Black to White will be a 3 month trip starting on the shores of the Black Sea heading by sea whether that be by ferry, fishing boat or otherwise round the coast of europe trying to get into the white sea by mid September. It is going to be a whirlwind experience and a stunning way to see the continent.  The project supported by Firstglobalscreen a Internet startup who are looking to provide amazing web content and video, we will regularly be blogging there and uploading video as we go round.

Technically there are quite a few challenges from fitting all the gear in that we need to making sure that we find places to stay and locations to upload video from. At the moment it is definitely a Daunting process that lies ahead of us. It stands to be the most epic summer of my life no matter what.

You can follow the journey on First global Screen

And on twitter @FgsBlacktoWhite

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Kuru was one of these places, seemingly lifeless and our arrival there had been anything but elegant, arriving on what was best described as a rubber band powered plane into Tampere airport, which unlike Manchester airport which we had left was populated seemingly by a single baggage handler.  Feeling like Indiana Jones after our landing which my best guess and explanation is that the pilot shook the joystick out of boredom or simply just to see what would happen, we walked out through security and into the main terminal.  We were met not by the person that we expecting but by a man who’s only word of english was ‘Cumbria’ as good a sign as any that this guy was expecting us, we loaded our gear into the trailer and climbed into the minibus.

The reason I had ended up in Finland stems from the desire from my University course lecturer to expand the Adventure & Media course and form links with a college in Finland. This particular college was the Kuru institute of Forestry, a college who is one of the 15 providers in Finland of the International Wilderness Guides programme.  To become a international Wilderness take s a year of training a incredible depth of knowledge of Flora and Fauna and a vast base of practical skill. It would be these individuals that we would be joining in with during our time in Finland.

The first week of our trip was spent conducting our own expedition, collecting extra equipment such as knives axes and tarpaulins the  from the International wilderness guide’s. Spending the next 4 days out in the Finnish Wilderness trekking through the Seitseminen National Park and eventually back to Kuru.

For the next two weeks we joined in with the International Students programme. Taking part in everything from entomology lectures to bird watching session out in the field.

More Stories to come…

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Music Credit - Xavier Rudd – Mana

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Oh the Fishers Gentle Life
Happiest is of Any
Void of Pleasure Full of Strife
Other Joys are but Toys
And to be Lamented
Only this A Pleasure is
Timber }{ Fishing

APIOTOS UEV UDIAIP
EDEIA IB
1855

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One thing I really admire about Diego’s work is the contextual shooting, or as it is described in Footprint Travel Photography by Steve Davey (more on this in another post) the Mise en scéne. It is the realm for many travel photographers to shoot close in concentrating on the the person, often forgetting to include the place they’re from and the situation that this person resides in, this makes for a far more captivating image as a relationship is built between the character in the picture and the scene. The ‘main characters’ piece on his site is a great example of this.

Diego is currently freelancing around Indonesia and Papua New Guinea, his website is www.diegoverges.com.

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Filmed mostly on a 5D MK 2 view in HD on Vimeo.

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Two of the days spent in scotland consisted of quite a lot of jumping in powder, sledging down hills, learning about the workings of Avalanche prediction and response, and Techniques for creating Snow anchors and Arresting a fall with your Ice axe. One day however was a opportunity to try something new and pretty exciting really. At the start of the trip two of the members of our group managed through a combination of sneakiness, good luck and generosity  to bring their snowboards along in the hope that a spare hour or two may be available to get a taste of Scottish Powder. As we sat down for food on Saturday news soon spread that we may be taking the day out to go and do a backcountry run, and work as a team to film the two of them as they sweep and flow through the fresh snow. Up early with all the media kit prepared the night before we set out towards Ryvoan. The hill that the two would ride down had a good 2-4 feet of snow on it which made the climb arduous to say the least not only for me but for the other members of our group not least the shortest who would regularly disappear into the pow. With this much effort in getting up to the top, being careful not to disturb the pristine powder we knew we really only had one take. As we climbed higher and higher the mountainside seemed to act as a physical metaphor as we climbed higher so did the tension, both for the film teams and the boarders. One mess up and the take was gone.

The most interesting character that we met had to be a certain Mr. R. Eccles  the lodge owner and one of the funniest group speakers that I have had the privilege of meeting. While only occasionally veering off topic and onto subjects such as the Second world war and oppressive regime of his wife he was genuinely helpful and I only feared for his safety once as he stood atop a ladder perched on snow and ice, leaning perilously across wielding kettles, axes and broom handles in an attempt to unblock downpipes. The lodge itself in Nethy Bridge is a truly welcoming place with everything you need and want, the thin walls my lead to hearing some things that maybe were meant to be private but the pool table, dart board, table football, Piano and Woodstock 1969 video kept the masses entertained in the evenings. Only once you have met the proprietor does the collection of Commando Knifes, Russian military memorabilia and bunk beds apparently modelled on a german submarine make sense.

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It’s taken a good couple of weeks to make all the adjustments I wanted, and to work out how the duce to do some of the things that were going round my head but I had no real idea of how it worked in real life.

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Of the many tasks that you end up doing when going travelling is that you end up having to buy gifts for those back home, gifts that are meant to show how good the place was that you’ve been or something like that. Gift buying has never been an easy or natural thing for me to do. For some it just seems like they can go to a place and find something that, even though they had no idea about previous, see and suddenly decide that it is perfect for some loved one back home, in truth I’m envious of these people they seem to get into far less trouble than I do. I quite often manage the situation and produce something that most of the time seems to be accepted, The one thing however I can’t deal with is that if there isn’t a list of some description then quite often people defined as ‘difficult’ to buy for will get nothing because how am I meant to know that you didn’t want a toaster.

Knowing that my girlfriend liked a particular colour, a deep shade of purple, and that I should really probably get her something having left on her birthday and going to enjoy myself for three weeks while she is left sitting in the UK wanting to be exploring like I was. I set out with all good intentions. Mahendra pul is the market part of Pohkara where the locals will buy their groceries, where you will find the now half expected chickens in a basket ready to be sold on the side of the street, up to the less expected and out of place looking, spotlessly clean Adidas shop, shoulder to shoulder with a phone/watch repair shop on one side and a household items or fruit market I never quite decided which it was meant to be. Full marks for entrepreneurism goes to the Short Nepali businessman of that particular stall for diversification.

That day we had hired what was to become one of the loves of the trip for me. We had a rest day to relax take in some culture and do some shopping, wanting to take advantage of all of these we hired a Honda ZX. Now before any images of a slightly flashy Japanese saloon car pop into your mind remember that this is Nepal, I don’t think saloon cars exist there, let alone ones of the slightly flashy Japanese variety. Cars are short squat and rusty, they do the job they’re meant for and they do it well, every now and again. No the Honda ZX was actually a scooter, and not a good one at that. Baby blue and yellow this really was the worst looking thing in the row of vehicles for hire, but it was also a instant attachment.

For 400 Nepalise rupees we got use of this barely functioning motor for the day. When asked by the restaurant owner who was hiring this bike out to us (another man who deserves points for diversity) if we were happy with the bike and if we thought it was alright, it would have been quicker to list the things that worked on it than to keep spotting flaws, but we did show him a few patches where the yellow covered big spots of rust.  The restaurant owner now slightly miffed that we looked like we were insulting his tiny scooter, though we knew as well did he that it was a heap of junk and that he was just looking to charge us lots when it came to bringing it back. Handing over the money the owner passes us a helmet to wear between the two of us, in Nepal it is only illegal for the driver not to wear a helmet.   As we left the restaurant the owner tells us that it has no fuel and that we would need to find a place to fill up. Tim, driving with the helmet on and me sitting behind, now assigned with the role of navigator.

Out of the two of us Tim was the most likely candidate for first driver on these dangerous and chaotic roads. The older of the two and the luckiest person I know, being able to land on his feet after going through pretty much any situation possible. It seemed like he was the better option than myself – just turned 20 and never ridden a scooter or bike before, once driving a mini motorbike round a field a couple of times, this didn’t really seem like enough experience to then take on the roads straight away.

The Honda ZX was the biggest heap of junk that we could have possibly got, soon we realised neither the fuel gauge or the speedo worked, It needed a massive kick to get it on and off of its stand and the wing mirrors kept flopping like a Basset hound’s ear meaning that if you wanted to see behind you, you had one of two options. Look behind and risk not seeing a pothole in the crater-strewn road or go one handed and try and hold up the wing mirror. Neither a particularly good option on Nepali roads, said to be some of the most dangerous in the world.

As we coasted along looking for somewhere to fill up I start to get used to  the way that a bike feels and moved, a gentle shift of weight helping to steer.

Pulling the map out from my back pocket as we drive I try t o locate the nearest Fuel pumps as I shelter the map from the wind behind Tim. Guessing at how much to put in by just looking into the fuel tank we are now ready to go exploring in Pohkara, Nepal’s second city.

Now the roads and streets in Pohkara are not the cleanest in the world, while still miles ahead of Kathmandu not requiring you to wear a face mask to be able to breathe but having one on as you drove around definitely let you breathe easier. Now in my infinite wisdom I had chosen a lightweight, breathable and red fabric tube to wear round my neck and face as drove.

Pulling into Mahendra Pul the main market district of the city and the place that while just a five to ten minute drive away is amazing deprived of tourists and travellers – those people that go to find themselves and venture no further than the sheltered existence that lies with the tourist districts.  The term hustle and bustle definitely applied to this place, Sellers on the side of the street while still talking to you to offer what they had to sell there was not the constant pestering of ‘Tigerbalm’, ‘you like chess?’ or  ’Hashish? – It’s good shit’ that you would get from the sellers in Thamel, the tourist district of Kathmandu that we had stayed in  a couple of  nights previous.

Each with our own shopping to do, both having to fulfil the same task Tim and I split in different directions, agreeing to meet up later.

As I walked through the streets of Mahendra Pul looking at rows upon rows of Pashminas searching for this one colour, purple as it turns out is not a favourite of the Nepali’s. Shop after shop I went in looking for this one colour, it now becoming a bit of a pride thing, and all a bit prehistoric, ‘me man – me find pretty thing for lady in distant country’. Going into each shop I would pull the necker down from around my face and engage with the shopkeeper. Who time after time would sit me down on the padded sides, and start pulling out many different Pashminas, stating that these are the best around despite them being exactly the same as the ones that I had been shown two shop down the road. Stepping into one shop I pull down, the red necker and talk to the shopkeeper. There were very few people that I met that couldn’t really speak English but this frail old woman tending her open fronted fabric shop was one of them. Hunched over studying various colours of pashminas trying to convince this woman that yellow definitely wasn’t the easiest game when suddenly I felt a large heavy had grasp my left shoulder. ‘You Maoist?” came a deep mans voice from over my shoulder.

Looking round to the left to see who had grasped me I am confronted by two men about my height looking me first in the eye then up and down.  I return the gaze first looking at them in the eye and then up and down. Smartly dressed in blue and dark grey camouflage, shiny boots and a gun holster on their hip. I look to their chests; a sewn badge identifies them as Armed Police Force. Suddenly processing what was said to me just a couple of seconds ago I start back peddling as fast as I can. ‘No, no, English’,

Englishmen are respected in this country right? An imperial right is still built into me that the English aboard seem to and potentially should get special treatment, this is my trump card (alongside the fact that I wasn’t in fact a Maoist, I just happened to like red neckers) and I played it straight away. What if this goes badly? Oh god you got a gun, and oh god that other guy has got his baton drawn.

‘Eeeeeeeeeenglish!’ he shouts as a smile grows across his face and his hand is thrust towards me, I put out my hand to shake his. He has a firm handshake, the kind you’d expect from an armed police officer, and his rough hands making you wonder as to the amount of use his baton gets against real Maoists. Relief, as a smile grows across my face too, this man isn’t going to bundle me into a van and his friend isn’t going to beat me up. I’m pretty pleased about this. Caught in my thought and staring into this mans eyes I realise that I’m still being asked a lot of questions by this guy: Where was I from? How long had I been in Nepal? Where was I staying? Didn’t I want to learn Nepali because I very good teacher? Polite and humouring him I gave my answers, after all he did still have a gun, and my hand, shit my hand!

We had been shaking hands for a good couple of minutes; it had moved way past that point greeting and into the realms of awkwardness, though he didn’t seem to realise this and kept hold. It turns out this mans talents run to more than just keeping the population and visitors on their toes as he joined in with the frail old woman trying to sell me the yellow Pashmina. Convincing a man with a gun that you don’t want the ‘best Nepali pashmina’ is about as good a game as trying to tell a man the flaws in his scooter. In either case I’m pretty sure the people I left just had the impression that I had a genuine aversion to the colour yellow. Mental, but not a Maoist; or shot. I’d done well. Leaving the shop Sub Inspector Rabindra Chhetsi and his friend they hand me a slip of paper, ‘Any trouble you call us’, I had my own heavies in Nepal.

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This simple phrase but one which brings great joy to those on both ends of the line. The moment of reconnection, father with son, husband with wife. Two people thousands of miles apart. In each individual booth the occupant is desperate ti hear of the Normality back home while those at home desperate to know that he is ok and having a great time.

As quickly as that moment started the phone is put down and its over. Contact is lost until next time. Whenever that may be.

Pokhara, 27th Oct 2009

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