Jaime Ocampo-Rangel and a crew of 4 are planning a two-year World Tour for Memory of Colors. This voyage on a sailing boat aims to get more attention for the heritage and the future of the world’s remaining colorful indigenous peoples. Here are ways in which you can support the Memory of Colors project (PayPal, volunteer work, full sponsorship).
At the end of July, as I was preparing a trip to meet the Aborigines of northern Australia, I learned that a large gathering of various tribes was to take place in New Guinea. In this dense inaccessible jungle covering 462,840 km², more than 800 languages are spoken. The island, split down the middle, feels so remote that you wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to come face to face there with a dinosaur.
A meeting of various tribes
I get right on it. How can I attend this gathering only two weeks away? Such last-minute trip seems impossible to organize. I have to rely entirely on my good faith to turn this dream into reality. Furthermore there’s the question of how to finance the trip. I don’t have any sponsors yet and I’ll have to foot the entire expenses myself. I call around to a few travel agencies. They tell me that this sort of expedition takes nine months of preparation. This wasn’t really the answer that I was hoping for.
How will I overcome so many obstacles? Hefty airfares to pay, how to get the required visas in record-breaking time, how to find a guide, how to convince my cameraman to adapt his entire schedule. I have to ask my wife, a videographer and photographer, to fly back immediately from Brazil. We have to find colored backdrops and get considerable amounts of high-tech equipment ready to go… Not to mention all my ongoing commercial projects and convincing my banker.
I realize I’m up against lots of problems. Yet deep down inside I believe everything will turn out right.
On 11 August 2008, my wife arrives from Brazil. The next day my cameraman Olivier goes, passports in hand, to the Papua New Guinea embassy in Belgium to get our visas. I take care of the airplane tickets — the travel agent getting nervous about all these requirements!
Unable to focus on my work in Paris, I ask for help from my graphic designer friends; I manage to convince my banker to finance the purchase of a second camera – just to play it safe. We pack, leaving the heaviest things for our carry-on luggage to avoid paying extra fees. To my relief, ultimately Valeo agrees to cover a third of the travel expenses. This does little to lower the stress levels of my banker, though.
I phone a UNESCO contact in Port Moresby and we talk late into the night, sorting out the various permits and authorizations. We end up not needing all these because we set off for the region simply as tourists – despite all the equipment.
Woman from Mendima tribe
We leave Thursday, 14 August 2008. We are supposed to be on site, in the mountains of Papua New Guinea, over 300 miles from the capital Port Moresby, on the 16th. The gathering takes place from Saturday to Sunday afternoon and if all goes well, we’ll arrive at 1:00 Saturday afternoon, after two days in the air. Just enough time to take our photos.
At the airport in Paris, we run into a first obstacle: we can only take one piece of luggage each. Our smiles manage to bend the rules and we get through without paying the extra fees. Slyly we manage to hide our heavy camera equipment in our backpacks, careful not to attract the attention of the crew; eight kilos is the limit for cabin luggage in these airports that spit “winged serpents”, as the Mursi people of Ethiopia call airplanes.
We relax and laugh about it once on board the airplane, not realizing that another, much more serious problem would soon to turn up. During the flight, we organize our work, delegating responsibilities to make the best use of our time and resources. Microphones, cameras, lighting; our assistants waiting for us on-site already have their schedules worked out. They don’t know what they’ve signed up for.
Changing planes in London, we’re shocked to learn that we can’t continue our trip. Despite what our travel agent told us, my wife needs a transit visa for Australia. We didn’t have the time to obtain this “open sesame” pass that can open and shut borders. I try to explain to the airline employee that we’ll only be spending one hour there, in transit. But he won’t budge: we can’t proceed without a visa. Unmoved by the desperate look on my wife’s face, he orders our luggage to be taken off the plane. I refuse to accept this turn of events. It’s three in the morning Down Under and I insist that the Australian embassy confirm this ludicrous claim, handing him my cell phone. I memorize the number. The embassy confirms that Lia cannot go on without a visa. I try again, mustering every ounce of tact and diplomacy. I explain patiently to the woman on the other end the motivation behind my project.
Silence. Then, “One moment please.”
“How did you get this number?” she asks.
“My guardian angel gave it to me.”
After three minutes that felt more like an eternity, she asks me to put the airline official back on the line. We do this. They let us through, making us promise never do anything like this again. I ask the airline official make sure our luggage is reloaded onto the plane. Olivier is the only one in our group not used to these kind of miracles.
Huli man from Papua New Guinea
Back on the plane, a flight attendant informs me that two pieces of luggage didn’t make it back on board. We have our cameras with us and three of our six suitcases. That will have to do.
Boarding the Sydney to Port Moresby flight, the pilot announces that we can’t take off: there’s a mechanical problem in one of the plane’s engines. If, as he assures us, the problem can be fixed in two hours, we can still make our connection from Port Moresby to Mount Hagen while telling use that we are lucky the break-down happened on the ground rather than during the flight…
Eight hours later, here we are still stuck in the airport, frustrated and exhausted, starting to lose hope. There is, however, one last chance: the first morning flight out. The airline, accepting its responsibility, offers to put us up in the best hotel in town. The only vacant room is the presidential suite, far bigger than my apartment back in Paris. Olivier is beginning to understand that miracles really do happen.
We board early the next morning, late once again in true New Guinea style. I’m dejected: after all these adventures, will we still miss the gathering? We have a group of Japanese tourists to thank for our four-hour delay. They enter the cabin cheerfully, clad in surgical face masks and hats with built-in mosquito nets.
The Skeleton men decorate themselves to resemble skeletons
We have only two hours left to take pictures and we are still missing one suitcase. I waste another hour trying to find it.
Finally, here we are in the midst of the gathering where tribes are chanting farewell songs. I explain some of what’s going on to my unseasoned assistants. Tribes file past us almost like a mirage. Feathers in all the colors of the rainbow, taken from exotic birds, frame the most striking faces. Slowly they pass before me and I capture them against different backgrounds. I feel as though they are showing me their best side, aware of the many problems I’ve had. I hold my breath for a full hour. My mouth is parched. From time to time I glimpse Lia filming the scene from another angle. Olivier attempts to steady the video camera amid the pushing and shoving of the crowd. These people no doubt faced their own obstacles in the jungle in order to participate in this event. My photographs will be a witness to this proud display of their endangered culture.
Photographing the Skeleton tribe
People who came before me may have had the opportunity to meet these peoples not yet touched by the West. But they didn’t have the sophisticated equipment that allowed me, just a few years later, to perfectly capture a look in someone’s eyes, the hues of colors or the texture of skin.
After 72 hours in the air, six flights, countless smiles for officials and customs officers, I return home having fulfilled my dream within a single hour. Among the photos I took is the cover for my future book.
Once again, I have proof that faith can move mountains.
Assistants holding up a red backdrop.
My project has now passed the point of no return. I’m convinced of its beauty. For me, it was a chance to speak from the heart, open and free. It feels like climbing a mountain or scaling a cliff. It was an opportunity for me to spend time alone, to go with the flow. Sometimes when certain doors shut, we shouldn’t force them open.
If we understand the signs life sends our way to steer us from errors, we can face our destiny head on. But we can’t do it alone. We all need a spiritual guide. My guardian angel, Lauviah, never leaves my side, guiding my path from danger and helping me to win people over. I count myself lucky to have the answers to my questions.
The rich beauty of Ethiopia calls to me. I explain the importance of this journey to my banker and he comes to see my point of view. I make a mistake, however. I bring with me technicians allergic to a country so different from their own. They can’t handle the strong smells, or the food of the Hamar tribe.
I head to this region still full of ancient customs and traditional lifestyles. As usual, I paid no heed to people warning me of the many dangers. The area is in a state of ongoing war between Kenyans and Ethiopians, fighting for retribution and stolen livestock. Not to mention mosquitoes and crocodiles, recent tourist deaths, or the dreaded traveler’s diarrhea, turista. I ignore it all and stick to my decision.
The logistics for organizing this kind of expedition are not so easy. We managed to rent a 4×4. But it’s twenty years old and has hefty mileage. I looked sceptically at the pieces of string holding together parts of the engine. Our guides assured me, all smiles, that there was no problem, and that we could easily do without air-conditioning.
We had to travel some 6000 kilometres to reach Lake Turkana on the border with Kenya. We pass mountains, savannah, lakes and difficult roads, accompanied by smiling children who follow the car dancing and shouting: “Haila! Haila!” as we pass.
I later learn this means “empty bottle!”. This must be the only place in the world where you don’t have to feel guilty throwing bottles out the window – the locals use them for carrying water. We give them notebooks and pencils; protecting a cultural identity doesn’t mean staying uneducated. After all, knowledge is the key to asserting ones rights.
After stopping off in several less than five-star hotels, we finally enter the Omo Valley. In this stretch of a few hundred kilometers, live five tribes, each as visually striking as the next.
Omo River in Southern Ethiopia
Under a burning sun, we reach a community of inhospitable women and noisy men. We were aware of the hostility of the Bena and the Tsamay.
Trying to explain the good intentions of our project seems hopeless. Long, exhausting discussions follow and, eventually, we appear to make some progress: the girls seem to understand us and the photo session begins.
A man with his child crying under our lights triggers laughter and the atmosphere relaxes. I capture the charming expressions of these families. The young, the old, even dogs and monkey all draw nearer with curiosity, as they await their reward from these strangers. The aggressive women raise their voices. The heat is unbearable despite a white canvas tarp meant to provide shade from the harsh sunlight.
The sunlight is brighter than my studio flashes and I can’t manage to get the backdrop quite right. The crowd becomes uncontrollable, knocking over my tripods and josteling my equipment. I decide we need to leave as soon as possible, chaotically piling our gear into the cars. It’s at this precise moment that the cameraman foolishly offers chocolate; the crowd piles up around the car, preventing us from driving off.
When we finally manage to break away, I ask myself, rather annoyed, whether the whole trip will be like this.
Bena woman with child (2008)
We continue our journey towards [Weyto?] where the following day there will be a market where the various tribes bring their produce and livestock.
Early in the morning, I set up my “studio” on a hillock that I spotted the day before. This time, however, I protect my equipment with rocks on one side and cords on the other. Later in the morning, amongst the crowds of people, I spot a tribe dressed in very unusual clothing. I manage to convince some of them to enter my fenced-off studio, but others refuse. Athletic bodies contrast sharply with those of old women, spent from numerous pregnancies. They are dressed in animal skins, their own skin patterned with decorative pigments. I try to communicate with them, but the photography equipment and especially the camera flash equipment seems to paralyze them with fear. I know I have to make every shot count.
Satisfied with our results, we go to sleep amongst all the small cockroaches, which are beginning to get used to.
Daasanach child with goat
Hamer boys being photographed. Note the keys used as decoration.
We continue our journey across the valley in order to meet the Hamer, a calm and more approachable tribe. We accept the strange food and drinks which they offer us with pride. We relish their hospitality and they allow us to take naps (siesta) during the hottest part of day. Believe it or not, we stay in a hotel called the “Turista Hotel”! The “toilets” live up to the name of this unique local hotel.
But each village welcomes us with the same enthusiasm, the beautiful women constantly enriching my collection of images.
Karo applying makeup
I still want to visit two other groups: the Mursi, fierce warriors that are often two meters tall, and the Karo, who paint their bodies with impressive geometric designs.
We are counting on a difficult welcome and even worry that we might get injured — the people of this area are all armed. Reaching the village, we are confronted with a community whose appearance is almost alien. I fail to notice the change in mood that is taking place quickly. I speak to the guide, who speaks to the interpreter, who in turn speaks to the chief, who then speaks to his people. After a tense moment, they erupt in cries of: “No! No! No!” I realize somehow communication has broken down.
My guide tries to convince them once more, showing my permits from the Enthiopian government and my letters of recommendation from the UNESCO. But all this doesn’t help.
I make a last attempt and talk to them calmly, while drawing on the ground and with a big smile. Finally they give me permission to set up my “studio” near a large baobab tree. Once the “studio” is set up, I select one of the women. I then suddently realize what I am about to achieve: I’m photographing beings that no science-fiction writer (or punk rocker for that matter) could imagine in their wildest dreams. Their lips are enlarged by clay disks 30 cm [hmmm. Translation problem?] in diameters. Having convinced them to pose, I even manage to get the warriors to remove the Kalashnikovs they wear slung over their shoulders.
Mursi woman holding a AK-47 weapon
I’m completely absorbed with my work, finding the right compositions and interesting angles for my project.
But the tension start to rise audibly between our guides, our guards and the locals; our cameraman picks a really bad time to accidentally step on the feet of one of these 2 meter tall warriors. This certainly doesn’t help matters. I tell myself it’s time to leave. Calmly, but promptly, we pack our equipment while my wife Lia and the audio technician get in the car for safety. I take the time to say my farewells to the chief and to thank him for allowing his people to pose for the outside world. We give them whatever we have for them plus whatever they fancy, including my wife’s necklace which I can offer him.
Elder Karo couple.
Although I’ve taken beautiful pictures, I’m not entirely satisfied. After five hundred kilometers, we turn around and go back to the Mursi, despite the danger. I know this is where the best part of my project lies. After a round trip of a thousand kilometers, I’m lucky to meet a much more friendly tribe. They are receptive to my proposal and we share many laughs together. They opened up to us, explaining their culture and I understood their particularities, their way of seeing the world and their need to be respected to protect their way of life. There is a slight look of despair in their eyes, as if they are aware that only a miracle can save their culture.
Mursi child
When I returned to Paris, my photos stirred a sense of unease amongst the public. “We have to do something to preserve this cultural treasure” was the general reaction.
I am pleased to have embarked on this “mission”, and am thankful to those who are discovering why I am doing this.
Flying over the Andes, past the craggy cliffs of Southwest Colombia, I arrive in Puerto Asís, cradle of the ancient Quechua civilization in the Northwest region of the Amazon rain forest. Many a year has gone by since I met the last of the local tribal chiefs – a proud old man seated beneath a tree, strings of beads and feathers around his neck, gazing into eternity. This is the image that inspired me to set out on this adventure with the possibly unrealistic hope of meeting him once again.
Capuchin missionaries arrived here a century ago, giving out Bibles in exchange for land. They built an impressive church, brought a population of 70 000 under their control, and eventually killed them off. When the last tribal chief died two years earlier the Quechua civilization died with him, leaving no trace.
To my great dismay, the current population is clad in the universal uniform: jeans and trainers.
Without a shred of information to go on, fully aware my endeavors might fail, I set off against all odds. Although everyone is trying to dissuade me, I see a chance and take it. I sail down the Putumayo River, a huge Amazon tributary, running through the rain forest, irrigating and fertilizing millions of square kilometers of plains. This is where I hope to come into contact with another culture threatened with extinction: the Guaya jungle dwellers of northern Peru.
A carnival of colors unfurls before me: yellow and green, the bright colors of birds, the butterflies, and the pink of river dolphins.
People warn me of the dangers of sailing down 400 km to Peru, but my determination is unshaken.
We gather enough supplies for a ten-day journey, and finally embark on a flat-bottomed air boat, driven by a huge propeller. It darts over the water like an arrow, taking me down the river to my highly coveted destination.
Aware of the risk of running into nearby guerrillas, I arrange to be accompanied by a team of four experienced travelers. We navigate our way fearlessly down the river, stopping from time to time in zones controlled by guerillas who respect the river trade. This part of Columbia is notorious for violence and kidnappings. It’s strictly forbidden for me to enter this “green hell”. We make it across inconspicuously, dressed as locals, with all our photographic equipment hidden in jute sacks.
I make friends with the captain, Andres, and with his help I manage to question some guerrillas about the local Native people. Our captain gets on well with everybody – no matter their nationality, beliefs or outlook – in this region wedged between Peru, Ecuador and Columbia. Without thinking too much, I take out my video camera and discreetly film the dangerous guerrillas. But I decide that it’s a stupid risk and I promise myself never to do it again. My goal is to take pictures of certain endangered ethnicities rather than mercenaries.
I realize that it may not be the most scientific way of doing this but it’s the way I am most comfortable with: communicate beauty through images.
We share our camp site with mosquitoes, and the next day we sail down a branch of the Putumayo, the Río Negro, whose waters are thick with algae, swirling into strange patterns. Huge fish swim beneath the surface, a natural mirror reflecting the surrounding jungle.
After several hours of tortuous navigation, we finally arrive at the last outpost of the Guaya Indians. The people wear t-shirts that shout “Jesus loves you” or “Long live President C”. I’m sad to think that evangelic missionaries have annihilated this magnificent civilization living at ease with nature, all in the name of Jesus.
Secoya villagers
Despite my sorrow, I hand out the trinkets I brought with me. I’d thrown away the packaging thousands of kilometres ago and now had Guaya children squealing with delight at this unexpected visit from an unlikely Santa Claus.
A Guaya man comes up to me and says, “Let me take you” in a mix of Spanish and Guaya. Without waiting for a response, he climbs aboard our boat and stays there. There are always guides in these far-off places, true guardian angels who lead you through unmapped lands.
We get on our boat too and follow our guide’s impulses. He is fascinated by the swiftness of the boat, our hair carelessly blowing in the wind. He remains silent. We pick up speed steadily, our captain confidently maneuvering sharp turns, until we reach the heart of the jungle.
Secoya with large turtle
Secoya indian in yellow
Suddenly, an older Indian dressed in yellow appears in a wooden canoe. We approach him and try to engage a conversation. Without a word, he gives me a strange look whose mysteries I only understand once I see this photo I took of him enlarged. He had no facial hair – no eyebrows, no eyelashes. I suggest that he pose for me in a makeshift studio in the middle of the jungle – a first for him. We set a time for the following day, 9:00, in a remote village. After two failed attempts at sleep in the cool night air, arms flailing in the hopes of exterminating bloodthirsty mosquitoes, we give up and go inside, where we finally manage to fall asleep.
Secoya boy
The lack of sleep is made up for early the next morning by the gorgeous sight of dawn breaking over the lush river banks. Mist slowly lifts its veil to reveal the enormousness of the awesome river and millions of birds and monkeys fill the air with the sounds of life. Pink river dolphins, babies but still giant, jump in the water. The mighty yet fragile Amazon jungle awakens.
At nine o’clock I find myself in a remote village where the natives live in blissful harmony with nature. We set up our equipment, illuminated by the sun, but with light softened by some of my photographic magic tricks. So here are the portraits of this bold people. They pose naturally and remain forever etched in our hearts.
At the airport in New Delhi, we’re surprised to see a sign that reads “Incredible India”. But when we arrive in Allahabad, over 600 kilometers from the capital, we begin to see the reality of these two words.
Ritual bathing in the Ganges. Still image from a video.
Following the cycle of the planet Jupiter, the Khumb Mela takes place four times every twelve years, rotating between the holy cities of Nasik, Ujjain, Allahabad and Hardwar. It is the largest spiritual gathering in the world. At Allahabad there are ten million believers, an entire metropolis in motion. Pilgrims flock from the farthest regions of the country to participate in the purification ceremony in the holy Ganges River. The confusion of people is indescribable. Words are not enough; it really must be seen. Groups arrive from all over India with different languages, customs, and religions — not to mention their different colors. The ………… orange, the … yellow, the ……… red and green. All the colors of the spectrum are right in front of me. Ancient cultures and age-old traditions all joined together in a single place.
I was right. I can see the “color wheel” clearly now.
Hindu portraits. Click on image to enlarge.
Each group of people feels a need to match up a color with their vision of the earth in order to help them love and respect it. Perhaps without knowing it, they search for a something from the rainbow. Diversity has many colors, but we can see the effects of globalization poking through. Little by little, black is becoming the color of choice for people the world over, jeans the new uniform. Colorful people who go against the trend stand out and are rebuked.
I can’t believe the amount of dust raised by this mass of people. It gets into my eyes and coats my skin and isn’t safe for my equipment. The followers gather together to pray and worship many gods. I notice little golden temples, and stands with powders, ointments and statuettes. There are signs pointing the way to the different meeting points for the pilgrims.
My aim is to photograph the worshipers I consider to be the most unique of all: the Sadhus who live in the nude. Their concept of life fascinates me. They focus only on the spiritual, removed from the material world, not worrying about how they will eat tomorrow. The Sadhu’s philosophy of renouncing material things is slowly starting to resonate in the West.
Sadhu holy man dressed in orange
I have to make them understand that for me photography is a way of writing with light.
The word photography is composed of two Greek words: photos (φως, φωτός) – light and graphia from graphein (γράφειν) – to write. Like Marcel Proust’s Madeleine, photography throws us back in time, a sort of “time regained”. Nostalgia of the past. This way of traveling back in time often frightens the populations I meet, posing additional problems for the success of my project.
I hope that the Sadhu will allow me to take these photographs. They cover their bodies in ash and I’ve brought some from a Parisian fireplace to offer them. I’ve brought light grey backdrop from Paris too, but unfortunately I can’t find them. I content myself with the colors I see among the …, the……
My wife Lia, with her feminine subtilty, is always a great asset when dealing with exceedingly spiritual peoples. I couldn’t, however, persuade her to drink tea made with water from the Ganges, offered by my hosts. I drink it out of love. Despite this –or maybe because of this?– I’m the only one who doesn’t fall ill during the trip… I wade into the river up to my knees to grab a banana floating past and my companions stare at me astonished as I eat it.
I try to submerge myself in their way of life; I breathe in their myrrh, I let myself be carried away by their transcendental chants and I bless their gods that drew me here. For a moment, I feel “Indian”.
I almost pass into a trance, before reality brings me back: where are the Sadhus? They’ve gone to another mystical location, I’m told, before going back to the regions where they live in isolation. I decide to go after them.
Five hundred kilometers later, we find ourselves once more in an impenetrable crowd of people. Insane traffic: bicycles, pedestrians and cows use the same road, raising a racket of honks and shouts. The chaos is incredible. All the castes, mixing together, at times les peacefully. We are in Varanasi (formerly known as Benares), one of India’s most sacred cities. Devout Hindus hope to be cremated here, believing that the holiness of the place will free them from samsara, the repetitive cycle of reincarnation. Permanent pyres send the ashes of a thousand corpses into the Ganges. The brightly colored temples become pastel in the river mist. At nightfall, the dark sky is reddened by fire from funeral pyres and religious chants resonate off temple walls. Offerings to the gods are everywhere, while monkeys reign over empty palaces like a Fellini film.
I enter the most wild and extravagant temple I’ve ever seen, the famous Kashi Vishwanath Temple, with its soaring golden spire. Filming is not allowed — my profession isn’t very well-regarded here. There is space for prayer to different gods, some to bring good, others to banish evil. In exchange for a few rupees the faithful cover me with flowers, and paint my forehead and hands with colored ash. I leave the temple wreathed with garlands and my arms full of amulets for good luck. Time will prove how efficient they are.
At four in the morning we are awoken by deafening chants, and we set of to visit this city of surprises. That’s when I notice the Sadhus in a shack by the river bank. I approach and ask to speak to them, using my language of international hand gestures. I explain why I want them to be a part of my ongoing project.
They accept at once, and we decide to meet tomorrow. As I’m walking away, I’m lucky enough to meet more Sadhus who also agree to my proposal. I organize a photo shoot for each one, keeping in mind local attitudes about being on time.
Sadhu holy man covered in ash
Early the next morning, with my wife and my daughter helping me carry the large amounts of equipment, the interpreter explains the basic philosophy of these living gods. Meanwhile they pose with dignity, unashamed of their nudity partly hidden by their long beards.
Jaime during a photo shoot. Still image from a video.
A noisy crowd grows constantly around us and begins to annoy the Sadhus. We exchange silent glances and leave, making our way through the crowd. As we leave, I notice that one of the Sadhu keeps watching me with a glimmer of complicity in his eyes.
We decide suddenly to drive to Kashmir. We have to hire a driver. Why? There are no road signs, the one way roads are not marked as such, and traffic is completely anarchy. To drive here is to take your life into your hands. The sides of the road are scattered with wrecked cars, while the road swarms with everything that moves — people, animals, trucks so heavily laden they defy the laws of equilibrium.
The trip is very long, and once we arrive I have a hard time getting pictures of the women, always hiding behind their husbands. While taking a photo of a man, I explain to him that I would like to take a shot of his wife’s beautiful, colorful dress. They have just gotten married. I manage to get a shot of the young couple arm in arm, and then one of the woman by herself.
I captured Kashmir in a single photograph.
I’m not at all interested by the other inhabitants in their Western clothes.
Happy with the photos I’ve taken, I decide to do the trip backwards: Kashmir, Allahabad, New Delhi, until I’m back in my small apartment in Paris where the life imposed by our society awaits me and where I can study the fruits of my work.
In my hunt for endangered cultures in the far corners of the globe, I had completely overlooked one remarkable tradition found right on my doorstep. Just 500 kilometres from Paris is a region where women don a headdress, called a coiffe, which reaches the sky. Today, eleven women are keepers of this ancient tradition which is, sadly, destined to disappear with them.
One morning, my friend and former TV journalist for TF1, Jean-François Robinet, wakes me up calling to say, “You have to go to Pont-l’Abbé at the tip of Brittany. Go in search of the Bigoudène! Find them!”
Bigouden country (in the tip of Brittany). Click on map to enlarge.
The region, called the Pays bigouden, has its own customs, language and music — and of course its famous, elegant coiffe headdresses and its hand-made lace. Until now, everything I had known about the Bigoudène came from the packaging of Breton cookie boxes. I assumed the custom had died out long, long ago. I phone the Pont-l’Abbé City Hall and they tell me regretfully that, yes unfortunately, the custom had died out.
A Bigoudene lady wearing a lace coiffe
This hurdle seems a rather large one to overcome, so I take a step back and run into a steadfast Breton named René Coupa. René promises me that there are still eleven authentic Bigoudène remaining. In fact, it’s René who is their guardian, protecting them from people who too often show a lack of respect.
As with all my other trips, my wife and I prepare together; buying the cloth backdrops and making arrangements to meet the protector of this last holdout of Breton women.
A meeting is arranged for the following day, next to an ocean as fierce and resistant as the people who live on its coasts.
I learned how to sail from a Breton — and almost lost him overboard in the process. I was scrambling to control the sails during a wild Atlantic storm in the middle of the night while he was sleeping calmly on the deck. We shared many adventures together, him and I, in the company of whales and sharks. No other area has given the world so many legendary mariners. I like to come and lose myself in the islets off the jagged Breton coast, lined with history and soaring cliffs, pummeled by constant waves.
A woman steps out of her small, seaside house, smiling, despite her reluctance to pose for a Colombian photographer (something she later admits). Her extraordinary face contains the history of her people. I muster all my diplomacy and tack to tell her about the project. She invites us into her house, simple but immaculately maintained. I feel as though I’ve walked into an Arthurian fairytale. She’s rather reluctant, but listens to our project nevertheless, and we set up our “studio” on her terrace.
She gets ready for the photo shoot, carefully arranging every detail of her coiffe. In the end, the winds get the better of us and prevent us from working outdoors. The house however, is firmly anchored against Brittany’s gales and we retreat back inside.
The first Bigoudene lady to pose for Jaime
At the end of the shoot, we make a toast with a bottle of cider. I thank the woman for accepting to pose for us so graciously and ask her if she could, possibly, try to convince her reticent Bigoudène friends to pose for me as well. The next day they invite us to come by and serve us Breton cookies as soon as we sit down. After a lengthy discussion they agree that their traditional costumes, although fleeting, are an important cultural heritage.
First Bigoudene lady, a tired Jaime and bottles of cider. Still image from a video.
My photographs document evanescent civilizations. If we can now capture virtual images of the creation of the universe, I wonder about the future fate of my photos. What kind of traces will they leave behind? No matter what we try to do, time always gets us in the end.
The next day we organize another photo shoot with René. First order of the day: figuring out how to fit the women and their very tall headdresses into the car. While taking a photo of this operation, one of the Bigoudène tells me she’s seen me before, perhaps in a dream.
We set up the “studio” and the Bigoudène give us the freedom to move the furniture and do as we’d like. We have to find a way to bring out the subtle nuances of black, not an easy task. The flashes bother the women and I know I have to make every frame count. My favorite picture is the first one I take. It will be later used in newspapers stories about a conference on Brittany which I’m asked to attend.
Another Bigoudene lady
The Bigoudène tell us sad stories about how the Breton language was repressed for long years and how their grandchildren are ashamed to be taken to school by their grandmothers because of the coiffe. They talk nostalgically about the past and about saving their cultural heritage.
Fest-noz music festivals are another important part of Breton culture. Traditional music is played and people dance in rows, stomping the ground with their feet. (Many of these dances were designed to level out the earth before building a house or threshing grounds). Fest-noz music is repetitive and hypnotic, carrying you away, almost like a trance, into another world — a country within a country.
The Bigoudène are proof that regional traditions can be integrated into modern life.
I hope the people of Brittany will protect and preserve this rich, unique culture.
We arrive in Bangkok, Thailand’s steamy, sprawling capital. Thanks to this country’s more developed road network we are able to rent a car to get around. Our goal: the eastern border with Burma, home of the unbelievable Kayan and their famous long-necked women.
After a long and winding trip eastwards, I start to notice the “giraffe women,” the rather pejorative term by which they are sometimes known. The neck-stretching procedure obliges them to move with delicate grace. Countless aesthetic details work together to create a unique beauty. The whiteness of their clothing glows against the silver of their necklaces. From a very early age, young girls prepare themselves for their neck coils, wanting to be like their mothers. I see the girls studying in a tidy school, the picture of poise.
Famous brass Kayan Lahwi neck ornament
Conflict with the military regime in Burma resulted in brutal repression of the Kayan people. Fearing a government backed genocide, many Kayan chose exile across the border in Thailand, hoping to preserve their way of life. They live as refugees in crowded camps waiting for the day when they’ll be able to regain their homelands and their pride. On the other side of the border are a few surviving “long-eared women” and the last surviving “big-kneed woman”. I set off for a small village, far off the beaten track. I leave behind the Kayan camps where women smile boldly at tourists, in the hopes that the Kayan and their plight will be remembered once the traveler has returned home.
Under a burning sun, we set up our equipment and fashion a makeshift studio in a quiet spot. With a white sheet cancelling out harsh shadows, I set the lights on my subjects; magnificent, elegant women who could raise jealousy from supermodels. One of them asks for my hand in marriage and promises to make me the happiest man in the village. Unfortunately, she’s the oldest woman there. I make the easy choice to stay with my beautiful wife.
I see a young girl with her mother and I ask them to pose for me. I learn that the grandmother is present too. I am honored to be able to capture this image of three generations together who’ve resolutely decided to hold on to their traditions. It’s the most “editorial” picture of the project.
Lahu woman
The dense green jungle of Thailand has protected many people who fled hostile regimes. In the mountains we find groups, from China and Burma, like the black Lahu and some not-so-friendly Miao living in exile. Now they only wear the lower-half of their traditional dress, the upper-half replaced, like so many other places in the world, by emblazoned American brand names.
Taking portraits of the Lahu. Still image from a video.
Wanting to press on in search of the last Pa Dongs/Padaungs, I cross over into Burma. I know it’s illegal, but I take the risk. On the other side of the river we come face to face with the Burmese army. They begin to threaten us and we very quickly realize the huge danger we’re in. We do an about-face and acknowledge that sometimes you have to accept defeat.
Karen Kayo woman
I’ve collected the most brilliant palate of colors I’ve ever seen. I have proof there is a universal beauty existing in every individual face.
Lisu child
In November 2006 I shot my third desert-inspired calendar for Valeo using a custom-built Sahara in a huge Parisian studio. Each shoot in the multicolored series represents a month of the year. December was by far the most spectacular. A haute couture princess straight out of Arabian Nights, wearing a Dupré Santabarbara gown, riding astride a famous Mario Lurachi stallion. The guest of honor is my friend Luc Alphand, winner of the 2006 Dakar Rally. After an exquisite buffet prepared by top chefs –tempting us with exotic tastes and French flavours– the celebrations go on until well into the early hours.
At 6 the next morning –I still haven’t slept– I set off on an arduous trek to the remote Miao Mountains of Southern China, and then on to the Golden Triangle between Thailand, Burma and Laos.
I had decided to go in search of more colors for my project: indigo, white and black. To do this I have to, at the insistence of the Musée de l’Homme in Paris, finance the entire operation myself — planning, publicity, editing. A twinge of sadness though; in my contract I have to sign over the rights to the photographs shown in the exhibition. But I don’t hesitate an instant to convince my banker to give me a substantial advance on the work I just finished.
I’m off with my wife and video director, Lia, accompanying me and I have no doubt that everything will go smoothly. I have an intense determination to accomplish my goal. I am, however, somewhat apprehensive of the idea of trying to carrying 150 kilos of photo and video equipment past grouchy Chinese customs officials. We play happy, smiling tourists at the border and are quickly waved through.
Once in Canton, we take a domestic flight to the city of Guilin where our guide and his typical Chinese “car” awaits us. We travel for eight hours through storybook landscapes: green forests, limpid rivers and soaring cliffs, climbing ever-higher into the mountains. Jet lag overtakes me and I drift off and all this beautiful scenery goes to waste. From time to time I’m jarred awake by the bone-crunching ride and my driver’s kamikaze approach to road safety. A small wooden house next to the Danian River becomes our base.
Miao girl
Then we set off on foot through the mountain clouds to the stilt houses of the Miao. Families live on the upper floor, while the lower floor is used to keep pigs. Our Miao hosts wisely believe in using every fraction of available energy, and the pigs act as a heat source during chilly winter months.
Playful children. Still image from a video.
We are met by a young woman in traditional dress with long brown hair. I explain to her, with the help of ethnographer, Françoise Fang, the motivations of my project and that I would like to take a series of photographs. The woman and her family had been expecting the arrival of two crazy foreigners from Paris and prepared a breakfast out of the duck we’d walked past a just a few minutes before. Judging by all the squawking it was doing, it must have had a premonition that it was going to shortly find itself on our plates and cut into pieces (half-raw unfortunately).
Afterwards, the women quietly set themselves to sewing. They are making the monochrome background I’ll use for the photo shoot out of bolts of fabric they found to match the color of their clothes. I cannot thank them enough for this kind act.
The colored backdrop. Still image from a video.
While I prepare the “studio” with the help of my porters, assistants and Chinese friends, the young woman crowns her beauty with her most prized possession: a headdress made of silver. With her floor-length hair tucked into the headdress, she is the image of a blushing bride on her wedding night.
Two questions float through my mind. The first; how planes manage to fly. The other; how could people who’ve never met a photographer pose so naturally?
Miao man with an old rifle
A family
I set up my lights and her face glows with ethereal beauty. Indigo –the most intense color of the spectrum– creates unimaginable plays on light that only show up later in enlargements. I follow her through my viewfinder, like an old fox, waiting for the moment her face becomes soft. I click away.
Slowly, she gets used to me. I manage to get a picture with her mother who, despite coquettish protestations, steps in front of the camera. The father approaches as well, intrigued, and has his picture taken too. I ask the parents to stand together arm in arm and they laugh when they see themselves on the computer screen in this unfamiliar gesture. I feel a moment of quiet joy for these people to have put their trust in me. Images recorded forever so that my children and my children’s children might have a record of this time of sweeping change in the History of Man.
With the help of our porters, who become our assistants, cooks, mountain guides, and most importantly, our friends, we move between villages from day to day. To reach some, the trip lasts nearly two days in cars and boats, on donkeys, and finally on foot when paths become too narrow.
Outdoor studio. Still image from a video.
The Yao have an unusual custom to welcome visitors; they have them soak naked in a huge pot filled with aromatic herbs, warmed by a wood fire. Mildly alarmed, I scan the pot for carrots or potatoes just to make sure I’m not the next item on the menu. As a misty pastel sunset spreads across the Miao Mountains, my fears are easily assuaged and I feel a warm happiness taking in the glorious view.
The people here have their picture taken with happy indifference. By letting us photograph them, they share a precious part of their culture with us.
Yao girl
The Dong
I’m overwhelmed when we are greeted by the Liao/Dong people. Lined up in a row, the villager children sing a welcome song that touches me deeply. Even in such a remote place, some kinds of communication can pass very easily. The children escort us into the tiny village nestled in the mountain-top clouds. It’s clear that we are the talk of the town. In a small square, hundreds of children and teenagers begin to sing while the adults look down at the performance from the terraces above. There are so many people pressing in that I have to explain that they might damage my equipment.
Dong children from the Memory of Colors collection
I hear laughter, but also jeers. A young boy makes a bold move, ignoring his friends and posing proudly for me. It makes for a wonderful photo.
I feel like I’m living a unique moment. Knowing I won’t be able to hold onto this sensation in my mind forever, I decide to write everything down. I’d like never to forget this singular beauty. But how much time before this ink begins to fade? How long before the color drains out of these photographs? I know no other way of halting the passage of time. Though we are always projecting ourselves into the hypotheses of the future, the secret of these ethnic minorities might be to live in the now.
Through my photographs I hope to convey love and pure happiness; to share these strong feelings with others. The Miao, Yao and Liao/Dong welcomed us with open hearts. I feel that they understood the importance of the project and wanted to be a part of it.
Full of colors, I leave China once again, my thoughts swirling Indigo and Black.
