This documentary series was shot on location in SW Sri Lanka, in the old town of Galle. That day, busloads of schoolkids descended en masse from various parts of the country’s interior to go a little wild paddling in the surf.
In these images I wanted above all to capture the joy of being a child on a school outing. When you grow up in the hinterlands, the warm, turquoise ocean is a tantalising prospect. That you are still wearing your twee school uniform while up to your knees in water is but a minor inconvenience when the day gets going and the ocean beckons.
At Little Loch Broom, the clouds quite literally roll in to let the light fall in stripes over the iron hills, so ancient and half-asleep they don’t even notice any more.
At Gairloch, the bracken has died but not before showing its true colour of rust.
The bare rocks that protrude slate grey are the worn down teeth of primordial giants, megaliths that did battle through the Scotch mists of time.
At the Assynt, the peaks have given in to solitude. When the sun occasions to shine on them, they espy one another from afar. They talk in ancient riddles across the glen but of what we still haven’t deciphered.
The leaf that refuses to yield long after the rain has turned to snow.
You should have been an angel, it would of suited you…
My gold-leafed, triptych angel, she knows just what to do…
Will the sun shine all sweetness and light?
Burn us to a cinder, our third stone satellite?
She’s all that ever mattered, and all that ever will
My cup, it runneth over, I’ll never get my fill…
The boats in the harbour slip from their chains…
Head for new horizons, let’s do the same
I’m on a tightrope, baby, nine miles high…
Striding through the clouds, on my ribbon in the sky…
I’m on a tightrope, baby, one thing I’ve found, I don’t know how to stop, and it’s a long, long, way down
The red bricks of Bhaktapur took a pounding the day the earthquake struck.
Langtang shook like a baby’s rattle the day the earthquake struck.
Not all of the buildings you see still stand. Yet one thing does: the memory of Nepal as it was, as it will be again.
All images supplied by Ⓒtrespasserine2014
Lyrics supplied by the Stone Roses, Tightrope, Second Coming, 1994
From peasants tilling fields at the close of day to ribbed hillsides breathing out vapour at the break of day, the countryside of northwestern Thailand is serene in its majesty. After decades of widespread hunting the forests may have fallen eerily silent, but no man armed with bow or rifle can bring down the tropical sun. Where birds once cawed and monkeys once howled, it is the dawn the makes all the noise nowadays.
Please click on image to enlarge. Trust me, it’ll be worth your while.
There’s a village about as far northwest as you can go in Thailand before you hit the fortified frontier with Myanmar. Its name is Ban Rak Thai, which translates as “Thai-Loving People”. There’s a story in how it came to be. That village with its signs written in Mandarin and its slopes lined with oolong tea shrubs was founded by Kuomintang soldiers, themselves escaping Mao’s Communists across the hills from Yunnan Province in 1949. While the mainstay of Chinese nationalists fighting under warlord Chiang Kai Shek fled to Taiwan, this faction of history’s losers found sanctuary in Thailand where they brought a little taste of home with them.