Tangyi on the beach

While thumbing through the Port Moresby Post-Courier newspaper on my flight down to the Sepik River, my eyes fell to the headline under Positions Vacant on the Careers page: “Head Hunters.” Noting the headhunters@global email, I was relieved to see it followed by an ANZ bank symbol, and not an actual ad for those degreed in cannibalism.

During our cruise down the Sepik River on the MV Sepik Spirit, even though –thanks to missionary influence –I caught the occasional glance of Calvin Klein underwear bands rather than penis sheaths on the men, I discovered that life on the river still pretty much exists as it has for the last few generations. Life evolves around the daily hunting, gathering and foraging for food. The men still fish from dug out canoes and the women, with an inevitable child tugging at their breast, process and cook the sago plant. And make no doubt, the territorial clans still exist, as I discovered when mistakenly overstepping my boundary into one. Luckily, I got away with a small fine rather than an arrow through my forehead.

The respect for the river is immense, which is most apparent through the tribe’s reverence of the exquisitely crafted, yet ominously daunting, Sepik spirit houses.

Men, especially of the Blackwater region, are isolated for over a month of initiation practices while receiving the crocodile tattooing. Succumbing to sleep deprivation, they enter an other-worldly mental state as they partake in rituals, feasts and are coached in the secrets of their elders. During this time, sex is discouraged, as spilling a man’s seed is considered to spiritually weaken them. I was surprised to find that our boat captain, John, had gone through this sacred scarring ritual himself, quite possibly the first white man having done so.

After two weeks, deep painful gashes with razor blades are made in the chests and backs of men, as the bleeding symbolizes the draining of their mother’s blood, making them stronger. The open wounds are packed in mud, silt and exposed to smoke, so they will keloid, giving the scars a raised emulation of the crocodile skin.

An ad in the newspaper for Head Hunters

The men’s ages can range from adolescent to adults, but their scars are a badge of honor, and a proud symbol of their finality into manhood. Never have I encountered a culture of men so willing to take their shirts off for me, which I have to admit I found quite pleasant.

John, our boat captain, with scarring

What surprised me was the discovery of women with significant scarring as well; often the symbol of the sun and moon on their arms. It’s a different story for the young girls than the young men. At their first menstruation the girls are fenced in alone in their home and then without much preparation forced into the inevitable scarring ritual. As the girls are often much younger and more fearful than the boys they sometimes run away. I was told that even if the scarring proves to be too much for the girls, their grandmothers are still willing to pass down their secrets of womanhood. From what I saw of the fabulous face paint, masks, adornment of shells, and ritualistic scarring this seemed to make the obvious not so secret: no matter what culture you’re raised in, men and women the world over certainly pay a high price for beauty.

Woman with sun and moon scarring

Malagan mask, New Ireland

Peterson is my hero. He is an orphan and blind in one eye. After the quake he was stuck in the rubble and had his leg amputated. Still, he always has a smile on his face.

I’ve recently returned from my second trip to Haiti. Thanks to all of you who made generous donations to my Faces of Hope Fund. Due to your generous support we were able to supply a few thousand dollars towards much needed tents. I’ve covered the aftermath of the tsunami in Sri Lanka and Katrina, yet nothing has come near the devastation I witnessed in this country. Quite honestly, until this happened, it was never even on my radar to go to there. Now, this is place I can’t shake, burrowed deep under my skin.

Injured boy after the earthquake

Right after the quake hit, on January 12, 2010, I had been staying at the decadent $10,000 a night villa at the Amanyara on Turks and Caicos Island, one of the prettiest resorts I’ve ever photographed, when I got a call from Stanley Lucas, a Haitian politician in Washington, DC. He was intent on helping me get into his country and asked how soon I could be ready for the short 35-minute flight. He made all the arrangements as I begged and borrowed socks, t-shirts and boots from other tourists. I raided the mini-bar for a few snacks and bottles of water and besides my camera gear that’s all I went with.

Displaced girl living in makeshift shelter in Place Boyer, Petionville.

And so I arrived, about ten days after the quake had hit. A pastor drove me the eight hours over the treacherous cratered, pot-holed road from Cap Haitian to Port a Prince. It was a starless night when we arrived in the strange city, with no electricity and I had absolutely point of reference as to where I was. But then neither, it seemed, did the frantic, weeping, people who packed the streets. Even those who had houses were too afraid to go inside because of the ongoing tremors. The pastor dropped me at Stanley’s friends house, Cecile Arty, where all of Cecile’s family members were congregated under less than ideal circumstances: her brothers, sisters and mother had all lost their homes. I think they thought I was coming for dinner. Nearly three weeks later I was still sleeping in their backyard with them. Yet they never asked when I was leaving.

As is always the way, it seems the people who have the least, give the most. Every morning there was a cup of thick Haitian coffee boiled for me. (In fact when I did leave, I found that Cecile had stuck two pounds of the coffee beans I’d come to love into my backpack.) I’d leave at dawn and shoot all day, returning to my backyard haven long after nightfall, weary and over-whelmed from the horrors that had filled my heart and eyes. I spent hours downloading my cards, but it was too difficult to mentally process what I’d seen.

Upon returning every evening I’d take off my boots, because they were covered in the human fluid I had trodden through, all that was often left, I realized, of a person. A person who had once been someone’s loved one. Grandma would give me kiss on the cheek, and miraculously a bucket of water would appear so I could wash myself and my one shirt and pair of pants for the next day. Cecile made sure I had a hot meal every evening, which was especially welcome as no food had been available to me all day. And of course, they wouldn’t accept a cent. Most importantly, this family became my family, and cared that I came home at night. They were a touchstone in a world of chaos.

Girl in coma after the quake. She never recovered.

A lot has been said about the resiliency and the tenacity of the Haitian people, and that is what really struck me so deeply. Their infectious smiles and graciousness despite the unimaginable hardships they’ve endured, is truly humbling. These are a people who have had a lot of practice surviving–hurricanes, floods, an economy where seventy-eight percent of the population earns two dollars a day, and now a devastating earthquake that has literally rocked the nation. This country, with half its population brimming with children, has been brought to its knees, and these people of unwavering faith have taken advantage of the position to fall to the ground in prayer.

Babies in a bucket, Place Boyer

Estimates were over 230,000 were killed. Over a million people had lost their homes and been displaced. Makeshift hospitals overflowed from people recovering from crude amputations and devastating injuries in primitive medical tents, and then were sent home. Only, they have no home to go to. Infection and disease set in from the thousands living on top of each other in the streets and under makeshift tarps in tent cities. There is a sea of children who will need progressive prosthetics. I photographed one hospital that had actually received an absurd shipment of palettes of breast implants and airline life-preserver jackets, yet the doctors were desperate for the specific medicines they needed.

One day I went out to the hills of Titanyen to visit the mass graves. I understand that the government had to do something with the numbers of bodies that had been pulled from the rubble. But really, they couldn’t make the effort to bury them? The scene was shocking. Mounds of corpses, topped with children, heads, feet, torsos, arms, lay askew in piles, appeared as if still writhing in pain. It was a smell I’ll never forget and permeated every pore.

I felt so disconcerted and disturbed by the scene that I returned. Which is probably a statement that really only photographers and journalists would make. There, winding its way amidst the towering piles of bodies in the bright noon-day sun a shimmer of purple caught my eye. I clamored down the hill and there were Father Rick and Bishop Pierre Dumas waving a pot of smoky incense and blessing the mounds of struggling souls. It was a sight to behold. They had even brought their own two little bulldozers to bury the bodies. I later went out there again, a final time. A warm wind blew across the now flattened land. Wooden crosses dotted the landscape, connecting with the other stretch of land covered in crosses of those who had previously died in the floods. Even though this is a country still reeling in turmoil, at least these dead had now been given a proper and dignified burial. Here at least in this place, there was now peace.

When people ask how can I photograph these disturbing situations of conflict and disaster I suppose it’s moments like these that are really the crux of the answer. I feel the need, not only because I truly care, but because it stirs an empathy and compassion so deep in my core, that it surprises even myself. It presents moments of dignity and grace beyond my everyday comprehension. It gives me a faith in mankind that I simply don’t feel when riding the subway everyday in New York. It helps me as I grapple with the question of what makes us get up everyday? Why would you want to go on, especially if you’ve lost your home, your school, your work, your family, your children, even your limbs?

We go on because we have hope. And that’s the greatest gift we can give to Haiti right now. Hope.

To view more of Alison’s Haiti photos visit www.alisonwright.com

Or http://archive.alisonwright.com/c/alisonwright

Devastation after the January 12, 2010 earthquake. Bishop Pierre Dumas perform blessings over mass graves in Titanyen.

The Faces of Hope Fund works with locally established and Non Governmental Organizations to help provide fundamental health care and education to children and their communities in Asia and Afghanistan. One of the initial projects of the Faces of Hope Fund was to partner with the non-profit organization Doctor to Doctor to help deliver medical supplies to the Kasi Clinic in Laos, which is mentioned in this book. I wanted to somehow repay the people there who had so determinedly worked to save my life that day on January 2, 2000.

Dr. Seng at Kasi clinic in Laos

I have never forgotten that I was saved by a small group of determined individuals who worked in a rural clinic with few resources–– sparse medical equipment and medications, and without sutures, phones, or even beds. My experience there has become a daily touchstone for me, motivating my work as I continue to travel around the world, photographing endangered cultures and documenting issues concerning the human condition. Through their generous time and donations, five physicians from the California-based Doctor to Doctor non-profit organization offered to accompany me to Laos: Dr. Robert Dolgoff and his wife Margarita, Kay Yamagata, Cynthia Nguyen, and Gregg Wheatland. In November 2008 the doctors and I set out for the Kasi clinic with $10,000 worth of medical supplies. Oliver Bandmann accompanied us as our translator.

Alison returns to Kasi, Laos

We drove the six-hour journey from Luang Prabang in a rented van––no bus for me! The roads are in much better condition than during my original journey, for which I was thankful, since there was unseasonal rain, which made the winding roads slick. In the dense fog, we could barely see the outline of nearby limestone mountains. Our driver expertly maneuvered his way along the switchbacks while slowly hugging the interior edges with care. We were all acutely aware of the dangers that this route held.

When we finally reached our guest house in the late afternoon we were greeted by what are now familiar faces to me. I jumped out to give Khamthat Chanthamougkhong, the young man who had stitched up my arm with a needle and thread, a big hug. He responded with his big shy smile. There was palpable excitement in the air as we were greeted by Dr. Seng and other town officials. We took them to dinner at the best–well the only–restaurant in Kasi. It was nice to visit together in a relaxed atmosphere and the beer flowed as we shared a toast. Kamthat, who only took a token sip, leaned over to me and whispered that it was the first time he had ever had alcohol.

The doctors and I receiving a baci ceremony at Kasi Clinic, Laos

The next day the doctors and I had our official visit to the clinic. In our honor the local staff wore clean white uniforms, which I had never seen before. Although the clinic had more employees than during my time here in 2000, it is still a very basic rural health center. There are still no proper beds or mattresses, screens on the windows, and extremely limited medical equipment. For example, if patients need an x-ray or any kind of lab work done, they are still sent five hours south by road to the capital of Vientiane. With Oliver translating, the U.S. doctors described exactly what the towering stacks of medicines we’d brought with us were for, while the nurses made notes and listened intently. Dr. Dolgoff gave me a packet of sutures so that I could personally hand them to Khamthat, the young man who had sewn up my arm so crudely, yet bravely, years before.

Receiving protection strings during baci ceremony

A local shaman was summoned to perform a baci––a good luck-ceremony. Local villagers crowded in to watch the ritual through the open windows of the ROOM. The baci, or su kwan, is a ceremonial “calling of the soul” and often celebrates a special event such as marriage, travel, a homecoming, a welcome, a birth, or an auspicious festival. Officials are honored by bacis, novice monks are wished luck with a baci before entering the temple and sometimes the sick are given bacis to facilitate a cure. The forces that are beckoned are considered to give balance and harmony to the body, or simply “vital breath.”

The American doctors, the clinic workers, and I all converged as a group with our arms around each other so that all our bodies were connected as one entity. As instructed, we touched an ornate silver dish. Its contents had been arranged by the elderly women of the village: a conical horn of shaped banana leaves, flowers, fruits, sweets, rice wine and white cotton threads. The shaman chanted Buddhist prayers and afterwards we each nibbled from the generous offering of eggs and rice. Rather reluctantly, the doctors and I sipped the harsh clear rice whisky, which burned my throat and made my eyes tear. The crowd laughed as I grimaced, encouraging me to swill the glass in one mighty gulp. I had no choice but to oblige. he shaman then tied white strings around each of our wrists. The white cotton thread, the color of peace and good fortune, is a lasting symbol of continuity, permanence and connection in the community. The baci ceremony calls the kwan, or souls, back to the body from wherever they may be roaming. Oliver explained to us, “It is an ancient belief in Laos that humans are a union of thirty-two organs and that the kwan watch over and protect each one of them. These kwan are mischievous and like to wander. The strings secure them in place, thus reestablishing an equilibrium.” We were told that the baci threads should be worn for at least three days and untied rather than cut off, although it is preferred that the strings be kept on until they fall off by themselves.

Khamthat Chanthamougkhong, Alison & Dr. Seng with “Learning to Breathe”

All the staff members in the room were insistent that each of them had to tie a protection string around our wrists, about thirty on each arm. By the end of the ceremony the doctors and I had each accumulated so many it appeared as though we’d had our wrists bandaged. The clinic workers’ gratitude was overwhelming and heartfelt, and each of the visitors, including me, felt deeply blessed.

I shared my book, although of course no one could read it. As it passed around the group, each one excitedly pointed at the photos of themselves or the clinic. The copy I had for them was dog-eared before we left. We had a discussion with the doctors and assessed what their other needs were. Topping the list was an x-ray machine.

Khamthat Chanthamougkhong, who sewed up my arm, celebrates by having his first drink ever, with Alison

We then settled in for the impressive spread of local food that had been prepared in our honor for lunch. While munching a fresh spring roll, I mentioned that I had been looking for Alan Guy and his wife Van, who had driven me that fateful night from the Laos clinic to the Thai border. This couple had been so instrumental in saving my life and I had never given up hope of finding them. A young man gnawing on a piece of chicken mentioned that he had heard that Alan died last year, but he didn’t know how.

I put down my fork in surprise. I didn’t remember him being that old. It occurred to me if her husband had died, then where was Van? “Is Alan’s wife still in Laos?” I asked. “Oh, yes, she’s in Vientiane,” he told me, sucking the last of the chicken grease off each of his fingers. He wiped his hands with a paper napkin and pulled his cell phone from his pocket to make a call. For a moment I pondered the ease in which he did this. I thought back to how desperate I had been for that lifeline when I had lay dying here eight years ago. Then my heart began to race a little faster at the possibility that I was so close to filling in my final missing puzzle piece. I heard a faint female voice on the other end. When she was told a foreigner was on the phone, without missing a beat, right away Van asked “Alison?” We made a plan to meet in Vientiane.

The Doctor to Doctor non-profit organization in Laos:Dr. Robert Dolgoff
and his wife Margarita, Alison, Cynthia Nguyen, Kay Yamagata, and Gregg Wheatland.

Later that day the doctors and I poignantly said our goodbyes to everyone at the clinic, with promises to see them next time, hopefully with an x-ray machine. I hugged each person who I have now become so linked to over the years. The ribbons of white strings winding around my arms proved it. The doctors and I piled into our vehicle and headed south to the capital.

Van and I met the next day for lunch. I recognized her kind face and flowing long black hair; she was more articulate with her English than I remembered. She gave me a much appreciated photo of Alan, handsome and bearded, so I could remember what he looked like. She also presented me with an intricately woven black and white shawl that she had personally hand-made, a lovely gift. I gave her my book; she was surprised to see herself mentioned in it. I knew that she had already gone through major heartbreak- her only son had been killed on that same road shortly after my accident. I was shocked to hear that Alan had also been in an accident on that route, hitting another car in the fog. He died the following year after suffering injuries from the accident, complicated by newly diagnosed diabetes. Van was now living with her elderly mother, trying to recreate her life. This poor woman had lost both her son and husband to that road. Now we would always be bonded by it.

A reunion after eight years: Sirivan Keomany, who with her husband,
Alan, drove me from Laos to Thailand in the back of their truck.
Alan had died the previous year on November 7. Ironically, Van and I had been brought together on November 4. In Buddhist culture, the year anniversary of one’s death is a deeply respected milestone that is acknowledged by a feast including friends and family, and a ceremony surrounding a newly constructed spirit house. Both Van and I felt strongly that somewhere Alan had helped us to reconnect. While I never did get to buy Alan the beer I had promised him, I now had an opportunity to honor him in a different way. I humbly contributed some money to be a part of this ritual Van was organizing and wondered about how to begin thanking someone for saving your life?

Then I remembered a Chinese proverb. “We are all connected by a red thread,” I told Van. “This invisible thread connects all of us who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. That red thread, may stretch or tangle, but it will never break. “Sometimes though,” I added with a laugh “the thread is white, and there are many.”

I held up my heavily decorated wrists to prove it.

Dr. Bunsom Santithamnont gives the thumbs up for “Learning to Breathe” at his
hospital in Udon Thani Thailand. He was also instrumental in saving my life.
Currently the Faces of Hope Fund is trying to get a much needed x-ray machine for the Kasi clinic.