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Pereira: What Did Not Collapse This photo essay does not seek to turn pain into spectacle. I was not there when the earth moved. Yet when I was finally able to visit home, I spent weeks walking the streets of Pereira, reconstructing that morning through the eyes and voices of those I love, through their memories, fears, and fragments of recollection. What follows is not the testimony of someone who witnessed the earthquake firsthand, but the perspective of someone who has tried to understand it by listening to those who lived through it and by observing the scars it left behind on a city still learning how to coexist with its memory. These photographs are, in part, an exercise in observation and, above all, an exercise in listening. There are moments when a city learns, in an instant, that nothing that seems permanent truly is. At 7:34 on the morning of August 10, 2026, the earth moved beneath Pereira with a force that changed the city in a matter of seconds. The magnitude 7.4 earthquake that struck western Colombia left collapsed buildings, fractured roads, shuttered businesses, and neighborhoods forever altered. But its deepest impact could not be measured in concrete or brick. It was carried in grief, uncertainty, and displacement, as thousands of people found themselves facing the same daunting question: how do you begin again after losing so much? "What you lost, you will recover 7,4 times more...I swear." Images of tragedy reveal more than what was broken. Behind every collapsed wall stood a story. A home was never simply bricks and a roof, but years of effort, sacrifice, memories, and dreams; the place where children grew up and where futures quietly took shape. A business was more than a livelihood. It was the product of perseverance, built day by day, often over decades. In a matter of seconds, it was not only structures that collapsed, but entire visions of the future. Nothing material can be compared to a life lost. No possession, no building, no amount of money can fill the absence of someone who will never return home. Yet acknowledging the immeasurable value of human life does not diminish the weight of other losses. People grieve for their homes. They grieve for their businesses. They grieve for the lives they built around them and for the futures they once imagined within those walls. That morning, after the roar and the cracking of the earth, came the silence of chaos. A silence filled with dust, screams, sirens, confusion, unanswered phone calls, and people struggling to comprehend what had just happened. And then came the hands. Before any reconstruction plans could be drawn, neighbors came first. People who, despite living through the same uncertainty and anguish, cleared rubble, shared food and water, lent tools, opened their doors, or simply remained beside those who did not know what to do. Solidarity arrived without uniforms or institutional speeches. More often than not, it came wrapped in a phrase as simple as it was powerful: I am here. Amid shattered concrete and debris, small flowers began to appear. Not real flowers, but something perhaps even more fragile and, at the same time, more powerful: evidence that even in the midst of destruction, human beings remained capable of caring for one another. The first reconstruction was not architectural. It was human. Yet when the earth stops shaking, fear does not always end. There are people, including members of my own family, who still startle at certain sounds, inspect walls before sitting down, or find themselves unexpectedly reliving that morning. These are invisible wounds, impossible to measure in censuses or tons of rubble: sleepless nights, persistent uncertainty, the fear of losing everything again, and the unsettling realization that the ground, the place that had felt solid for an entire lifetime, can cease to feel stable at any moment. The earthquake lasted only minutes. For some, the trembling continues within. "In heaven, somebody is waiting for your victory." And still, Pereira endures. Colombia endures. It endures in the shopkeeper sweeping dust from what remains, in the worker returning to their tools, and in families preparing meals wherever they can find a place to gather. It endures in those who have lost almost everything and yet rise each morning because children must be fed, work must continue, debts must be paid, and life, stubbornly, insists on moving forward. There is a particular kind of dignity in that persistence. It is not heroism. It is survival. It is an act of love for ordinary life and for the people who give it meaning. It is the quiet dignity of a wounded city that refuses to surrender, that refuses to be reduced to its ruins. Pereira is not being rebuilt by institutions alone. It is rising again from the ground up, through people who understand that a city is not merely a collection of buildings, but a network of human relationships woven together over time. Where official narratives speak of reconstruction, these photographs reveal something more fundamental: ordinary people rebuilding their own lives, often with little or no institutional support. Above all, these photographs are an act of remembrance. A tribute to those who never made it out. To those who lost loved ones. friends and cherished companion animals. To those who, with empty hands and broken hearts, yet chose to stand up and continue. Pereira will never be the same again. Perhaps no city that has lived through tragedy ever is. But amid the ruins, something remained that could not be brought down: the determination to remain a community. The instinct to look for one another. To share what little remained. To mourn together, and together find the strength to continue. The city that emerged from the earthquake is not the same city that existed before August 10. It carries new scars, new absences, and memories that will endure for generations. Yet it also carries countless acts of kindness, courage, and solidarity that became visible when they were needed most. That is exactly what didn't collapse, and that is where true reconstruction begins. Memory by memory. Embrace by embrace. Life by life. Photograph by photograph. My Family, After the Earthquake The story of reconstruction is also the story of my family. In the weeks since the earthquake, they have been navigating insurance claims, government assistance programs, engineering assessments, and an endless stream of paperwork, all while trying to reclaim some sense of normalcy. Today, they are safe and living in temporary accommodation, a stability that felt far from certain in the days immediately following the disaster. The outcomes, however, have not been the same for everyone. My mother's building suffered severe damage, but fortunately it was covered by a comprehensive insurance policy. The reconstruction of both the building and her apartment will be funded, and the policy also provides temporary rental assistance while repairs are underway. My sister Jenny's situation is different. More than two months after the earthquake, the future of her home remains uncertain. Structural, topographical, and verticality studies are still pending and will determine whether the building can remain standing or must be demolished. As engineers, insurers, and public authorities continue their assessments, one reality appears increasingly unavoidable: her apartment will require either extensive repairs or a complete reconstruction. What no one can yet say is how much it will cost or how long it will be before she can return home. This is where the generosity of friends, family, colleagues, and even strangers has become part of our story. The contributions made through the GoFundMe campaign will help Jenny begin again. They will help rebuild a home, replace essential belongings, and create a foundation from which her family can move forward after losing so much. What our family has learned is that loss cannot be measured solely in structural damage or material possessions. It is also measured in memories left behind, in everyday objects imbued with meaning, and in the sense of safety and belonging that a home provides. Rebuilding is not simply about raising walls again; it is about slowly restoring the feeling of refuge, stability, and familiarity that transforms a physical space into a home. Metáfora del Equilibrio” (Metaphor of Balance), one of Pereira’s most celebrated recent public artworks that suffered major structural damage and large openings where walls have collapsed. The mural itself became symbolic after the disaster because, despite the damage to the structure, much of the artwork remained visible. Following the earthquake, local media described uncertainty regarding the future of the building and the preservation of the mural. To everyone who supported us: THANK YOU! Your kindness has become part of my family's reconstruction story. Long after the headlines fade and the debris is cleared, your generosity will remain visible not only in walls repaired, but in the renewed hope, dignity, and security you have helped restore. In moments like these, we are reminded that recovery is never achieved alone. Every donation, message, gesture of encouragement, and act of solidarity helped carry us forward. What you gave was more than financial support; you gave reassurance, compassion, and the comforting certainty that, even in the aftermath of profound loss, we were not facing it alone. Pereira, Colombia - October 8, 2026

THE BATWA PEOPLE - UGANDA Conservation Refugees Drastic changes in their lifestyle, constant discrimination, and zero opportunities. The Batwa in Uganda don’t need charity and donations. They need to be protected for who they are. I learned about the Batwa, also known by the derogatory name “Pygmies”, studying anthropology in college. African Pygmies are often assumed to be the direct descendants of the Middle Stone Age hunter-gatherer peoples of the central African rainforest. The Batwa are now also called conservation refugees, as governments scramble to cope with the pressures of population growth and climate change. They were unwillingly forced and displaced from the impenetrable rainforests due to conservation efforts and the need to expand habitation for mountain gorillas. After their expulsion, the public authority gave some Batwa families farmland. Unfortunately, they didn’t know how to cultivate – nor were taught how. Today an estimated 6,000 Ugandan Batwa live on the periphery of the forest, pushed higher and higher up the mountainside, or in slums in nearby towns. They are among the poorest inhabitants of one of the world's poorest countries, laboring on nearby farms or performing for tourists when they can. Those who do receive a portion of the park entry fees. No tourists mean no pay. The Batwa see tourism as one of the few options to move forward. “We’re now living in poverty. We were sent away from our land. Our tribe has become endangered because many of the Batwa, after being sent away from the forests, scattered to other parts of the county and many died because they could not cope with life outside the forest. Before being evicted we used to use herbal medicine and ate the fruits from trees which made our people live long and hunted for animals, so food was plentiful. Now we struggle to look for food”. - Betty Keturesi who was the only one who spoke a little English. "We were evicted from the forests, and now they are home to the mountain gorillas." And unlike these conservation refugees, the gorilla population has grown from 400 to about 460. But the Batwa see very little of the tens of millions of dollars Uganda earns from tourism revenue. The situation with the Batwa People in Uganda presents a complex ethical dilemma that involves balancing the conservation of endangered species with the human rights of indigenous communities. The Batwa People have been living in the forest for generations and rely on its resources for their livelihoods and cultural practices. However, the conservation efforts to protect the gorillas have restricted their access to the forest and disrupted their way of life, leading to poverty, social exclusion, and cultural loss. On the one hand, protecting endangered species is essential for the biodiversity and the ecological balance of the planet. Gorillas are a keystone species that play a crucial role in their ecosystem, and their conservation benefits not only the wildlife but also the local communities through eco-tourism and conservation education. Conservation efforts can also include community-based approaches that involve the participation and benefit-sharing of indigenous people, recognizing their traditional knowledge and rights. Traditionally, when men went hunting, they used to build tree houses like this one where they left the little ones under the care of the eldest woman of the community to keep them safe from wildlife, while women and mothers gathered fruits and herbs for cooking. In 1991, the government of Uganda reclassified lands the Batwa had lived on for millennia as national parks. That decision pitted the interests of largely invisible people against those of an animal that had become a global icon for environmental conservation. I spent a whole day with them (wish I had more time). They showed me how they used to make fire when they lived in the forest and even recreated a hunting . I was struck by the genuine warmth and hospitality of the Batwa people, who welcomed me into their homes and shared stories, songs and dances with me. At the same time, I was saddened to learn about the history of discrimination, displacement and marginalization that the Batwa have faced for generations. I left my visit with a renewed appreciation for the diversity and richness of human cultures, and a commitment to advocating for greater respect, recognition and support for indigenous peoples and their rights. The Batwa People have faced discrimination, marginalization, and exploitation throughout history, and their displacement from the forest can worsen their situation and cause intergenerational trauma. The conservation of gorillas should not come at the cost of sacrificing the well-being and dignity of human beings. As an animal lover, I really hope and pray that a balance between the Batwa and the gorillas can be achieved. A holistic and compassionate approach towards conservation and community welfare is crucial, recognizing that the two are intertwined and dependent upon each other for long-term success. Bwindi, Uganda 2023 To know more see this PBS News Hour Special: Uganda’s Batwa tribe, considered conservation refugees, see little government suppor t. BACK TO TOP

CONTACT I would love to hear from you! Use the form below to leave me a comment or if you'd like to acquire a print copy of any of the photos. HEIDY MARTINEZ sublime767@gmail.com WhatsApp +1-646-338-7425 First Name Last Name Email Subject Leave me a message... Submit Thanks for submitting!

LIONS In the golden savannah, where the sun beats down and the tall grasses sway with a whispering sound Lurks a creature of grace, with a mighty roar The king of the jungle, fierce and strong and raw. With a sleek golden coat, and eyes full of fire He prowls through the night, with a regal desire To rule over his kingdom, to protect and to reign The lion is a symbol of power and fame. But it's not just the males who deserve our awe For the lioness too, is a force to be saw A fierce and loyal mother, with instincts honed sharp She'll protect her cubs, with a motherly heart. Together they hunt, in a synchronized dance. Their power and grace, a captivating trance. In the wilds they roam, in their natural pride The lions of Africa, a majestic sight to behold with pride. BACK TO TOP

ABOUT ME When I was 13, my father gave me my first camera, a beautiful Leica he had been keeping as a treasure since the 1960s. He also gifted me with the best trip of my life. A trip that changed my life forever. I took so many pictures with the Leica! When I returned home, I looked for a photography course so I could develop my own photos. In that dark room, I discovered my deep passion for photography. Photography is the main way in which I share my experiences and the things that capture my eye when I travel. I hope you enjoy browsing through my photos as much as I enjoy taking them. My goal is to photograph as much of the world as possible and share the treasures of the planet with anyone who wants to journey with me.

An Honest Note to You, Istanbul! Dear Istanbul, You are not one thing. You are a breathing paradox. You are contradiction made visible. Noise and stillness. Ancient stones filled with history and meaning buried under a modern and noisy cafe. The call to prayer rising over construction cranes and the smell of simit and diesel at 7am. You are east and west, sacred and profane, generous and guarded, all at once, with no apologies. You don't choose sides. You never did. You are the fisherman sitting motionless on the Galata Bridge, while a thousand people rush past him. You are the seagull that screams over the Bosphorus, and also the moment it disappears into fog. I have never been anywhere that held so many extremes at the same time and somehow made it feel like one thing. You are exhausting, intoxicating, and unique. Time does not work here the way I was raised to expect it. You don’t move at a human pace. You move at your own pace. Time bends here. Traffic is not a problem one can solve; it is a philosophy one learns to accept. I arrived late to things because you decided to rearrange things between where I started and where I was going. I got frustrated many times, but somewhere along the way, I learned that “on time” is not a rule you or your inhabitants recognize. You taught me patience, not gently, but by force. You taught me to surrender control, even when I resisted. Your people were probably the hardest part for me. I want to be honest about that. Strangers, particularly men, carry an energy I struggled to understand. Guarded, aggressive, at times transactional. In many cases, I felt a strong sense of pride that seemed to keep men at a distance from their own vulnerability, here more than anywhere else. The language was a great barrier, and behind it, I encountered a particular kind of opportunism that wore me down. Not everywhere, not everyone, but enough to make me cautious in a way I resent having to be. Honesty and integrity are not negotiable values for me, and finding them so frequently traded for a quick advantage left a mark. I found myself becoming someone I didn’t fully recognize: more alert, more defensive, less open than I naturally am or want to be. I didn't like who I had to become to protect myself. That was one of your hardest lessons. Learning to hold my ground without closing my heart. However, I understand that cities carry the weight of their circumstances. There is a tension within you that runs deeper than the surface. A political and social pressure that seeps into daily life, into how people move, speak, and protect themselves. It does not excuse everything, but it explains more than it reveals at first glance. Although s trangers were not always easy, the connections I made in just eighteen months run deep, fast, and true. There is something about forming bonds in a place that challenges you, that strips everything back to what actually matters. In a relatively short time, you placed extraordinary humans in my path. The kind of people who see you, who meet you where you are, who stay. Not casual. Not transactional. Something closer to fate. They became my Istanbul as much as your skyline ever could, and when I say goodbye to you, I am mostly saying goodbye to them. Now, walking your streets with my camera felt like entering a living, breathing story. Every corner held a frame I hadn't planned for. Every face carried a story I would never fully know but could feel. Every unexpected moment was a quiet invitation to witness. And your seagulls, crows, and cats, appearing in frame exactly when needed, like punctuation marks in a long, unfolding sentence. Every unexpected moment, every face, every situation was a silent invitation to observe. You taught me not only to see but to observe. And how photogenic you are! And then, there are your cats….they are not an accident. I am convinced of it. Istanbul's cats are not strays. They are a design. They are the city's quiet correction system. They move through your streets like quiet healers of your people, softening edges that would otherwise cut too deeply. They bring balance to a place where tenderness between people can be complicated, where vulnerability carries a cost, but the cats receive love freely and return it without conditions, they give something back that you and your people seem to need: gentleness without condition. They are the city's emotional exhale. Cats became my anchor. My reason to pause. My teachers. They connected me deeply with my purpose, helping me understand why destiny brought me to you in the first place. I watched them survive without losing dignity, not just get by, actually thrive, with a kind of elegance that humbled me. How to rest in the middle of chaos. How to trust without surrendering independence. They reminded me that softness is not weakness, it is intelligence. They showed me resilience in its purest form. It means knowing when to move and when to stay still. Through them, I found joy in the simplest moments. And through them, I stayed. I was happy. The food took its time with me, and I think that was intentional. It didn't arrive as a great love. It showed up slowly, through small tastes and unexpected moments, that warm lentil soup in the cold, mezzes that unfold like a long conversation. Flavors that don't rush. Istanbul's food, like Istanbul, does not perform. It just is. It's not my favorite, but I did discover great flavors. And the Raki, oh my beloved Raki! It tickles your heart while you drift into happy drunkenness. Even as a Colombian, I never truly drank coffee, but you taught me to slow down for it. Your coffee is not rushed or diluted. It is bold, unfiltered, intense, asking you to sit with it, to taste it fully, to slow down. It lingers; it doesn’t let you escape quickly. Much like you, it holds strength and depth in the same cup. And somewhere in that intensity, I found myself craving it. About mosques, it was inside your temples where I found something I did not expect. A stillness within the seductive chaos that defines you. A quiet that doesn’t erase the noise, but holds it. Sitting there, under vast domes and suspended time, I felt part of something larger, something complex and endlessly fascinating. You don’t promise peace. You offer truth. And sometimes, that truth feels like serenity. Your history is not something you display; it is something you are. You exist as a passage, a constant crossing point. Empires, cultures, people, ideas, even birds tracing invisible paths across the Bosphorus, all moving through you. Twice a year, millions of them cross the Bosphorus on their migrations, using you as a bridge between worlds, which is, honestly, the most Istanbul thing possible. Every stone has a previous life, and every corner witnessed an important historic event. Your seasons carry moods of their own. Endless rain that blurs your edges, increases the chaos, and slows everything down without stopping your inhabitants, and grey skies sitting heavy on the minarets. Springs that arrive with color and relief. And summer, that summer sun with not a single cloud to soften it. No shade, no mercy, just light pressing down until you either adapt or surrender. I have to be honest about one more thing. My heart hurt here in a way I always want to avoid. The relationship between many of your people and nature is one of its deepest wounds. Litter in the streets, cigarette smoke everywhere, mutilated trees that, if left growing naturally, could be cleansing the heavy air of old cars. And then those cruises, vast and indifferent, gliding through your waters while quietly leaving their awful environmental mark behind. That distance from the natural world, and from the responsibility of caring for it, sat heavily on me. For someone whose well-being is tied to the health of the planet, it was a quiet, persistent grief. I carry that with me, not as judgment, but as sadness for what is being lost, for the inevitable impact, but with hope that the collective conscience will shift someday. I do not leave you the same. You did not give me rest but gave me stories, and just when I began to settle into your charm, I have to say goodbye. I leave you with more than I arrived with. More patience. A sharper eye. A deeper understanding that beauty and difficulty are not opposites, they are collaborators, and the places that have shaped me most have always been both. I leave stronger. More aware. Less naive, but more grounded. I learned where I end and where others begin. I learned that kindness is not the absence of boundaries, but the presence of truth. Istanbul, you challenged me in ways I didn’t ask for, and gave me more than I knew I needed. You did not make it easy. You were not designed to. You are not a city that nurtures. You are a city that tests. And in testing me, you gave me something I will carry into every place I go from here. I didn't dare to learn Turkish, and I know that would have made a great difference, but there is a Turkish word I just learned, and I wish I had known it sooner: Hüzün. It is not sadness. Sadness has a cause; because something went wrong, something was lost. Hüzün has no single cause. It arrives in moments of beauty, in moments of fullness, in the middle of the things you love most. A quiet melancholy that lives inside joy rather than beside it. Literature Nobel Prize-winning author Orhan Pamuk called it "the dominant feeling of Istanbul", and spent an entire book trying to explain what a single word, which only exists in the Turkish language, somehow holds. Now that I leave you, I recognize it completely. I'm having a "h üzün" moment. What I feel right now is not full sadness. It is the ache that arrives not because something is wrong, but because something mattered. And if the depth of that feeling is the measure of the huge appreciation for what you have gifted me, then what I carry out of you is heavier than I expected, and I am glad for every gram of it. THANK YOU for the discomfort that shaped me, for the beauty that held me, and for the lessons that will stay long after I leave. I will come back. Not to understand you, but to meet you again, differently, as someone whom you have already changed, and for that, I should finish by saying: Istanbul, you are beautiful, you are unique, you are fascinating, it's simply impossible not to love you, but I'm ready to leave you behind. May 18, 2026 Video created by Stephen Reilly Our photos below by Noemie Deveaux Dikmen SEE MORE OF MY PHOTOS

The World Through My Eyes Yellowstone, USA Nairobi, Kenya Kyoto, Japan Yellowstone, USA London, UK Yellowstone, USA Paris, France Yellowstone, USA Nairobi, Kenya Yellowstone, USA Masai Mara, Kenya New York, USA Nairobi, Kenya London, UK Masai Mara, Kenya New York, USA London, UK Kyoto, Japan Amboseli, Kenya Tokyo, Japan Bali, Indonesia Yellowstone, USA Nairobi, Kenya Kyoto, Japan Yellowstone, USA London, UK Yellowstone, USA Paris, France Yellowstone, USA Nairobi, Kenya Yellowstone, USA Masai Mara, Kenya New York, USA Nairobi, Kenya London, UK Masai Mara, Kenya New York, USA London, UK Kyoto, Japan Amboseli, Kenya Tokyo, Japan Bali, Indonesia Since 2000, I've been embarking on journeys to capture the splendor and distinct features of each local destination. Travel photography is an adventure that thrills and challenges me every step of the way. I want to photograph as much of the world as I possibly can, and share the treasures of this incredible planet with whoever visits this site.

A Love Letter to New York Dear New York, For 20 unforgettable years, you were my playground, my laboratory, and my sanctuary. Within your vibrant streets, I evolved from a naïve, inexperienced young lady, and transformed into a confident, wiser, street-smart, empathetic, comfortable in my own skin middle-aged woman. I shaped my career with you, starting as a dog walker for rich folks in the Upper West Side, until I found my very first job as a Tour Guide at the United Nations, working directly for Ban Ki Moon until I landed a job that I fulfill me at UNICEF. There and along the way, I forged lifelong friendships - my chosen family - who made every moment brighter. We shared laughter, tears, and countless adventures, creating an unbreakable bond that transcends time and distance. Your global landscape broadened my perspectives, sharpened my skills, and fueled my passion for making a difference and finding my life purpose. Your diversity - a kaleidoscope of cultures, ideas, and experiences - opened my heart to acceptance, understanding, and the beauty of difference. You taught me to embrace change, adapt to uncertainty, and find solace in the impermanence of life. Your dynamic dating scene taught me resilience, self-discovery, and the value of true connection. Through trials and errors, I discovered my own strength, learned to navigate complex relationships, and ultimately found my partner in crime - a love that has been the anchor of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I did want to leave you many times, on those hot humid summer days, feeling the intense energy of your nasty, but equally interesting subway, navigating the sidewalks through mountains of trash piled up, getting overwhelmed by the crowds, honks, noise and pissed off dudes screaming at each other…..so I did leave you, and moved to the suburbs looking for more peace and greenery, however not far enough for not being able to keep enjoying you, your smells, your dynamism, and countless sources of stimulation. As I bid farewell, I'm filled with gratitude for the lessons, challenges, and adventures. Your energy will stay with me forever - a reminder of the growth, exploration, and transformation that defined my two decades in this incredible city. I’m proud that I managed to make it and become part of you, and I’m honored to call myself a New Yorker who managed to embrace every moment with you; good and bad. You are incredible, you are magical, you are YOU, the best city in the world. With my eyes closed and my heart open, I embark on a new chapter. New York, you'll always be the city that made me - a city that will forever hold a piece of my heart. I’m going for now, but rest assured that I’ll come back someday. Istanbul....here I come!!!! November 3rd, 2024 MORE PHOTOS OF NEW YORK HERE BACK TO TOP

White Star: The Shepherd of the Albanian Mountains “Kali i mirë bën edhe kalorësin të mirë.” “A good horse makes even the rider good.” - Badhryl During my solo road trip through the rugged mountains of southern Albania, I encountered a gentle obstruction that made me slow down: a flock of sheep, unhurried and undisturbed, crossing the road. Behind them was a shepherd— his face tanned and creased by the sun and years, etched with the quiet dignity of someone who’s spent a lifetime outdoors. As I stopped, he looked up, gave a kind wave, gently urging his flock to make way for me. I pulled over, reached for my camera, and stepped out of the car—unsure of how I would communicate, but hoping to share a moment with this man. Attempting to ask permission with gestures and my non-existent Albanian, I raised the camera in a silent request. His cheeks, already flushed from the sun, reddened further, revealing his shyness; he gave a small consenting nod. Witnessing the interaction and noticing our mutual struggle to communicate, a young man approached and kindly offered to interpret. Through him, I learned that the shepherd’s name was Bardhyl, meaning “white star” in Albanian. His loyal old dog, Zeka, stood guard behind the herd, while his patient mule, Lume—“river”—waited for the next stretch of their daily route. Bardhyl spoke of his life in the highlands and the deep, wordless connection he shared with his animals. Their long friendship was evident in the way they interacted —the way they listened, the way they followed. Years of shared silence, long walks, and solitude had knit them into a quiet unit. They weren’t simply tools for work—they were companions, partners, and, in many ways, his family. He described how Zeka had been with him since he was a pup, never straying far, always knowing the rhythm of the herd better than any man. Lume, too, had carried him across valleys and seasons, her quiet strength matching his own. The sheep, he said, knew his voice and moods, responding not just to commands but to the way he moved among them. As someone with a deep love and respect for animals myself, witnessing that bond moved me profoundly. There was something universally tender in the way they existed together, speaking a language beyond words. As I needed to carry on, I thanked Bardhyl sincerely and promised to print his photos and, through our interpreter who knew where he lived, have them delivered to him. He seemed happy with my offer, and with a final wave, I watched as Bardhyl, Zeka, Lume, and the sheep continued their journey along the mountain path. This brief but meaningful encounter, bridged by the kindness of a stranger’s translation, left an indelible mark on my journey —those unexpected connections that will always enrich my travels.

THE BALINESE WEDDING In Balinese culture, weddings are seen as one of the most important events in a person's life. The ceremony is a mix of Hindu and Balinese customs and is filled with elaborate rituals and offerings to seek blessings from the gods. Known as “pawiwahan”, the Balinese wedding is a sacred ceremony that involves the gods, creatures from the underworld, and people as the three crucial witnesses. It is a beautiful and elaborate celebration of love and commitment that is steeped in tradition and culture. The ceremony typically takes place in a temple or a sacred location and involves intricate rituals and customs that have been passed down through generations. It all started with me casually strolling around a traditional village on a scooter without any expectations. Suddenly, I bumped into this wedding car. In a very impulsive act, I started chasing the car trying to get this picture. The driver saw me riding behind them. As I passed them, I asked if I could take pictures and this is what I got....while both vehicles were still moving! Those smiles were the prize to my bold and dangerous maneuver. The bride and groom were appreciative of my interest and invited me to join their special ceremony! One of the most striking aspects of a Balinese wedding is the decoration. The venue is typically adorned with vibrant flowers and intricate decorations made from bamboo and other natural materials. The wedding attire of the bride and groom is a significant aspect of the Balinese wedding. The brides and grooms don’t get to choose these costumes by themselves, but these costumes are set according to the family’s caste levels. The bride is adorned in a traditional "kebaya" , which is a form-fitting blouse, and a sarong, which is a long piece of fabric wrapped around the waist. The groom wears a traditional Balinese jacket, known as a "saput," paired with a sarong. The wedding ceremony begins with the arrival of the groom and his entourage at the bride's family compound or temple. During the wedding ceremony, the couple performs a series of rituals that symbolize their commitment to each other. These rituals include the presentation of offerings to the gods, the exchange of vows and rings, and the pouring of holy water over the couple's hands. The bride and groom exchange vows and offerings while a priest leads the ceremony. Besides the dress, both bride and groom wear a traditional golden crown decorations. The height of the crown also symbolizes the level of a family’s caste. After the ceremony, the newlyweds and their guests proceed to the reception, where they enjoy traditional Balinese food and music. The reception is often held in a beautiful outdoor setting, surrounded by lush greenery and decorated with colorful flowers and Balinese ornaments. Capturing the beauty and emotion of a Balinese wedding was a truly rewarding experience. They welcomed me as if I was part of the family and shared their very special moment with a complete stranger. When I returned home, I printed the pictures and send them back to them. I have a new family to visit when I go back to Bali! BACK TO TOP

ELEPHANTS "Roaming with Giants: Exploring the Majestic Elephants of the African Savannah" "We are blessed to have these magnificent creatures on our planet, and we have a responsibility to protect them." - Jane Goodall, primatologist and conservationist BACK TO TOP