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I sometimes miss those photo moments when the photographer placed the camera on a tripod or another support, engaged the self timer of the camera and ran towards the other people anxiously waiting for him or her to put his arms around the photographer and wait for the shutter to click. Ah well!
Riding A Motorcycle Is the closest thing to Flying A few years ago I walked into my doctor’s office holding my aching back. I suspected my pain was the result of the long motorcycle trip I had just returned from. I was anticipating that doctor H. would reprimand me for riding a motorbike. After examining me, he smiled and said: «Carl, riding a motorbike is the closest thing to flying. Just hold you body straight while riding. You see how the Montreal motorcycle police ride with their backs upright.» From that day on, every time I get on my motorbike, I remember doctor H.’s words. Indonesia is motorcycle Country Rumah Teh Ndoro DonkerForty-five kilometers north east of the city of Solo where I live with my wife is the hill resort of Tawangmangu on the slopes of Mount Lawu. It is a great place to go if one wishes to escape the city heat. Further up the slopes are the two temples of Candi Sukuh and Candi Ceto built in the 15th century. Nestled between the two temples is the town of Ngargoyoso where Andan and I rode the motorbike to the tea plantation and the «Rumah Teh Ndoro Donker». The tea house is in an old colonial building built next to the tea plantations. Andan and I enjoyed the locally grown green tea and of course I walked between the tea bushes to photograph the women working. Tea workers |
When I see images of the destruction of Gaza I cannot help but think of this young boy I met at « La Place des Martyrs» in 1995. He was selling large photographs of what had been Beirut a few years before. While I was walking among the shelled buildings I noticed a large gaping hole in the middle of the street cordoned off by a flimsy rope. To my surprise about 20 meters below I could see what seemed to be Roman ruins. I was informed that these ruins where numbered Beirut V11 (seven). The destructed Beirut that I walked through in 1995 has now been « covered up» by a new Glass and Metal city. We build our worlds on top of some else’s world. We live our lives destructing other people’s lives. All in the name of WE. And…WE forget | Lorsque je vois les images de la destruction de Gaza, je ne peux pas m'empêcher de penser à ce jeune garçon que j'ai rencontré à «La Place des Martyrs» en 1995. Il vendait des grandes photographies de ce qui avait été Beyrouth quelques années auparavant. (Mêmes édifices sur l'affiche et derrière le garçon). Alors que je marchais parmi les bâtiments détruits, j'ai remarqué un grand trou béant au milieu de la rue bouclé par une fragile ficelle. À ma grande surprise, environ 20 mètres au-dessous, je pouvais voir ce qui semblait être des ruines romaines. Plus tard on m’a informé que ces ruines sont numérotées «Beyrouth V11» (sept). Le Beyrouth en ruine que j'ai parcouru en 1995 est maintenant enseveli sous une nouvelle ville de Verre et de Métal. Nous construisons notre nouveau monde au-dessus d’un monde ancien. Nous vivons nos vies en détruisant la vie de l’autre. Tout cela au nom de NOUS. Et…nous oublions. |
Thought of the day
Pensée du jour
How beautiful it is to get up and go out and do something. We are here on Earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different.
Kurt Vonnegut.
A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.