The Journal
Some Places Deserve to Wait
Over two decades, I returned to Kenya more times than I can count, yet somehow never made it to the Maasai Mara. I always told myself I'd wait until I could experience it the right way, with nowhere else to be and the people I loved most beside me. What I found wasn't just one of the greatest wildlife spectacles on Earth, but a lesson in patience, hospitality, and why some places are worth waiting for.
I first traveled to Kenya in 2005.
Over the next two decades I kept finding my way back. I covered the country's post-election violence, photographed the hidden world of East Africa's illicit chang'aa brewers, and spent weeks documenting life inside Dandora, one of the largest dumpsites on Earth. Assignments eventually carried me overland into South Sudan and onward through Tanzania, Somalia, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Central African Republic, and beyond.
Kenya slowly stopped feeling like somewhere I traveled. It became somewhere I returned.
And yet somehow, I never made it to the Maasai Mara.
The irony isn't lost on me. I've camped beside hippos in Tanzania. Once, in the middle of the night in Sudan, I nearly stumbled into a pair of hyenas while trying to find a place to relieve myself. Wildlife was always there, woven into the background. But it was never the reason I came.
Friends would return from safari eager to tell me about the Mara. The conversations usually sounded the same.
Lions.
Leopards.
Elephants.
Cheetahs.
It was always a list.
Rarely a feeling.
I could have gone many times. A good friend and her husband founded Sentinel Mara Camp more than a decade ago, and their invitation had been standing ever since. Still, I waited.
Partly because I didn't want to dabble. I didn't want my first experience squeezed between assignments or tacked onto the end of another reporting trip. I wanted to arrive with nowhere else to be.
Mostly, though, I couldn't imagine doing it without Lindsey and our kids. Taking our kids into the world has become one of the great projects of our marriage, and East Africa has always occupied a special place in my heart. Experiencing one of the world's great landscapes without them never felt quite right.
Some places deserve to wait.
This June, they finally did.
We arrived at exactly the right moment.
Each year, after months of following fresh grass across Tanzania's Serengeti, enormous herds of wildebeest, zebras, and gazelles begin pushing north into Kenya's Maasai Mara. It is the largest land mammal migration on Earth. The crossings don't happen according to a calendar. They happen when rain, grass, instinct, and opportunity finally align.
We had arrived at the beginning of one of the greatest wildlife spectacles on Earth.
Years ago, Ryszard Kapuściński tried to describe this place in The Shadow of the Sun.
"Everywhere you look, huge herds of zebras, antelopes, buffalo, giraffes. All of them are grazing, frisking, frolicking, galloping. Right beside the road, motionless lions; a bit farther, a group of elephants; and farther still, on the horizon, a leopard running in huge bounds. It's all improbable, incredible. As if one were witnessing the birth of the world... It is this world barely born, the world without mankind and hence also without sin, that one can imagine one is seeing here."
Standing there, I finally understood what he meant.
Not because there were more animals than I'd ever seen.
Because nothing acknowledged our presence.
The lions weren't performing. The elephants weren't posing. Everything simply carried on, just as it had long before we arrived and just as it would after we left.
Sentinel itself felt as though someone had quietly stopped time. It wasn't difficult to imagine arriving here in 1933, when Ernest Hemingway first came to East Africa. Spacious canvas tents sat tucked beneath the forest, Persian rugs stretched across the tent floors, polished brass, and every piece of teak furniture had been built by hand rather than ordered from a catalog. The camp sat just above the Mara River, where hippos grunted through the night, and crocodiles drifted silently below the banks. It felt less like checking into a lodge than stepping into another era.
Our days quickly settled into an unhurried rhythm. A quiet knock came at 5:45 each morning, coffee delivered to the tent before first light. By 6:20, we were already bouncing along dirt tracks while the Mara slowly woke around us. Somewhere behind the scenes, breakfast had been packed before anyone stirred. We returned to a leisurely three-course lunch, an hour or two to read, write in my journal, or simply watch the river below, then headed back into the bush as the afternoon softened toward evening. By the time we returned after dark, lanterns glowed around camp, and dinner somehow appeared as though it had always been waiting.
The older I get, the more I notice invisible competence. Whenever something appears completely effortless, I know it almost certainly isn't. The best teachers, the best photographs, the best restaurants, and the best hospitality all share the same quality. They conceal an extraordinary amount of work. Long before I woke to that first cup of coffee, someone else had already been awake. Before we left on safari, breakfast was packed. Before sunset, tables were being set, and fires quietly tended. The magic wasn't accidental. It was crafted so carefully that it disappeared.
One afternoon, our guide, Jonathan, slowed the vehicle. Jonathan, a Silver-level tracker had noticed a lone zebra moving toward the river. Then another. Within minutes, hundreds emerged from behind the brush, funneling toward a crossing.
A handful stepped into the water.
"The brave ones," Jonathan said.
Then they bolted back out.
Massive crocodiles exploded from the river, sending the first zebras scrambling for shore. Everything stopped. For nearly ten minutes, the herd moved nervously along the bank while crocodiles drifted just beneath the surface and hippos surfaced quietly farther downstream.
Then, without warning, something changed.
No command.
No leader.
Just thousands of animals deciding, almost simultaneously, that now was the moment.
The river erupted.
Hooves pounded the banks. Braying drowned out my thoughts. Water exploded in every direction as crocodiles lunged into the chaos. Dust rose from both sides of the river while the first zebras climbed the opposite bank, and thousands more continued pouring in behind them.
It lasted less than ten minutes.
When it was over, the river grew quiet again.
We drove farther south, where nine lionesses sprawled across a hillside while nearly grown cubs lay in the fading light. Lightning flickered across the horizon without a sound. It may have been the largest sky I've ever seen, changing colors faster than I could photograph.
Darkness had settled by the time we returned to camp.
Instead of leading us toward the dining tent, one of the staff smiled and quietly motioned for us to follow.
We walked down a narrow, lantern-lit path until the trees opened into a small clearing.
A long table waited beneath the stars, candles flickering in the evening breeze. Just a few feet away, a Maasai elder tended an open fire.
For a few moments, neither of us said much.
Dinner had somehow materialized in the middle of the Mara.
Then, sometime between dessert and port, Maasai warriors emerged from the darkness. They circled the table singing before placing a cake in front of us.
Only afterward did we learn what had happened.
By complete coincidence, close friends of ours were staying at the camp that same week. They had quietly mentioned to the staff that Lindsey and I were celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
Somehow, friends and strangers halfway around the world had seen our marriage.
They had spent the afternoon carrying tables into the bush, tending a fire, preparing dinner beneath the stars, baking a cake, and creating a memory we never could have imagined for ourselves. Not because they had to, but because they wanted two people far from home to feel celebrated.
When I think back on the Mara, of course I remember the migration. The river crossing. The cheetahs. The impossible skies.
But what returns most often is that candlelit table beneath the trees.
After twenty-five years of marriage, I've realized that what stays with you isn't extravagance.
It's knowing someone cared enough to make the effort.
Thousands of miles from home, people who knew almost nothing about us somehow honored twenty-five years of shared life together. They couldn't have known what those years had held, the adventures, raising kids, the ordinary Tuesdays that quietly become a marriage. They simply saw two people and decided the occasion mattered.
Some places deserve to wait.
I'm grateful this one did.
Thank you Peter & Wendy!
Salt, Stone, and Stillness: Notes from Sifnos
On a tiny Aegean island, we found food with memory, paths without shortcuts, and a rhythm that refuses to rush.
Cobalt water, clay-pot cooking, moonlit dinners, and a rhythm you can feel in your bones
Sifnos isn’t the place you accidentally end up in. That’s kind of the point. No massive cruise ship ports. No influencer stampede. Just jagged coastlines, cobalt water, blinding white villages, and food that stands out with creativity rooted in history.
We chose Sifnos for three things: the food scene (which has quietly become one of the most innovative in the Aegean), the lack of crowds, and water so blue… well, that’s the reason I’m a photographer and not a writer.
The days have been slow in the best way, anchored by swims, boating excursions to remote beaches, and daily walks to and from our roadless village and home in Artemonas.
The standout moment among many? Dinner at Cantina. You don’t stumble across it; you seek it out. Tucked into a remote cove, maybe a dozen tables, one seating at 7:30 sharp, and a pre-fix menu where every guest starts the journey together. It’s a nose-to-tail, hyper-local experience served up by a crew that felt like they’d pressed pause on their “real” lives to join this tight, four-month summer experience. Over the next two and a half hours, we were served a 14-course menu. The kitchen was small, impossibly efficient, lit by a tiny disco ball and vibing with a playlist that felt like it was curated just for that night. When the last table was served, the staff gave themselves a quiet round of applause. Not for us, just for each other. No show, no ego, no visible hierarchy. Just mutual respect, well-earned. We left under a nearly full moon, climbing the steep stone path back to the top of the walled city, full in every sense of the word.
We visited Narlis Farm, where we learned the history behind Sifnian recipes and what it means to truly cook from the land. Everything is grown without irrigation, just as it was centuries ago, and the flavors speak for themselves. We cooked with traditional clay pots and tasted dishes passed down through generations: simple, honest, and rooted in place.
Another standout was an all-day charter with Aegeas Cruises to the uninhabited island of Poliegos. Captain Michalis Martzoukos and his partner, the endlessly warm Georgia Sapani, led the way. Alongside eight other like-minded travelers, we spent eight hours swimming in remote coves, trading stories, and ending the day with a slow BBQ lunch on the stern. One of those rare days that sinks in deep, with a kind of clarity not unlike the clearest water I’ve ever seen.
A lot of friends, and honestly even I, have found it strange that I hadn’t made it to Greece until now. For Europeans, it’s a long weekend. For me, it always felt like too popular a path. I’ve spent most of my life going where fewer people go—not just as a photojournalist but now as a traveler with my family. I’ve always been wary of destinations overrun by the influencer circuit. But now? I’m mostly just disappointed I didn’t come sooner. The warmth of the culture, the people, and the countless strangers we met lived up to the Greek reputation and then some. One local, maybe inspired by my long-standing tan, told me, “Greece looks good on you.” A compliment I’ll take, especially from a place that treated us so well.
Four Weeks Across Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco
Four Weeks Across Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco
We spent a month on the move—across islands, mountains, and desert cities. Eight flights, trains, rental cars, and unfamiliar roads stitched together a route through Southern Spain, Mallorca, and Morocco. What emerged wasn’t just a trip but a series of moments that reshaped how we experience the world as a family.
Mallorca: Salt Air and Slow Mornings
We began in Cala Llombards, a quiet corner of Mallorca defined by limestone cliffs, clear water, and simple pleasures. No resorts. No agenda. Just daily swims, beachside picnics, and the rhythm of slow travel.
One of the highlights: sailing along the north end of the island, watching the coastline unfold in dramatic, jagged layers. The boat gave us a different view of the island—untouched coves, wind-carved stone, and the freedom of open water. For a week, time stretched in the best way.
Southern Spain: History You Can Feel
From Mallorca, we flew into Sevilla, where the scent of orange blossoms lingered in the air and flamenco drifted from quiet courtyards. The city feels like a mosaic—Moorish archways, Gothic cathedrals, tiled fountains, and winding alleys that beg to be explored.
We wandered through the Alcázar, its architecture a living record of the city’s layered past, and crossed bridges into Triana for ceramics and local tapas. Sevilla felt alive in every sense—textured, vivid, soulful.
Granada brought a quieter kind of wonder. The Alhambra is one of those rare places where history humbles you. In its carvings, courtyards, and gardens, you feel the gravity of centuries. The white villages of Andalusia—like Arcos de la Frontera—offered a change of pace: hilltop serenity, whitewashed homes, and long afternoon walks beneath the sun.
Morocco: Echoes of the Past, Energy of the Present
Fes was a long-awaited stop—one I had imagined for years. Having spent time in Aleppo, Syria and Sanaa, Yemen, I was drawn to the enduring spirit of Arab cities with deep historical roots. Fes completed that map for me.
Wandering the medina felt like stepping into a city both ancient and intact. The maze-like streets, centuries-old madrasas, and sound of artisans at work spoke of a living tradition. Fes doesn’t cater to the outsider; it invites you to adapt, to observe, to learn.
Essaouira was a beautiful contrast. Breezy, bright, and easygoing. We stayed at Le Jardin des Douars, tucked into the hills just outside town. There, we learned to cook traditional Moroccan dishes, rode camels beneath a wide sky, and ended each day on a rooftop terrace as the light faded over olive groves and terracotta rooftops.
What Remains
This trip wasn’t about rushing from place to place. It was about being in each one fully—slowing down long enough to notice the details, the patterns, the way people live. Traveling together gave us not just new sights, but new shared memories—ones we’ll carry for years.
We returned with more than photos. We came home with a deeper appreciation for stillness, for difference, for beauty in all its forms. And with a quiet reminder that the best way to understand the world is to walk through it, together.
En Plein Air: The Table That Paused, But Never Left
A seasonal garden supper club celebrating local ingredients, community, and slow meals around a shared table.
We’ve always believed that a thoughtful, well-executed meal is worth celebrating, especially in the speed of everyday life. That idea started small: a backyard neighbor dinner in the fall of 2015, just a handful of neighbors under the lights strung through our old Fair Oaks garden. But as the years passed, it evolved into something much more intentional.
By 2020, we had commissioned a 12-foot table built from a salvaged 120-year-old horse barn door. With that came En Plein Air, our Supper Club. It wasn’t a restaurant or a business exactly. It was more like an offering, a long table, high-quality seasonal ingredients, great wine, and endless conversation under the stars. What started as a neighborhood tradition slowly grew into a gathering place for anyone looking to reconnect, with food, with land, with one another.
Lindsey ran the bread, desserts, and cocktails. I cooked, self-taught but shaped by years of curiosity, time spent in global kitchens, and mentorship from Rick Mahan, chef-owner of The Waterboy. Our daughter helped serve. Friends and neighbors pitched in. And my endlessly generous mother-in-law, sous chef and menu consultant extraordinaire, helped make the chaos feel calm. It was a team effort every time, a beautiful kind of organized disarray.
For over 15 years we’ve cultivated relationships with farmers and growers throughout the region. We’ve walked their fields, shared meals at their tables, and built a family rhythm around eating with the seasons. Every week we visited one of the state’s largest farmers markets and adjusted our menu based on what was most alive that week. Sometimes we swapped ingredients the night before if a fisherman in Bodega Bay called with something unexpected.
The ethos was always clear:
Respect ingredients and the people who produce them
Cook 100 percent in season, no exceptions
Source only what we’d feel proud to serve our kids
We love making kombucha and sourdough, cooking outdoors, and talking about how food connects us to history, culture, and place. At its best, this supper club let people gather that might not otherwise meet and build something temporary but unforgettable.
Then life shifted.
I stepped more fully into education and coaching. Lindsey and I decided to move forward with a long-planned kitchen and living space remodel. The supper club, which had come to occupy every spare inch of our home and schedule, had to take a back seat. The momentum we built and the community response were more than we could have dreamed.
Now, as we settle into a new rhythm and our home begins to take its next shape, we’ve started dreaming again. That salvaged barn door table still sits in the garden. The desire to gather, to cook, to share is still here, maybe stronger than ever.
The supper club isn’t gone. Just paused. And when we return, it will be with full hearts, empty fridges, and the same joy that started it all.
Movement, Memory, and a Long-Awaited Stay in Southern France
Movement, Memory, and a Long-Awaited Stay in Southern France
Last summer, the world felt like it was finally stretching its legs again, and so did we. After years of cautious travel—testing policies, scanning headlines, and weighing what-ifs—we set out on a 3½ week sprint across Western Europe. It was more ambitious than usual. Less our typical slow-burn kind of trip and more a series of connected moments, stitched together by trains, rental cars, and early-morning wakeups.
We covered a lot of ground, more than we usually would. But the goal was clear: expose the kids to a variety of cultures, landscapes, and languages. From the coastlines to the countryside, bustling cities to quiet hilltop villages, we wanted them to feel the texture of Europe. And they did.
But somewhere along the way, between navigating busy train stations and hunting for family-sized Airbnbs, we found ourselves craving a slower pace again. The kind that lets you settle into a rhythm and really absorb a place. We’ll go back to that next time. One region. One cadence. Fewer check-ins.
Still, one stretch of the journey stood out. A place that didn’t just meet expectations but felt like it had been waiting for us.
In the hills of Southern France, tucked among old stone villages and lavender fields, was the original Dior perfume flower estate. We had tried to book it back in the spring of 2020, before the world hit pause, but the timing hadn’t worked out. This time, it did.
Passing through its gates, it felt as though we’d entered another century. The property carried the weight of history, but it didn’t feel fragile. It felt alive. Roses and jasmine in full bloom, the scent of old-world refinement in the air, and a kind of stillness you can’t find on a map.
For Lindsey and me, it was one of those rare places that immediately slows your heart rate. The kind of place you instinctively want to linger. And we did, if only briefly. We sipped wine at sunset, walked among the flowers that once inspired a legacy, and imagined what it would be like to stay the entire summer.
Maybe someday.
Last-Minute, Long-Lasting - Todos Santos
Last-Minute, Long-Lasting - Todos Santos
To close out the summer, we pulled off a last-minute escape to Todos Santos, and somehow, it all just clicked.
No overplanning. No expectations. Just a few days of sun, surf, and slow mornings. We explored both coasts—the wild energy of the Pacific and the calmer waters of the Sea of Cortez; finding remote stretches of beach where it felt like we had the entire coastline to ourselves.
We stayed in a beach house set on three acres of open land. Rustic in all the right ways, with ocean views and plenty of space to do absolutely nothing. It was the kind of place that reminds you how little you actually need.
And as always in Baja, the food did not disappoint—simple, fresh, and perfect. Fish tacos, icy cervezas, sunset dinners barefoot in the sand.
It wasn’t the trip we planned, but it ended up being exactly what we needed.
Golden Stone & Slow Pints
Golden Stone and Slow Pints
The Cotswolds feel like they were designed to be wandered through slowly; stone by stone, pint by pint. We spent two weeks tucked into this dreamy stretch of English countryside, crossing six counties without ever really feeling the need to rush.
We settled into a gentle routine: walking from village to village, lingering over lunches in ancient pubs, watching the afternoon light stretch across honey-colored stone. We celebrated Lindsey’s birthday there, met up with dear friends who now call this place home, and left with a few new friendships too; travel has a way of weaving people together like that.
One of the unexpected highlights was discovering Daylesford Organic. What started as a quick visit turned into something closer to admiration. Their entire approach, to food, land, sustainability, and hospitality—felt aligned with everything we’ve been trying to move toward as a family. Thoughtful, intentional, grounded.
Also worth noting: I apparently have a deep and abiding love for vintage Toyota FJs. I found myself stopping to photograph nearly every one we passed. There’s something about seeing them parked beside thatched cottages or tucked under oak trees that just felt right.
We ended the trip with a few days in London. Did the usual London things. Ate well, walked miles, saw old landmarks in new light.
Yucatán, Revisited
Yucatán, Revisited
I’ve always wrestled with the idea of writing about travel. Not just describing places or listing top-ten-anythings, but grappling with what it actually means to move through a place and let it shape you.
On one end of the spectrum, you have the titans—Hemingway, Paul Theroux—the kind of writers who sell the sizzle, not the steak. They let you feel the air of a place without telling you what restaurant to book or how many pesos to tip. On the other end: “content.” SEO-choked listicles, AI-fed beach rankings, or the human equivalent—people who spend 72 hours somewhere and publish a definitive guide.
There’s almost no middle ground. And while I crave it, I’m not interested in becoming that guy either.
Even Saveur, once our household travel compass, has shifted to online-only. And though I hold out hope, the magic feels like it’s in limbo.
So let’s get this straight:
I’m not here to tell you where to go in the Yucatán.
I’m definitely not going to tell you how to find the places we found.
And I’m not going to upload coordinates or drop names in your DMs.
Yemen? Sure, I’ll share. You’re not going there next spring break. But the Yucatán? That’s different. Too many places that once felt wild now feel washed out, reshaped by algorithms, influencers, and an entire travel economy bending itself into what it thinks the Western traveler wants.
But here's what I will say:
We went back. Twenty years after our honeymoon, Lindsey and I returned to the southern edge of Tulum, the very last stop before you cross into the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve. Back then, it felt like the edge of the world. This time, it was harder to find that feeling; but not impossible.
We celebrated our 20th anniversary there. Just the two of us. Quiet, remote, raw. A few days later, our close friend flew down with our kids and met us in Mexico. We scooped them up and made the long drive to a completely off-grid house on a 10-mile stretch of private beach. No power most nights. No flushing toilets. No backup generator. And honestly, no regrets.
After a week there, our friend caught a bus out, and we made our way to our third and final location as a family of four. Even more remote. Even less defined. The kind of place that doesn’t appear in a sidebar list.
If you're into resorts, wristbands, and curated experiences, this isn't your kind of story. If you want to hear about the trip, pour a mezcal and come over. I’ll tell you about the roaches, the power outages, the things that didn’t work, and the quiet moments that did.
But I’m not here to sell a version of travel. I’m here to protect it.
Road Dust and Giant Shadows
Road Dust and Giant Shadows
Spring in the Sonoran and Beyond
Over spring break, we set out toward familiar ground,; the low deserts of Arizona and New Mexico. There’s something about the Sonoran landscape that keeps calling us back. Maybe it’s the way the light hits the saguaros at dusk, or how time seems to stretch in the heat. Maybe it’s just the space to breathe.
We started around Tucson, tracing trails through Saguaro National Park, watching the desert bloom in quiet, subtle ways. The landscape looks still, but it’s always shifting—one cactus at a time.
From there, we drove east—crossing into New Mexico, where the terrain softens and expands. We wandered across the otherworldly gypsum dunes of White Sands, then descended into the cool, silent depths of Carlsbad Caverns. Above ground, sunlight and heat. Below, a cathedral of stone and shadow.
The trip ended—more or less—in Santa Fe, where adobe walls and crisp mountain air reminded us we’d left the desert behind. But that dry, cracked earth stayed with us. It always does.
Two Weeks in Oaxaca
Two Weeks in Oaxaca
Before we left, I was surprised how many people asked, “Wait, where are you going again?” Followed quickly by, “Where is that?”
Oaxaca is a state in southern Mexico, but it’s also the name of the capital city, Oaxaca de Juárez. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to go.
Most Americans’ experience of Mexican food skews heavily toward the north—border states, Tex-Mex, or the kind of “Mexican” cuisine tailored to fit a certain palette. It’s not unlike those Italian-American restaurants where everything’s drowned in red sauce. Familiar, but not exactly rooted in place.
Oaxaca is different. It’s the culinary soul of Mexico. Mole, mezcal, tlayudas, markets that make you want to spend the day talking to every vendor just to understand what’s in season and why. That was reason number one for this trip: to eat, to learn, to cook, to taste.
The second reason was a little less savory, a little more salt and sun: Puerto Escondido. About seven hours south by road, this stretch of Pacific coastline is home to the famed “Mexican Pipeline.” It’s one of the only spots in the country fully exposed to southern hemisphere swell, and it delivers. Rugged, raw, and alive.
Oaxaca exceeded every expectation. The food, yes, but also the people. We made friends we still keep in touch with. The warmth and generosity we experienced was unforgettable.
The Woman in the Photo
3 years ago I took a photo of a woman while working on a long-term project in what is considered the largest dump site in the World, Dandora. The photo I’m referring to was nearly the last image I took in the course of several weeks of working in the dump.
3 years ago I took a photo of a woman while working on a long-term project in what is considered the largest dump site in the World, Dandora. The photo I’m referring to was nearly the last image I took in the course of several weeks of working in the dump.
The light was low and rain was coming in - it happens fast when you are on the equator. Toxic smoke was blowing through and with the cloud cover, the light was changing incredibly fast and turning otherworldly.
As it started to drizzle I noticed a woman sitting alone; resting on a bag of a day’s worth of hard-earned plastic scraps, waiting to weigh-in her day’s wage.
What caught my eye, was that she was sitting alone and separate from the rest of the woman in the dump reading something, relaxing.
“I ask, “unakambuka mimi?” (do you remember me?) and with a most beautiful smile, says, “of course!.”
I approached her and took a few images and asked her what she was reading. She told me she was essentially just thumbing through some sort of found industrial catalog and taking a break.
Just then, the skies opened up. I had no protection for my cameras so I bolted one direction and she too, but in the opposite way.
Fast forward a year later, the photo won first place in the World Press Photo Awards, Contemporary Issues - for a freelancer like me, a lifetime achievement.
Along with the rest of the World Press Photo winners, the photo traveled to over 100 galleries across the World and seen by millions. I’ve received hundreds of emails asking more about this Woman and who she is and how to help in this community. It’s hanging in permanent collections with the Princess of the Netherlands and the Houston Museum of Arts, not to mention countless personal collections and homes. I’ve spoken on NPR and traveled all over to speak about my work and that image in particular. This Woman captured the imagination and hearts of so many. Mine the most.
Three years later I found myself back in Dandora, reconnected with my cartel contact “Tiger” and trudging through the swampy wasteland. Only a few hours back in, I find Her.
I ask, “unakambuka mimi?” (do you remember me?) and with a most beautiful smile, says, “of course!”. With that, my emotions got the best of me. To imagine the differences of our lives and what has transpired over the last 3 years; the disparity glaring and inequity harsh.
As she moved forward, three years ago, into appalling monotony of a daily life picking in the dumpsite six days a week earning $1.00 per day, what have I done? What luxuries and comforts have I experienced?
The moment came, “What is your name?”. Again, with beaming smilie, “Pauline Mweni“.
Not wanting to take more of her work time, I ask her if we can connect a few days later in her home to hear more of her life and story.
The sun was high and hot. The earth smoking beneath my feet as I hike out of the dump. I played soccer with some kids from the nearby slum, I’m sweating through my shirt and covered in dirt. A few hours later I jump into the pool of my guesthouse. The refreshment was cooling and instant. Probably a feeling she’s never experienced or will.
A few days later, I navigate through a labyrinth of corrugated metal homes, stray dogs, pigs and barefoot children, and me, still sucking the thick haze and smoke from the nearby dump to find Pauline welcoming me with the warmest smile you can imagine into her home. I don’t know what I expected, but she was surprisingly cleaned-up; don’t we all want a little dignity every day?
What I did expect was a small home. And small it was, smaller than I’m even used to. About the size of my walk-in closet at home. For her, just enough room for her and her two kids, a girl named Mwende (10) and a boy named Mumo (3), one small bed and a few belongings. Tiny yes. Dirty? Not a crumb. Simple, cheery, and clean, just like her.
In 2007 she lost a job and her only option was to become a picker in the dump. Because nearly all of what she earns, goes to rent and school fees, she has no time to look for different work or explore her entrepreneurial spirit.
After some time with her, we parted ways and in a few days I’ll head home, left with more questions than answers (story of my life) and try to sort out what to do next. Navigating these harsh realities have never been easy for me; to sit in that tension has become a new normal. But then what?
I don’t know how my story will connect again with Pauline’s but I believe it will and I have hope that the next time we meet, her ability to support her children will improve as well as those in her community.
I believe that photojournalism has the power to make change. To challenge the comfortable. To uncover the hidden. And to connect us all to stories that cause us to look beyond our comfort zone to those outside of it. How do we respond? Perhaps the hardest question of all.
The Coldest 48 Hours of My Life
The Coldest 48 Hours of My Life
I’ve always considered myself a heat guy. I once ran through Death Valley when the region was flirting with the all-time high of 133 degrees. I’ve been inside sweltering refugee camps, desert conflict zones, and hot tin-roofed market towns with no breeze and plenty of sweat. Heat I can handle. But cold? Cold cuts different.
The coldest I’ve ever been was during a 48-hour stretch in the high desert of the eastern Sierra Nevadas, in the middle of a December storm. I had the right gear—a -20° bag, layered clothing, and plenty of grit—but none of it could soften the sharp edge of that cold. Temperatures dropped well below zero, and the wind blew hard enough to erase your tracks as you made them.
I wasn’t there by accident. I had intentionally set up camp in the storm's path to watch it roll in from the mountains. There's a particular kind of awe that only comes from witnessing weather like that from within it. Heat may exhaust, but cold invades. It narrows your world to the essentials: warmth, shelter, movement. You sleep with your camera batteries to keep them alive. You boil water just to feel your fingers again. And the idea of stepping outside your tent to take a leak at 2am? Forget it. You hold it or suffer.
