A rare moment

As I walked along a narrow street in Bundi during one of my journeys through India I heard a voice call out at me. “come, come in, you want photograph my family?” The young dark man in his early twenties standing at the doorway had obviously noticed the large camera hanging from my neck. As with most Indians he thought it would be a great privilege to have his family photos taken by a foreigner. As with most foreigners with a big camera I quickly realized that it would be a great privilege for me to enter this man’s house and photograph his family. The only issue I had was that I was supposed to meet my good friend and travel companion Jenzen and I was already running late. Well he was an easy going guy I thought and he would understand. So I followed the nice man through the small doorway and along a dark narrow corridor until we came to another small door to the left. he stood at the door and pointed into the room inviting me in. In the darkness I could just about make out his proud smile in anticipation. As I crouched through the small wooden door and looked in I saw his wife lying on their bed cuddling tenderly with their newly born baby. At once I realized that this was one of those rare moments that would stay with me forever. She had given birth on that same bed a few weeks earlier and now I was being asked to photograph them by the proud father. A real privilege. Once finished with the mother and child the happy father now insisted that I drunk some tea whilst photographing his elderly mother, his sister who had two completely different colored eyes and his down syndrome brother. All this provided me with great photographic material but what about Jenzen?
I arrived very late to meet my friend and I had my excuse all planned out when I saw him walking steadily towards me full of excuses himself. he explained how he had also been invited into a home and was given tea and biscuits. We both had lots to talk about that evening.

Spencer

A tale of pirates, hippies and one naked woman

I had heard people talk about this cove before. About its glistening, white sand and its warm, turquoise water. A sanctuary for pirates in days of old, and more modern tales of hippies making the cove their own. I had heard the stories of a fresh water spring and an abandoned 18th century fortress overlooking the palm trees. Of the difficulty of getting there due to dangerous footpaths. But none of this could have prepared me for the scene I would walk into. After a long hike in the unforgiving summer heat I made my way past the ancient fortress down a series of dusty steps through a small, wooded path. In a clearing among the trees and bushes I eventually came across the fabled natural spring. A small rivulet of fresh, clear water emanating from the rocks into a small stone pool. The very same water that through the centuries had attracted so many seafarers to find refuge here. A young woman sat by the pool, delicately washing herself with nothing on but a bone dangling from her necklace and a tribal tattoo on her arm. She was pouring water over her tanned body with the use of an old, broken bottle. A timeless scene in a beautiful setting. Her name I did not ask, the name of the cove I will keep to myself.