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She shivered and gasped as he held her close...

"I'm here. Don't be afraid..." Her damp chilly frame fought for final moments. Just one more...

He pulled her delicate and closer to share his warmth as she shriveled in her final moments. "My love... I'm so cold... afraid... please don't let me go... hold me..."

He spoke of sand and sea... He rocked her gently in time with the Mother's crashing waves... calling back her own. Singing a sweet lullaby, floating adrift in the last breeze... the shepherd delivered her gently to the other side as she slipped in to the great ALL...

"Shepherd" ~ San Sebastian, Spain © Skip Hunt

The concession stand is now closed... And with it, the thin veneer of playtime innocence. Long for the cotton candy days... spun from sticky blue skys and icecream bunny clouds.

Pandemonium's boorish box has taken the last vestiges of deception and closed them up for good. Lock, stock, and two smoking anti-aircraft tank barrels...

Can we ever again return to those blissful days? Will we ever again laze under brushing willow, spinning breezy dreams that float along on warm summer air like tiny dandelion seeds to land in some mystic shaded bower?

I dream that the horrors will end one day... that the concession will again open... that the darkness today will only make that glorious return all the more sweet...

Or, have our hearts have been so brutally tattered and soiled that our only refuge will come with senility?

Try again next season... the concession is closed until further notice.

"Paradise Lost" ~ Concession stand in Florida © Skip Hunt

Winding slowly through the misty vineyards of Northern Portugal I watch my immediate tear-stained past reform into melancholy memory...

The softening time passages dissolve into rich rustic regret...

I know not where I go, but glare into the fresh pasttime and soak up the last drops of present as the moment nestles into vague warm recollection...

It's so strange how a memory presents itself so differently... just moments after it has occurred and then oftentimes sweetly reforms itself into something so much more.

"Past Perfect Porto" ~ Train from Porto, Portugal to Vila Real © Skip Hunt

I'd taken several shots of this little fella in Darjeeling, India. It was a bit strange because I'd been told photos were prohibitted and yet this little group of young monks allowed me to take any photo I wished and even let me into the forbidden Lama's chambers. I'd told them straight up that I had no intentions of taking photos, and that I was just carrying equipment around for the day.

I was thrilled when they insisted and even posed! Most of the images were very stoic... all was very quiet except from some soft chanting coming from some of the elder monks. I wanted to see if I could make this little guy smile so I hopped up and down making ape sounds... first there was a delay as all the young monks looked at each other and then toward the elder monks spinning giant prayer wheels.. Then, one of the older monks busted out laughing and little prayer room erupted in laughter at me silly monkey antics... The little guy couldn't help it, and a smile broke over his face that seemed to light up the entire room.

As I was putting my shoes back on, another couple of foreigners arrived and asked if they too might take photos... they were told photos were prohibitted and that the wat temple would be closing soon for visitors. I have no idea why they let me take photos and not the others... It was a good day. :-)

"Buddha's Smile" ~ Darjeeling, India © Skip Hunt

Ruined, I wait for redemption… Crumbled, holding tight as it had always been… Shattered, to realize as it had been, and can be no more…

Seeing the past as the present… Tangible as grasping a mystic reflection. With all your ALL, you only make ripples until there is nothing more… Does it exhist? Had it ever? Will it ever again?

It doesn’t matter… The matter is… what is now.

Reflect on the reflection and you will know now what is all and always nothing at all.

“Waiting for Antigua” ~ Reflecting pool in Antiqua, Guatemala © Skip Hunt

For such a popular Catholic pilgrimage site, there's something very odd about Santiago's nearby dim forest. If you can't feel it, you're almost certainly no longer among the living. Deep emerald shadows with knarled black fingers intertwined and shielding the mossy leafy bed below.

It rained non-stop for days. And still I couldn't stay out of this park. You could feel something very Pagan within it. Like it vibrated in the vine and slurped around your feet. There's something there... I think those who built that magnificient cathedral knew this feeling as well. They were afraid and built a stone fortress to protect all from the knowing... But, I wanted to know.

I walked for hours in the rain. Awaiting a glimpse. Some proof. If felt so thick like thousands of fingers all touching me at once. A dark seduction. As if I should run, but I was too far gone... And, far too enchanted.

"Forest de Compostella" ~ Santiago de Compostella, Spain © Skip Hunt

My driver had advised I not tell anyone I was American. The U.S. was about to begin bombing Afghanistan, and the Rajasthani city was only 50 clicks from the Pakastani border and had a large Muslim community. Mr. Balbir, pleaded with me…”The Ambassador Taxi isn’t mine… It belongs to my uncle and we can’t have any trouble Mr. Skip… Please! Just tell them you’re Canadian… they won’t know the difference. I can’t have anything happen to the car…”

I promised Mr. Balbir I would comply and assured him I wasn’t a big fan of “trouble” either. Still… it was so hot and one of the bigger hotels with a pool would let you swim all afternoon for just 50 rupees. And, since it was only around 3 weeks since the September 11th attacks, I would have the entire pool to myself.

I made my way from my boiling dusty guesthouse toward the hotel… just for a couple hours relief from the intense heat. As I passed through one of the Muslim neighborhoods along the way… the rusty loudspeakers fired up with very intense Arabic announcements. To a non-native speaker, Arabic can sound fairly agressive even if it’s a benign weather report, or a routine call to prayer. This time there was no guessing. It had started and the American bombs were beginning to fall. It was pure rage rattling from the little neighborhood loudspeakers and the locals were starting to glare at my obvious “American” stature with distain… all I could do was try not to make eye contact and keep moving.

I still had a good 30 minutes left to walk, but I just kept walking. That is, until a small group of Muslim boys surrounded me and started shouting in Arabic. I tried to just push past them, but they began hitting me with their little fists and kicking at my legs. I just took it for the first few blows, but decided I’d try and scare the little buggers off. I looked around for a good sized stone and lifted it. The boys dared me to throw it at them, and then I noticed the Muslim men who were previously smirking with approval at the attack, were now “daring” me to give them any excuse… I tossed the stone aside, took a few more blows, and just kept walking.

As soon as I was out of sight, I noticed one of the old stone-carved houses was open, so I ducked in for a little refuge until the mayhem subsided. I took this photo in the stone home, but all I can remember was being terrified that World War III had just started, and all I could think about was getting to that pool for a cooling dip.

“Jaisalmer Refuge” ~ Jaisalmer, India © Skip Hunt

I snapped this on an trip out of Ha Noi, Viet Nam to Ha Long bay. If you’re ever in Ha Noi, I HIGHLY recommend seeing Ha Long Bay. It’s very surreal and full of large white limestone islands jutting out of turquoise water… but I digress…. Along the way you’ll most likely stop at the Perfume River and canoe to some majestic temples, market, etc.

It was raining lightly when I went, but the mist along the river made enduring the soak quite tolerable.

All of the “group” consisted of couples except me and this Korean fellow. So, naturallly we had to pair up and share a room on the island. He was really cool when he wasn’t drilling me about why the U.S. had involved itself in the Viet Nam war… why the idea of China becoming the next World superpower… etc. He seemed pretty angry in general and with good reason. But, as I told him, “I have no idea why the U.S. felt they needed to become involved in Viet Nam… And, I personally don’t have a problem with someone else taking the reigns of superpower from the U.S. for awhile…”

He just persisted as if he didn’t hear me. It seems he had a lot of pent up hostility toward the U.S. and most likely the fact he’d been holed up in Burma (I refuse to call it Myanmar) teaching Korean on the Korean government’s dime. I’m guessing he experienced a great deal of America’s ” meddling” while there.. And, his parents were in North Korea.

I was just trying to have a good time, experience the culture, and tried to change the subject by telling him about this amazing little cafe in Ha Noi with tasty “egg coffee”.. But, he wasn’t tryin’ to hear that see….

Again, I tried to lighten the conversation up after explaining I wasn’t responsible for the last several decades worth of U.S. atrocities… After we learned we’d be bunking together, I asked where he was from. He asked “where do I look like I’m from…” A challenge!

I’d been hangin’ with Vietnamese folks for nearly 3 weeks, and his features just didn’t match… He didn’t look Thai, Cambodian, Phillipino, or Laotian… And, because there were soooo many Japanese tourists in Souteast Asia.. I took a stab and asked if he were Japanese…. WRONG ANSWER! He took a great deal of offense with my fumbling guess and proudly stated he was Korean. He added, “we just all look the same to you don’t we?”….

I thought about his question and in a knee-jerk response and I denied it and said I knew he was Korean, but was just yankin’ his chain… Although, I realized that, yeah.. most Asian people do look similar to me. Me! A person basically in love with all cultures and diversity. A person who’d made a life long goal of experiencing every bit of culture I could until my time was up. I’d inadvertantly lumped hundreds of rich culture into one vague racial label.

That was almost two years ago and I’ve since made it a priority to learn as much about every Asian culture I could. When I’m in the sauna at the gym, there are dozens of languages heard. I eavesdrop on conversations I don’t understand, but pay attention to language intonation, facial features, manerisms, etc. When I’ve got a pretty good idea, I ask where they’re from… I can now proudly say that I’m now right at least 80% of the time! I’m doing the same with Middle Eastern folks too. My geography is off, so I miss more frequently with them… but I’m workin’ on it.

“Perfume River” ~ Near Ha Noi, Vietnam © Skip Hunt

Although a dozen copas of Mate de Coca got me through severe headache and malaise, the Peruvian altitude had nearly sucked the life out of me and I decided the Amazonian steam might better suite my constitution.

I'd read of William Burrough's Ayahuasca and thought maybe I'd snoop around the last jungle outpost of Iquitos for a guide to take me into the Amazon interior to meet a"qualified" Shaman to prepare me a glass or two.

To my eyes, the Amazon women were consistently a sight to behold! The green eyes! The almond skin! The hot, wet air and distant primal calls from the far side of the Amazon river... beckoned me into her darkness.

It didn't take long to find an old chap who'd serviced a National Geographic expedition or two. He showed me old issues of National Geographic magazine clearly showing he'd been trusted by the big boys and after an afternoon of fee haggling I had a departure time.

After a 3hr motorboat ride (one hour killed trying to get the stubborn outboard motor to cooperate) to "base camp", another 4hr trudge through knee-deep jungle mud, another several hours moving through the sweet waters of the Colorado river to the Black River... we finally landed in a small hut strewn village.

The next morning, my Shamanic host asked where the "guide" had disappeared to. My heart sank.... I had nothing but the clothes on my back, and nothing else. The Shaman sensed my panic and assured me the "guide" would turn up sooner or later, and he took me out into the jungle to show me various plants he used to cure.

The Ayahuasca "trip" was the most difficult experience I'd ever had... swirling psychosis and violent expulsion. That evidently is part of the price to "see" with the Shaman. To me, falling out of a bamboo hut into the mud, and trying to get my pants off fast enough to "purge" from ALL orifices was not my idea of a swell time. But I went with it.

The following morning, the Shaman insisted I "cleanse" in the Black river and that I prepare for the evening's second dose... Still no guide... while "cleansing" I felt tiny nibbles about my legs that bordered on uncomfortable. I later found out that the Black River is teaming with Piranha, but that I needn't be concerned unless I was bleeding.

An Indian man, woman, and baby had arrived at the Shaman's hut. The baby was ashen with a tinge of green about the skin... I'm no doctor, but that baby didn't look like it was going to make it through the night, and a qualification of "living" seemed questionable at all.

The Shaman brushed the baby with various fauna and blew smoke into his ears, nose, and mouth... I thought, "I'm no expert, but that cigarette smoke is certainly not going to do that tyke a bit of good... but, maybe it'll bring on his inevitable demise a bit quicker and end the suffering."

When the Shaman had finished his "treatment" he instructed the young mother to bring'em back in a couple days time and that he made need a follow-up treatment. He also gave her a small bottle of fluid from the middle reddish bottle you seen in the photo. He later told me it was for "female problems".

Two days later, still no guide, but the family returned with the healthiest looking baby I've ever seen. Pink! Laughing! And full of life!

Later that afternoon, my "guide" returned, had given away all my food surplus and water... and looked hung over. Apparently, he'd meant to only spend the night in a nearby village with his sweaty, but got distracted by some chums with a liter or two of hard liquor. I wasn't pleased, but I was thrilled to have spent quality time with a real medicine man. And, decided to wait until we'd completed the return journey to Iquitos before laying into him... as the idea of finding my way back alone didn't appeal to me. ;-)

"Shaman's Brew" ~ Amazon Jungle on Peruvian side © Skip Hunt

This was taken in Orizaba, Mexico... of a simple painter who paints the side of this building with abstract colors... then just stands by it each day.

When I asked him permission to photograph him and his art, he seemed quite surprised and honored. Seems most just pass him by each day and write him off as some nut-case and ridicule him.

He had a soft gentle voice and was more than happy to pose for me... probably to show all those people at someone sees him for what he is... a true artist.



"Artista de Orizaba" ~ Orizaba, Mexico







Skip Hunt
Austin, Texas

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