¡CARBONDALE mis pantalones!

carbondale, CO (pronounced with a spanish intonation, duh) is nestled deep within the white bosom of all that is skiing to this proud norte americano country. it is an hours drive from any sort of back country, rando hut skiing free for all your little heart can desire. did we ski, at all?
NO.

after renting our cute (not pictured) little black vw rabbit (when did alamo start renting german cars?) we headed for the hills mountains and spent an enjoyable extended weekend catching up with old friends.

we hiked, swung swings, trampled rare wild orchids, stepped on snakes and trespassed multiple times; but, more than anything, really really enjoyed their two small children who say things like "mommy, why do daddies wear crampons and mommies wear tampons?"

a highlight for me, was the critical mass-esque full moon bike tour of carbondale that we wholly intended to go on. i was dubious from the get go however: i had no idea so many neon lights could be attached to a single bicycle (were the aliens coming? did they need directions?), then the "whats up bra, so stoked for the ride" comments started. luckily i wore my mouth gaurd so the carbondale pedal posse was spared the sounds of my grinding teeth. however, as soon as the tall bikes (when did alamo start renting tall bikes?) showed up, i couldn't take it anymore and we bailed. quite luckily! ---> we were the beneficiaries of a personal and illegal after hours bike tour of the illicit carbondale golf course thanks to peter he who shall remain nameless.

this was a dark, highpaced careening bumpy ride over an unsuspecting golf course. the best part was, i had been out earlier photographing the grounds crew manicuring this very course! (sandtrap!)

ok, that wasnt the best part. the best part was having the sprinklers come up and completely soak me as i tried my darndest to follow our tour guide. hands frozen, glasses completely obsolete.

ok, ok, that wasnt the best part either. the best part was when we startled some DEER and they nearly ran into us, at full speed!

sweet lime: an india color snaps redux

indian people LOVE chinese food. who knew?


at the airport


our bus driver, taking a nap


cattle littered the road


more cattle, more scooters


foto loco and the local musicians, light saber style


use me


i knew i came to the right place!


dusk


seriously!


the seat angles in india looked...painful.


shoes and socks


red socks!


this was sketchy sketch!


sweet sweet monkeys


foto loco with the laborers


let me get a ride YO


excellent food stuffs


awesome produce. cauliflower is my new friend


we created quite a scene at this local market. ps, she has no clothes on. it was totally national geographic style!


more market


cotton candy on the beach


the gateway to the beach, some respite after a long day of work


craziness


performances like whoa!


us with performances like whoa!


flowers at the sun temple


a painting village


me with the indian army's BAND


scooters and childrens!


sweet sweet monkey on a stick


pink and cow


construction, the new india

TAJ MAHAL CLSD: K THX BIE

It had been a long day, after a long night. The morning before I had awoken to find my bed had become the newest truck stop along the superhighway of mini Indian red ants. My bed was teeming with the small red ants. All I could think of was the red ant attack in a Panamanian hillside field that left my ankles scarred. These ants however, being that was india and all, were pure veg, I guess? No bites.

Onto the next day. 6 am start, with a drive to Vrindavan, the birth place of Krishna for a few hours and then south to the temple city of Mathura where I photographed Vishram Ghat which is where pilgrims go to bath themselves in the Yamuna river. It was one of the dirtiest places I have ever been. Period.

After my bath, we hopped back in our station wagon and headed south to Agra for the money shot. Taj baby. Taj Mahal, here we come. Some 8 hours after the start of our day we arrived at the lesser known eastern gate ( to avoid the lines) to enter the Taj. I was stoked.

The road was deserted. Military wearing flack jackets lined the street. Suddenly as we neared the gate (no cars permitted within 500m of the Taj due to emission pollution) a man wearing a somewhat matching military outfit leapt at our car with a giant stick.

Let me press the pause button here. Mid stride. Toungue dangling like a race horse. Fingernails long and untrimmed, beret askew. His outfit was a combination of fatigues and whatever else was he could find in his closet that was green.

Ok, play.

Our driver slammed on his brakes and through his open window the stick stopped centimeters from smashing his nose into oblivion. For no apparent reason our car had been allowed to drive down a secured street that was closed to, well, everyone.

Sensing danger, foto loco jumps to action questioning the soldiers actions. The soldier screams back “TAJ MAHAL CLSED. K THX BIE”. At this point this fellow’s commander steps up, and with no hint of an accent explains that there is a VVIP visiting the Taj and it has been closed until further notice. Foto loco explains that we have come from all the way from NYC to foto the Taj. With a smile he asks us to come back Saturday. As we pull away I ask which VVIP is visiting and he replies that it is the Prime minister of Thailand. I lean out the window and tell him that Surayut Chulanon in my cousin and it should be no problem to let us in. And that it’s all a big misunderstanding and he is expecting to meet us at the fountain! The commander laughs and sends us on our way, only to stop our car moments later to inform us that it is actually (to my horror and dismay) the president of Hungary, not the PM of Thailand, who is visiting.

As we drive up the road our car wades through a throng of tourists who are all asking “Did you come from the Taj?” “Is the Taj Mahal open now!?” We decide to try another gate.

As we arrive at the western gate we come upon a thousand people queued up for entrance. Before I have time to swear, they start letting them in. “Fuck! We should have stayed at the eastern gate.” Suddenly a man approaches and offers to get us in for 500 rupees. I am keenly allergic to scams, but foto loco jumps at the offer. Suddenly we are being led through a maze of winding alleys, past fake jewel shops and cows sleeping in the road. We turn several corners and our guide is yelling at us to keep up. We are running. People are looking. People are laughing. At this point, I am sure some Indian ninjas are going to leap out and flip us. I hang back. Foto loco pulls ahead. Another corner turned. A long stone paved street and suddenly another Taj gate! Foto loco runs up and buys tickets and pays our guide who is screaming “GIVE ME MY MONEY” Foto loco throws a wad of rupees at him and sails through the huge wooden gates. Suddenly the doors start to close. A throng of people surge forward to try and get in. I am caught up in a wave of kicking and screaming. Arms are flying, legs are shuffling, spit is being distributed freely. This is totally Indiana Jones and the Last Temple of Doom type shit! I am gonna have to tuck and roll to get in the door. Where is my whip! SHIT!!!!!

Suddenly an arm clad in green and medals reaches through the door and grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me toward the door. My camera bag snags on some ones face. They scream. I pull hard and stumble through the entrance, bag in hand. The gate closes with a thunderous boom. I am thrown up against a wall and searched by the man who pulled me in. The gaurd finds nothing offensive in the bag and let me pass (after an unruly, slightly sexual pat down). I turn and look. I am literally the last person who got into the Taj Mahal. BOOYAH baby.

Cameras in tow, we head towards one of the seven wonders of the world.

The amazing race; a tribal market showdown

5 am and my casio chrome alarm is chirping. No snooze today. We have pushed further on into the rural landscape of india, in search of tribal markets: “A deeper, darker india”. I shuffle over to the shower in my green flip flops and turn on the hot water. Nothing. This will be the 4^th day in a row with a cold shower served up from a small lime green plastic mini me hand bucket, in the middle of my bathroom, in a dusty hotel in the eastern most state of india, Orissa.

I clamber down to breakfast and the hotel is already a buzz. Eggs are sizzling, toast is burning and the germans have gotten a head start. They are already leaving breakfast as foto loco and I wolf down our breakfast! As we leave, the Italians show up. The only people in the country of india who order pasta for breakfast. obsurd!

As I climb the stairs back to my room to gather all of our equipment I can hear the French tourists showering, smoking and whatever else the French do, behind closed doors in this state of Orissa.

And we our off! Our Indian made SUV is packed up and we are wheeling out into the sleepy town, Rayagada. Foto loco is chirpring instructions and questions to our guide about what the tribes will be like today. he is instructed NOT to photograph to young boys of the tribe, bc they carry bows and arrows to market, and are not scared of the police. whoa.

i take my place in the back of the car, head propped up on my arms, looking out the window with the wind adding a stylishly dusty do to my hair. happy as a dog.

Basically, everyone who is staying at the hotel is going to the same tribal market and foto loco wants to be there first! A few kilometers out of town, the german’s car comes into view when suddenly foto loco spies a sunrise landscape worth taking, even though it puts in jeopardy of not arriving at the market first. as I am setting up the tripod a surprise addition to the race, rumbles past us, sending up a cloud of dust. Our guide mutters “ah crap, the American lady!” foto loco gets his shot off, right as the bus of Italians rolls past, the sounds of “GOLA” disappear in the landscape as they round the bend.

“fuck”

We jump back in the Indian SUV, tripod sticking out of the window like a 12’ 2x4, as we begin our mad max style chase down. Soon we overtake the Italian bus. Our V.VIP driver emits a chuckle as he out maneuvers the Italians through a herd of cattle and goats on the road swerving back into our lane in time to avoid the oncoming 3 ton “public carrier” with its blasting horns and flashing brights. Foto loco turns to our guide and, strangely, they embrace. I stick my head out the window and yell, “whose got the goal now, beeeyotches!”

We quickly gain on the germans because they are so fat, their car sags on every turn and bottoms out on every bump. In a matter of seconds we have moved into the 2^nd position, but with no American lady in site.

Tragedy strikes! Foto loco sees another landscape. The guide bites his nails, the driver revs the engine. We see the germans approaching from a far off bend and we pile back into the car and take off, gravel spitting from under our tires.

As we approach the market it appears we will not be first, but our guide tells us not to worry, bc the guide for the American lady “sucks”, and wont take her the right spot. We roll up to the market, only to happen upon a bakers dozen of Italian tourists speckling the road. Our guide guffaws. He turns to david and says “I will make it up to you”. He quickly drops some instructions in hindi to our V.VIP driver and we are off, on a side country road up the mountain that looms behind the market.

About 3k up the mountain, V.VIP stops the car and we get out and our guide says “now we wait”. Sure enough, within a few minutes tribal peoples appear on the road above us, some having walked 15 to 20k with loads on their heads, to make it to market. I literally thought we were in Africa. I mean, I knew we drove far, but that far? These were serious and real deal tribes. No two bit Panamanian dog and pony show.

We progress down the road, walking with the tribals, making jokes, taking pictures. Foto loco is pleased. We round the last corner before market, and the mass onslaught of zoom lenses and moo-moos poorly camouflaging boulder size rear ends, come into view. A look of chagrin overtakes all of their faces when they catch sight of us. The sounds of rupees draining out of their guide’s tips, like warm rain on an Indian shanty’s tin roof.

a

putting the BOOB back into Bhubaneswar

just a quick hello from india. after a rather pleasant 13 hour plane ride to dehli and then another 2 hour jumper over to the state of orissa, we have started another journey. the state of orissa is larger than france and is on the east side of india, south of calcutta. bhubaneswar, the capitol, was our jump off point into the middle of nowhere, india.

this trip has been extremely rural so far and the internet is a hot commodity, much sought after and rare, like ice in a gabriel garcia marquez novel.

the trip is definitely not what i expected to find in inda, there is nothing touristy about orissa and i have yet to see another westerner, which, considering the mu mu s they usually wear, is quite delightful.

the hours spent in our indian made SUV are bountiful, as we drive from one rural village to another. the distances themselves might not bee too huge, but the roads are in such disrepair, that we maybe drive at 20 km/hr. i discovered yesterday that our jeep has a dvd player and tv screen, so i am knee deep in bollywood dance actions as we roll through the countryside, base pounding, booties shaking, monkeys jumping!

this morning, we went to a tribal market, which was a first for me. pretty amazing and interesting and lots of strange looking folk who were not that happy to have their picture taken and carry little mini knives to ward you off. (their menacing, national geographic eyes just scream "i stick it in you, i stick it in you!!") i would usually just wait for foto loco to cause a disturbance and then just photograph the fallout. good times!

ok- more stories soon, hope all of you are well

a

oh sweet bosphorus, how you elude me.

The ruins at efesus.

Istanbul

My rich and wonderdful trip to turkey is winding down. Many things have come to pass, including some Pamuk novels. I am currently in istanbul and going to the airport in the morning to catch my flight home. I have covered a lot of distance since my last entry, mainly spent in the back of a SUV eating baked pumpkin seeds and watching kilometers pass, as we toured through turkey. Gas here is absurdly expensive at $8/gallon. I also learned a lot more about our driver / shitty ass guide, Mutlu. Apparently inbetween his career as a goat herder, and long haul truck driver, he did a bid. 5 mos.

How do I know this? Well, we just happened to drive past the prison he served time in and he dropped it casually into the conversation. “Here prison, 5 mos.” Foto loco and I unanimously voted not to delve deeper into his sordid past.

Prior to dinner the other night in the charming and quaint village Alicante, he finally broke down having had too much of us and ran off in a tissy. I wasn’t to see him again until the next morning when he drove us to the airport, causing us to nearly miss our flight after missing TWO airport exits!

However dear reader, I am jumping ahead of myself. This was Mutlu’s 2^nd mutiny on the bounty Katzenstein and frankly, we were used to them (he had thrown a hissy fit 500km earlier and threatened to leave. He ended up getting food poisoning that night) That said, there was pretty much nothing that could ruin my night, for I was to sleep in a WINDMILL. That’s right. Renovated windmill. Quaint turkish town. BOO YAH. My bed was in the shape of a giant circle (where do they get sheets?) and the sat cable was 1000 channels deep (it would turn out that NONE of them were in English, I checked).

That morning I was trying to communicate with the hotel manager and find out how long it would take to get to the airport. Since HE didn’t speak English and I hadnt exactly mastered the Turkish, I eventually resorted to my Pictionary skills and busted out the moleskin I have carried in my back pocket this whole trip (thanks K) and started drawing.

Being the son of an incredible draughtsman, I was up to the challenge. If you have ever played Pictionary with me, (which would be once, at 4^th of july party, bc I absolutely HATE the game) you know that I completely fail at this game. And, indeed, I failed to intone the meaning of my scribbles to my friend at the hotel. My drawing of an arrow, a plane, and a watch made him only smile, perhaps thinking of yesteryears when pigs could fly.

I digress back to istanbul.

My dreams of a cross continental run were dashed in earnest today when I left the hotel with every intention to run across the boshporus, but was unable to locate a bridge that crossed the body of water, which separates asia from Europe. Is there a more apt body of water for me to “run” across? I think not, kind readers. I think not.

The run was not a total loss. I ran for a short bit until coming across a doner stand (gyro) and decided I needed a conciliatory treat. Then it was fresh pomegranate juice. Then it was another doner (different stand) and of course another juice (larger size) to wash it down. Before I knew it, I was back at the hagia sofia which my hotel is conveniently located is the shadow of.

Tonight foto loco went rug shopping and ended up buying several carpets, on a whim. After drinking two bottle of horrible Turkish white wine (is white wine ever good?) our host invited us to dinner with his friends visiting from Chicago. “Dinner” soon turned into a raki (read Turkish uzo) fueled party. We ate at a charming 4 table fish restaurant that is owned by a friend of “Carpet man”. There was a whole slew of characters at the table and by the second bottle of raki landed on the table, foto loco and I knew we had hit upon something special. A meeting of old friends who also happen to be the Turkish international carpet elite. There was, of course, “Carpet man” who was dressed impeccably and who was drunk instantaneously; his sidekick who talked about smoking pot and had hair down to his shoulders and spoke perfect English. Then there was the rogue german carpet dealer who gets air dropped into Afghanistan (wonder if he runs into Sebastian?) to find those coveted afghani carpets. Then there was the Chicago carpet crew, one of whom had grown up in Istanbul, befriended carpet man and his sidekick somewhere back in gradeschool. He had married an American and now lives in Chicago and runs the ULTIMATE Turkish carpet store. His two sidekicks were corn fed Americans who guzzled raki like it was miller lite.

It was a nice way to end the trip here, in turkey.

The Story of Mutlu, our Turkish guide

We are not alone.

Cappadokya cave hotel and the evangelical tour group from Alabama. Where? Alabama yall and just look at that full moon.

It was a long day for me, the photo assistant. A race of kilometers versus sunset to get to the top of a natural stone outcropping subsequently carved into a castle sometime in the dark ages. We made it to the castle, after speeding some 150 kilometers. With no moments to spare for idle nut and fruit buying el foto loco threw down the Turkish lire and got us all tickets to the top. Very quickly, I felt like I was in that race where you RUN up the stairs of the Empire State building, except that I was carrying some 40 pounds of camera gear (ok fine, the bag of snickers and one of the cameras is mine) and the stairs were carved out of volcanic rock and sometimes missing. We summitted with maybe 2 minutes to spare. Foto loco got off his shots and we packed up and set out towards to our cave hotel.

We made it to our enchanting cave hotel carved into the side of a mountain, after many tight turns that our VIP SUV had to circumnavigate. Foto loco was meeting with our guide for the 5 day trip, who was busy describing just exactly why it would benefit us to pay him in cash. Having heard enough I opted for an auditory change of scenery and settled down in front of the fire in the main “cave”.

I was just getting settled and drawn back into Pamuk’s novel “Snow” when a loud group of, who other than, Americans tumbled in, bringing with them several of the local dogs and cats from the street. Leave it to the good will of this evangelical tour group’s do gooding to warm these flea bitten shivering animals within the confines of our cave hotel. Allah Ackbar!!

In turn, each of these tour groupees came over & wished me a warm welcome, in Turkish no less! They also made sure to make eye contact with me and praise me, with the warm light of their gospel. Their astute travel sense, my beard and wild eyed look must have convinced them that I was a local Haji. They did however, completely disregard the English novel I was gripping with dismay, in my non-handshake hand.

I mean really! I am in Turkey and reading Pamuk. Tomorrow I will ride in a hot air balloon and I am staying in a “cave” hotel. I buy back carbons, I am the ultimate tourist.

10.26.2007

-Today was simply a beautiful day. It started at 5 in the morning with a hot air balloon ride over a valley with some of the strangest and most breathtaking landscapes I have ever had the chance to photograph. The day ended, several beers deep, sitting in my cave hotel, listening to a traditional Turkish musician. Oh dear reader, please allow me this one tender and sentimental moment before I return to my usual medio pollo self. Habla con Ella has a scene in it where Caetano Veloso plays for an intimate group of friend at a dinner party. I was quite taken with that scene and had pretty much come to the realization that I would never attain this experience, but simply relive it on video (much like my childhood love affair with Martha Plimpton). Tonight changed that, with the experience of sitting and listening to this gentleman play for friends, it was otherworldy. “While my eyes go looking for flying saucers in the sky. . .”-

After, quite literally, shooting the moon, foto loco and I learned the true story of the “fairy towers” rock formations we had just finished photographing, from Mutla, our guide. This version was definitely NOT in our Rough Guide or Lonely Planet (however, metaphorically speaking, both titles are appropriate). We had first experienced these “fairy towers” from 1000 feet, in our hot air balloon but el loco foto was not satiated and needed a closer look. Later that day, after driving down, through, up and over several windy back gravel roads at dusk, we finally came upon these strange rock outcroppings.

Formed a bazillion years ago by 3 volcanoes that erupted at the same time (kinda like that thing kids say “what is the everyone in the world farted at once”) and poured lava over the land. Fortunately for the Ansel Adams that lays deep and hidden, in all of our hearts, one of these volcanoes was not like the others. It’s lava was less erodible than its counterparts and so, through the ages, most everything has eroded except for parts of the land which consist of special volcano #3. Add to that some rivers, wars and rain, we have left a valley of, what foto loco described as, 100 foot asparagus, or as Mutlu proudly declares“Penis Valley”.

Let the story of Mutlu, our guide, begin:
“So this rock like penis. Very famoz. The womans, they like have secs. Powerful.”
Foto loco interrupts here “Excuse me, women like to come up here and have sex next to the rocks formations at night?”
“Yes – the sex, secs. With some nice friends and ladies. Drink some beers and then smoke hashish. Hashish. Then we eat a little.”
“Eat a little?” interjects FL.
“Yes, the sex” and then in a whisper to the valley, his breath visible and rising in the twilight, Mutlu repeats “seeeeeeeex” and closes his eyes. He then performs a number of hand motions. “Then you climb up to top and have sexs.”
“Up to top?” FL replies.
With my infinite knowledge and understanding of Aphrodite, I add “yeh man, they climb onto the top of the rocks, lay down a carpet and do it!!”
“NO!” replies Mutla, with an unforeseen even greater understanding of Aphrodite. Seeing the stark confusion on our eyes, he then adds, “The car” and he hits the roof with a closed fist.
“Then many girls – have – seeex.” Smiling, he inhales the last of his cigarette and puts the car in drive.
He turns to Foto Loco and says, with a crooked smile of his brown gumless teeth,
“Very Fresh.”

Penis Valley, Turkey 10.26.2007

i call this photo "where the hell is my assistant!"

and i call this one"down here boss!!!"