future. That’s obviously true for practical purposes; it is literally why we take them. But the fact that photography, by its very nature, draws you out of the present is something every traveler should strive to be aware of. The one organized tour I took during The Great Freedom (through Egypt—it was awesome) presented ample evidence of this. One moment epitomized it. We had just reached the White Desert (which is worth going well out of your way to see). We approached a cliff. I was sitting in the very back of one of the jeeps, so I was the last to get out. I watched as every single person—16 people—had their cameras not just in hand, but held out in front of them as they approached the edge. Even the married couples—every single person had their eyes locked down. Their first image of this spectacular vista was through a viewfinder. Many of them turned to talk to other people immediately after they finished taking their pictures.

People with cameras often don’t take even a moment to appreciate what they are actually witnessing. I’ve been guilty of going straight for the camera and, when it happens, I try to catch and reproach myself. That moment of reproachment, I think, is a great gift. It’s easy to let life pass you by. Simply knowing that cameras exist can draw me into a moment that I may otherwise let slip by, never to appreciate. Here is what I mean. If you have spent any time in Big Nature, you are aware of how inadequately the pictures that you took convey the experience. A photograph of, say, El Capitan in Yosemite National Park is nothing compared to actually looking at El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. Even the IMAX 3-D film about Yosemite—the most similar experience to the real thing that currently exists—is not close to the same as seeing it in front of you, to say nothing of the smells, the breeze, the sounds, the ethereal feeling of a place. The fact that I have a camera or could have a camera makes me consider “capturing” that beauty. To become aware that an experience is worth capturing tells me “Stop. Appreciate this”. I think that this is important. We are not all born with the artist’s innate sensitivity to beauty. If cameras did not exist, I would not hand over the keys to my brain to my senses.

I do take pictures. Oh, yes I do. Forty-five albums for a total of more than 2,400 pictures over the past two years . Yes, I have come around on photography*. First of all, it is a hell of a lot easier to take good pictures today than it was in 1997. Digital cameras and easy-to-use editing software relieved a lot of the frustration. As has acceptance. I accept now that photography has limits. Approximations of the experience…hints of where I have been…these things are nice to share. That is my favorite thing about pictures. They connect me with the people who aren’t there. I know that seems obvious, but, well, I guess I didn’t care as much about that back in ’97. Back then I was aggressively unconnected. I thrived on not knowing what was happening in the world and, for the most part, the world not knowing what was happening with me. On this much longer trip, being connected kept me going. God knows I wasn’t as connected as many travelers. For example, no one back home ever knew that half of my SIM cards could receive international calls for less than a quarter a minute (no offense!). And I used Skype once a month or less. It may appear that I was avoiding connection with home, but that really wasn’t the case.

So I think I found some sort of reasonable compromise. Did I come upon a vista and immediately reach for my camera instead of soaking it in first? It happened, but I stopped myself. What matters most is whether the experience or the documentation of the experience is more important to you. Something is real even if it is not shared. That is a message for the 21st Century that applies far beyond the subject at hand.


*The conversion actually happened during the trip. The first two weeks I was in Peru, I didn’t carry my camera. My friend Daniel Mrgan was with me and he took all “my” amazing early photos of Cusco, the Inca Trail, Arequipa, and Colca Canyon.


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I think that my 2,400 pictures tell a pretty great story. I’m proud of them. Of course, they still don’t tell anywhere close to the whole story. God, I wouldn’t want them to. I put the camera down often. I stopped taking pictures of the things that are unusual to a neophyte traveler but are part of daily life for many people. Chickens and goats in the streets, broken bottles in lieu of barbed wire, diseased disfigured beggars, $1 meals, $0.50 DVDs of movies currently in the theaters. These things are little represented in my photo albums. Nor are there pictures of cockroaches or rats. Or of cabbies driving away grinning after I paid him five times the going rate. There are no pictures of bed bug bites (please don’t be scared of me; it was over a year ago!). No pictures of me hauling my backpacks when all the hostels were full or of waiting on a visa for days or of a week of dysentery. There are no pictures of bathrooms without shower curtains or toilet paper, or, for that matter, without toilets. The various, glorious indignities of global traveling on the cheap are very underrepresented in my photos, as are the parties, as is the inevitable loneliness.

On the other hand, there are certain moments that I really wish I had captured in pixels but, for one reason or another, was unable to. Without further ado, here are 18 images I would like to have shared with you but could not:

Image 1

If you’ve been following my on-line photo albums, you may have noticed two re-occurring articles: my silver compass and Little Peter Lorre. Both of them were going-away gifts from people close to me. Every time I visited a country for at least a week, I sent back to them one picture of their gift in that country (kind of like everybody does). Every once in a while, the picture made my Picasa album. Seeing that it is just one picture per country (actually, two each country for Peter—he is so small that it is impossible to focus on both him and a background at the same time), I tried to take the shot somewhere iconic or at least somewhere that just screamed that country (e.g. in front of a windmill in Denmark). There are few vistas more iconic than the last overlook of the Inca Trail in front of Macchu Picchu. The first image I can not share is me with the compass in front of that vista.

My friend Jeff took the picture. It was a long day. We had hiked three hours, visited the ruins, and taken a long train and bus ride home. The whole group was full of energy, though, and when we got back to Cusco, everybody went out to the clubs and we absolutely tore up that town. Man, Brits can drink. It was madness. At 3:00 a.m. someone pointed out that we had been awake for 24 hours and about an hour later, I called it a night. Jeff had a flight back home at noon the next day and the airport was a half-hour away, so when I awoke hung over at 10 that morning, I was quite surprised to find his bed untouched. I started my laundry, got breakfast, and a good 45 minutes later went back to the room to find Jeff sleeping—fully clothed,…on top of his covers. “Christ,” I woke him up, “Jeff, you have to go!” He started talking about how this music festival in Florida had just announced its line-up. At this point in the story, all of my friends who know Jeff Schnoor are fully aware that I am talking about him. And those who know him very well also know that he made his flight regardless. No one has ever been as effective at waiting until the last possible second and still getting away with it. Jeff is unbelievable that way. Unfortunately, in this case, he didn’t fully get away with it. In his state of general discombobulation, he left his camera in a Peruvian airport, so the very picture I had imagined taking from the moment I was given the compass was lost forever. And I was too lazy to learn Photoshop and fake the thing.


Image 2

A lot of people don’t realize that Egypt has some of the best scuba diving in the world. On the outskirts of Dahab on the Sinai Peninsula is the Blue Hole. We put on our diving gear by the tailgate of the truck and walked the last 50 meters to the water. On the steep rocks along the way were at least ten, probably 15, brass plaques. “What are those?” I asked the dive master. “Those are for all the people who have died down there.”

Image 3

Speaking of diving, the limitations of photography that flustered me back in an earlier era still apply underwater. Without professional equipment and perfect conditions, the pictures do not reach the level of “poor facsimile.” I was witness to dozens of images that would have made spectacular photographs. One particular moment stands out, though. It was a two person dive—just the dive master and myself. We were exploring a sunken Japanese fighter plane off the coast of Bali. He hit the metal rod on his tank, signaling that there was something to look at. He need not point. I turned around to see a 15 meter submarine floating behind him. What a bizarre image and feeling in my gut.

Image 4

Best museum name: “The Museum of Hungarian Speaking Jewry.” Should have taken a picture of that. Speaking of randomness in Israel, do you know what the four Quarters of Jerusalem’s Old City are? The Jewish, the Christian, the Moslem, and the Armenian.

Images 5 – 7

I actually spent a decent amount of time traveling during my months “at home.” Skiing is always gorgeous, as was a tour of New England universities in the fall of 2010 (you know it’s a good trip when you have to specify the year!). I rented a car and saw three schools. So much of New England is the idyllic farm country that you imagine. Crumbling barns, red silos, rolling hills. I should have at least one photo of that beauty.

My tour ended in New York and from there I flew with a buddy and two of his friends to England for a wild Premier League weekend. “Wild” is definitely the appropriate word for that trip. We took the red eye on Friday night, dropped our stuff off at a hotel in the morning, and immediately started hitting the games. In the course of about 28 hours, we saw four live Premier League games! We also toured Man U’s stadium and partied late into Saturday night.

The most memorable game was Liverpool. Stepping into those stands was like wading into a cauldron of venom. From what I have heard since, Liverpool’s fans are generally a pretty vicious bunch, but we caught them at their absolute worst. For several years, the team’s quality of play had deteriorated as their owner—their American owner—cut payroll in order to make payments on debt. We kept our conversations quiet lest our accents be heard as the team struggled to a 1-1 tie against some squad I had never heard of that apparently had been in the secondary league the previous year. An audiotape would give a much better impression of that experience than any photograph possibly could, but after any given whistle, I could have turned around and snapped a shot of mass hatred. I can’t imagine that referees are paid enough to justify what they go through. Over there, they don’t care if the call is right or not. They go in angry.

Man City spent last year on the opposite end of the spectrum as Liverpool. Their new owner is an Arab Sheikh and he is pouring money into the franchise. Ultimately, they did not reach the level of their hated cross-town rivals Man U, but our visit was very early in the season and optimism was high. It was undoubtedly the game of the week as City took on Chelsea who, at that moment, were in first place. Don’t let the comparison with Liverpool mislead you. Man City fans are by no means polite people. Spittle rained down on us throughout that match—the product of a near constant barrage of F-bombs, C-bombs, “bloody”s and “wanker”s (You can imagine just how rancorous Liverpool was when you consider that I had already sat through this match before we arrived there and I was still blown away). City/Chelsea was truly a top-level game, and it was evenly played. Finally, Teves, City’s superstar Argentine striker broke through with a truly beautiful score, making two defenders look foolish before blasting a shot from the top of the box into the opposite corner of the net. The stadium exploded. Glory! Madness! Volume! I turned around to witness the people, and the spittle-raining father/son/mate combination behind us were jumping, shouting, and hugging. The intensity of their faces was transformed into perhaps the most splendorous joy I have ever seen. That is the image I would love to be able to share with you.

(Actually, there was a camera floating around among us during that trip, and one picture taken was an absolute classic. My friend Kevin and his three buddies, all in their forties, making goofy faces under a sign in the airport that read, I kid you not, “DRUNKEN BEHAVIOUR WILL NOT BE TOLERATED“. Forty-five minutes later, they missed the flight while in the bar. Somewhat reasonably, Kevin has ignored my requests for a copy of that photo. Three times I’ve asked and not so much as a response. I guess that is another one that you will never see.)

Image 8

Each home and business in Jordan proudly displays a photo of King Abdullah II and his beautiful family. The Queen is genuinely one of the most stunning women in the world and the whole family is radiant. I talked to a few shop owners about the King and everyone seemed to be proud of him. When I left, I was upset at myself for not getting a framed shot of the Royal Family contrasted against a deteriorating wall. Two weeks after I left, Jordanians took to the streets protesting against his rule.

Image 9

I took some wonderful pictures of the kids I volunteered with in Nirmalpokhari, Nepal. There was one girl that was my National Geographic Afghan Refugee Girl Moment. I think that she was around 11, but it’s hard to tell because undernourishment makes some of the people out there so small. She was very skinny, and she had black hair and dark skin that contrasted with the brightest green eyes on just a heavenly face. If I had been a fashion photographer, or even known one, she would be well on her way to stardom by now. She wasn’t there the day I brought my camera to the after-school class I was vainly attempting to run. I brought my camera again the next day and then a third day just to get her on film. She arrived, carrying a torn umbrella, as delicate as could be. She was shy, though, and she wouldn’t let me take her picture.

Image 10

A bicyclist on a Cairo thoroughfare, one hand on the handlebar and the other balancing a pallet on his head that must have been 3 1/2 meters long and carried a hundred bread rolls.

Image 11

The four crazy hipster Argentines who I spent a day and a half with as we tried to make our way from Copacabana, Bolivia to Cusco despite a general “strike” in Peru’s transportation sector. I would love to have a picture of them with their wild hats and funky haircuts as they negotiated one of the multiple bus and cabs we took as we struggled to get across the country. The rare picture I missed simply because I didn’t want to seem like the tourist I so obviously was.

Image 12

A wild night in Gili Trawangan, a tiny motor-free island in Indonesia. One thing that Indonesia is well known for is applying the death penalty in drug cases. Gili Trawangan is not a typical Indonesian island. Parties go late into the nights seven days a week. The bartenders at one club all wear the same t-shirt. The front has the name of the bar. On the back, it reads “Look at Me. I’m Ugly. But Mushrooms Make Me Happy!” A crazy shirt on multiple levels. Best excuse yet for not having the picture: I lost my camera that night.
Image 13

Riding on top of a bunch of loose baggage and furniture stacked on top of a packed bus with guys hanging out of all the doors making my way to Lumbini, Nepal and the birthplace of the Buddha.

Image 14

Getting a shave from a barber in Pokhara, Nepal. Six or eight times a day I would walk past the same barbershop and each time he would try to get me in his chair. When I finally decided to part with my 100 rupees ($1.33), I saw a master at work. The shave was perfectly clean. What really impressed me was how satisfied the man was in doing his work. I wish I had captured his Zen smile. Later on, I saw him with his family. His wife was a looker and his three kids looked healthy. Life is good.

Image 15

I don’t like naked men any more than the next guy. An authentic Moroccan hammam, however, is something to be seen. I had just received another professional shave, as it happens, and I asked the barber how to find the nearest hammam. Middle Eastern cities are horribly confusing even when the person giving directions speaks solid English (English is actually the fifth most common language in Morocco). The barber took me on a five minute journey through at least a half dozen twists and turns down streets and alleyways before arriving at a door without a sign. The bath cost just under $2. I walked in, undressed, and managed to express through sign language that I had no idea what to do next. The man asked for another $1 or so and proceeded to treat me like a slab of meat. I followed him through the crowded tile rooms. First he threw a large bucket of warm water over me. Then he signaled me to sit there and set a bucket of hot water in front of me. I saw that the locals in the room were pouring ladles of the water on themselves and followed suit. Steam seeped in from slots where the floor met the walls. After about ten minutes, the man came back with a third bucket. Not until it crashed upon me did I realize that it was cold water. Then he grabbed my arm and took me into another crowded room where he proceeded to stretch me in strange ways. Frankly, I didn’t know it was possible to get into the positions that he put himself into in order to get me into positions that were twice as pretzeled as his. Then he beat the hell out of me. Not literally. But he beat me pretty good.

Image 16

Speaking of nakedness, there is an old, indoor, classically-styled, Olympic-size pool in Helsinki where everyone swims naked. Women and men alternate days. I actually went to a lot of public pools over the trip, especially in Europe. It is a relatively cheap way to go to a gym, plus there is the swimming. Yrjönkatu Swimming Hall, however, was one of a kind.

Image 17

Late nights in Moscow.

One difference between men and women is the documentation of parties, right? I would never bring a camera to a club. Go to any girl’s Facebook page to see if that goes for women as well. I guess iPhones are changing that. In any case, I was quite happy that Ole, a Norwegian student-journalist staying at my hostel had a smartphone the night that we went out. After a traditional Russian meal book-ended by vodka shots, we arrived early enough at the club to get past “feis kontrol.”

Russian women live up to their reputation. They are gorgeous, chic, and interested in Westerners. It was a glorious night and its undeniable highlight (for me) was meeting Alina. She was far too beautiful to spend several hours with me, but it happened, and I should have the evidence.

It was broad daylight when we left the club. We walked a few blocks and just outside our hostel, I decided to use the ATM. I opened the door, went inside, and quickly got my cash. It probably took fifteen seconds. While I was inside, a guy reached into Ole’s pockets under the guise of a drunken hug. Ole quickly realized what had happened and he chased after the guy as he jumped into a waiting car. Ole grabbed the door before he could close it, but the car sped away and he was thrown to the ground. He had a huge raspberry on his shin and I don’t have any pictures of Alina.

Image 18

My pride kept me from taking a picture of the most appropriate road sign of the trip. It was in New Zealand and it was simply an arrow giving directions to the “Hostel for Older People”.


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I have a few recommendations for you if you are considering long-term travel. The first recommendation is “Do it! Do it! Do it!” My second recommendation is to call me, because in reality I have tons of recommendations. My third recommendation is to get an electronic book-reader with cellular connectivity. My fourth recommendation is to read the following two books: Vagabonding by Rolf Potts, and The Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz.

Vagabonding is a wonderful and quick read. I read it on the way home from Iceland, the last international trip I took before I made the big move and quit my job. The second time was in Peru, the first stop on my travels. The book opens by making the case that, so long as you have a little mettle, you don’t need much money at all to travel. The rest of the book is split about evenly between practical advice that backs up the introduction’s premise and advice on how to approach travel mentally. Being open to your experiences is not as simple as it seems.

Diminutive as it may be, Vagabonding has been the top source for my Favorite Quotes blog page (). If you will indulge me, I will offer three of them at this moment. From G.K. Chesterton: “The tourist sees what he has come to see. The traveler sees what he sees.” Second, from, oddly enough, Dwight Eisenhower: “In preparing for battle, I have found that planning is essential, but plans are useless.” Third, from the text itself: “Enrich your travel with the vivid joys of uncertainty.”

You should read Vagabonding whether you are going traveling or not because it is entertaining and inspiring. You should read The Paradox of Choice whether you are traveling or not because it applies just as much to every day life as it does to travel. The premise is that while having options presumably is a means to create more happiness, in reality it has the opposite effect. The first reason why this happens is that making choices is stressful. The second reason is that scientists have shown that the amount of regret caused by wondering “what could have been” is greater than the regret caused by disappointment in the option actually chosen. Finally, taking a lot of time to choose does very little to improve the choice that we make. Buying into this philosophy has improved my life in many ways. When I look at the path I took and the countries I visited, not only did it turn out to be nothing like I had planned, but even I can’t figure out any rhyme or reason to it. Could it have been better? I guess so. I guess not. I don’t even care. The question doesn’t even make sense.


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About halfway through The Great Freedom, someone advised me, “You have to leave some places to visit during the rest of your life.” To this I say, “Ha!” There are so, so many places I still want to go, and many of them I will eventually get to. It is (after all) not a small world. I took special joy when I visited people whom I had met earlier during my travels at their homes. However, over two years, the number of chance meetings I had with friends and acquaintances was exactly zero.

At one point, I spent 6 1/2 consecutive months outside the U.S. During my first weekend in Florida after returning, one of the local bars was shutting down its short-lived but legendary original location. Driving there with a couple of close friends, I was daunted by the fact that I was about to enter an establishment where I would know people. A lot of people! I had accepted that I would not know a single person wherever I went as I traveled. It’s not a bad feeling at all, so long as you like people and/or drinking. That acceptance certainly took the fear out of moving to Toronto. On the other hand, it is really, really nice to see people that you know. Christopher Hitchens said, “An unfortunate discovery you make as you age is that you can’t make old friends.” He’s over 20 years older than me. Twenty years is a lot of time for friendships made today to blossom, but old friends are not a commodity. Which raises the question, how ironic is it that I never thought it was possible that I could wind up in Tampa Bay, but after two years of travel, I feel that maybe I could?

One never knows. Until then, enjoy present moments, time with friends, and the vivid joys of uncertainty.

Your friend,
Greg

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Comments

[RayS]

commonalities
A lot of your experiences have common threads with my (and Rudy\'s) third world trips. On taking pictures: I always go in looking and come out using the camera. I\'m insanely economical on shots. And I work to make them beautiful without touchup. Image 5-7 at the games. Yes,these people (almost all are men))are very rabid in their loyalty. They are loyal to teams that haven\'t won diddly in eighty years. It\'s all consuming. Not RayS fans. Image 9: The kids of Nepal are poor and don\'t know it. Some day they may know it and become angry. All they need is the right Imam. Image 10: WE saw a family of 5 on a scooter weaving through Cairo traffic. Mom was amazed. Image 11: Our Nepal group stopped by a bus strike and blockade ouside Pokara. We hired a jeep and four wheeled around the blockade. Image 13. Bus went into ariver in Nepal. Police siad everyone inside drowned. Outside riders did better. Image 14 Kathmandu first trip haircut was what ever you wanted to give and he gave a free neck snap. Next trip they wanted $6.00. Damn. Image 17: In Russia I got in closed restaurants with little solar calculators as bribes. I bought a round of drinks for EVER person in the restaurant (and the band) with the rubles I had from selling calculators from K-Mart. Taxi after hours? one calculator. Naked swimming in Baden-Baden was available for me and Mom. WE took a pass. And lastly getting our credit card stolen right out of the ATM slot in Paris. And yes, I haven\'t even seen all the water falls in Georgia yet, never mind the world!!! Peace/Out/Da