Ahhh India. The beautiful nation that gave birth to things like Curry, Yoga, Gandhi, the Taj Mahal and a host of other scientific and cultural accomplishments that we relish today and that have helped to shape mankind over the centuries. (They invented the number system for Pete’s sake. And ever grateful I am as it will aid me greatly throughout this piece.)

It is an immensely alluring place and the millions upon millions of visitors that cross its borders every year can attest to that.

Long before you alight she sits in your imagination and eventually seduces you to her dusty shores and remains in your memories long after you leave like the scent of a burnt out candle that lingers in the air and quietly reminds you of its enduring presence.

But there is a middle bit. Stuck somewhere in the space between longing for it and living it. A space that is occupied by three mental and physiological states of being that plague many a stranger. I like to call them the “Three Stages to Enlightenment.”

In India the world passes by with such fervour, such colour, such noise, that the foreign nervous system can’t help but to feel overwhelmed.

Days pass though, and the body and mind soon acclimatise to this violent assault on your senses, and you’re no longer having an embarrassing mental breakdown in the middle of a crowded street being giggled at by those who can smell your fear from a mile off. That’s what I like to call Stage One.

Next is Stage Two. Which is characterised by a period of unadulterated observational intensity. Otherwise known as “the dumbs.” You will stare, fearlessly, unabashedly, at all that you see around you. You’ll not yet be ready to articulate quite what you’re looking at, and you won’t necessarily be enjoying it either (that’s Stage Three), because at this point your neural pathways have ceased functioning and are in a state of temporary suspension, and really, you’re pretty much just staring out with your mouth open like an idiot.

Stage Three is when all of the fun begins, usually around days 3-4. You’ve taken it all in and it’s destroyed you from the inside out, but now you’ve been rebuilt as a better version of yourself (the less dumb version) and are ready to face all that India has to throw at you! The sea of bodies! The smells! The livestock!

It’s riveting, all of it, and you’re privileged to be experiencing it. The beautiful contrast that’s woven into Indian culture almost makes you want to cry. For you’ve never seen such extremes, such intoxicating customs, tastes, scents and movements. It’s a tapestry of wonder and at this point you’re giddier than a pig in sh*t. For you’ve been blinded but now you can see the light.

After your first full day in Stage Three you let a cold bottle of beer wash away the awkwardness that was the past few days. As you finish the bottle you congratulate yourself for surviving, no thriving, amidst the masses. Over the past few agonising days you’ve earned your freedom …

… and the reward is INDIA herself.

If you’re currently standing somewhere in Hanoi, then you’re only an overnight train, a couple of hours bus ride and a days worth of inclinous hiking away from the world’s most delicious and highest altitude bowl of Pho.

Somewhere tucked between the peaks of northern Vietnam in Sapa, bordering China, lives the world’s best noodle soup chef.

I don’t know her name, or her village, and the only thing for me differentiating her modest address from the next was the fact that I was seated there.

The events leading up to this gastronomical juncture were many, and perhaps worth a mention….

When disembarking the bus from Lao Cai to Sapa one finds oneself in the centre of a small town which lies in a valley. Sapa is a main market town in the area so there are numerous stalls selling handicrafts and produce. The local people are mostly ethnic minority groups such as the Hmong and Dao people, and their traditional dress and artisan skills are on display for all to see (and purchase).

Surrounding the valley are mountains and rice fields and beyond the peaks are tribal villages accessible only by foot. The morning of my arrival I met Vien, my local guide who would be hiking with me over the peaks and into the villages beyond. The day started out foggy and the tops of the mountains were concealed as we gradually made our way up grassy hills and through terraced fields. We spotted a low lying river up ahead and a distressed farmer trying to lure his ox from the middle of it. As you do in those parts, we too began to call for the ox and as it inched its way closer to the bank we all stepped in and pushed from behind, the mud from his haunches covering our shoes, our hands and well, everything else. Feeling quite heroic and neighbourly, (and might I add filthy) we continued on across the rope bridge and ever more northward we trudged.

Hmong women in their thick mountain dress with their woven baskets strapped to their backs began to hike alongside of us. Between attempts at selling us their woven bracelets, there were mutual smiles and warm exchanges. Once the bracelets were purchased however the exchanges became less forced and their company began to feel friendly, comforting even. What started out as three turned into a robust group of ten. Flanked on either side they began to feel like Sherpas, hiking beside and in front of me as I amateurishly scrambled my way up their well-trodden paths. Eventually, the women grew bored of my company (one can only suspect) and departed, leaving our original group as we inched closer to the summit.

Down below we saw a village set in the valley. That was our next target. We took a small breather after the gruelling sprint for the summit and as we wiped the dusty sweat from our brow we noticed a small wooden hut just 10 yards ahead. We decided to take a seat and regain our energies before the downward journey. Vietnamese pleasantries were exchanged between Vien and the resident of the hut and before we knew it a piping hot bowl was set before us. The air had just enough bite in it to warrant a hot meal, but our stomachs were too empty to care about such frivolities as temperature.

I let the steam drift up to my face before picking up the chopsticks and devouring the fried egg delicately floating on top. The broth passed my lips and before long every noodle, herb and garnish had been slurped. The owner returned to collect our bowls and asked what I can only imagine was “How was it?” I didn’t have the words to express my deep satisfaction, but a wide and contented smile crossed my face as she grinned and slinked back into the darkness of her kitchen.

I wrote this quasi-poem 4 years ago before my wedding as an introduction to Chicago for all of our British family and friends that were going to be travelling to our wedding.

Unanimously, they all thought their experience in our city topped that of any others in the country. All were surprised by what they found there and regarded Chicago as their new favourite American city by a long shot.

Standard, I told them.

I thought it was perhaps time to repeat the sentiments.

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CHICAGO is a special place and most will seem to agree, that the people here are WORLD CLASS and no better place there will ever be.

We’ve got it all here anything you could want and we laugh at those who don’t know it, we relish in the fact that it’s all ours but for our guests we are most proud to show it.

You want baseball we’ve got it, football too, and hockey and hoops just the same. As a sports fan you’ll be in absolute Heaven as not a day goes by without a game.

Restaurants, bars, cuisines and music for any type and people of all styles and kind, the diversity makes whatever scene you’re looking for never hard to find.

More green spaces than Greenville and more parks than Parkville this is the ultimate picnic place, lay out a blanket, throw a Frisbee, sip wine and eat cheese and adapt to our Summertime pace.

Our city is the home of comedy and the greats of the past started here, Second City is mecca for improv comedy and we’re sure you’ll enjoy what you hear.

It may as well be an ocean that Lake we live on because as far as we can tell it is, we’ve got boats, beaches, and lakefront galore so grab your speedos and head for the shore.

Sure the Winters are arctic and the Summers like fire and the wind cuts your skin like a knife, but those us from here know what treasures it holds and wouldn’t give them up to save our life.

September is our month of hot days and warm nights, twinkling lights and the warm glow of Fall, it is our farewell to Summer, our hello to Autumn, and our very best month of them all.

So come settle in, relax, enjoy, explore this fine urban place. We know you’ll think there’s nowhere better so come and get used to our midwestern pace.

I realised sometime after my 7th visit to ole’ Paris that I don’t keep returning for the obvious; the architecture, the museums, the delightful neighborhoods, the world famous cuisine, or even the wine that so surprisingly fails at making the head fuzzy despite drinking abundant amounts of the stuff.

What is it really that makes me long to return to the City of Lights almost as immediately as I board the Eurostar for home at Gare du Nord?

It is a funny thing I suspect, for I’m a wanderer at my core, always seeking new places and experiences. The bug bit me long ago and I’ve yet to free myself from it’s firm, juicy, and ever so tantalizing bite. I rarely return to a place once traveled to as the world is wide time ticks on and I’ve not yet gazed upon the 80% of it that I’m realistically shooting for. Maybe 70. 60? There’s Latin America, Mongolia, and that funny little place next to Greenland, the Himalayas, Antarctica, Mt. Fuji, Bhutan. They’re all places I’d like to explore and time is of the essence. I’m a notorious non-returner. Yet I can’t seem to restrain myself from this neighbouring city of comically overpriced coffees and territorial locals, that calls out my name and pleads that I visit her again and again! “One more boeuf bourguignon” she says. “Just one more beaujolais!”

What is it that I find so annoyingly metaphysical about Paris? Why is it that when any morsel of money and time happen to simultaneously end up in my possession do I venture back to a place that’s been walked through, shopped through, ate, drank, and tipsily sang through almost a dozen times over?

The answer, I’ve found, is in the unique pleasure of nothingness.

The cafés and bars here are not places to eat and drink, they are places to REVIVE. The swirling smoke, the light chatter, the slow sipping of café au laits, the contrast of people hurrying by, the welcome uncertainty of time and of circumstance, the contentness that takes over the mind and body as soon as the act of sitting takes place. The café is a temple and I am its monk. Opening hours are from sit down to stand up. It is ok to seat oneself, to stare directionless, to enjoy the sweet nothings, to shut off the outside world. In the safety of a café you are one of the many taking a quiet timeout from life, from the memories of your yesterday and the plans of tomorrow. If life’s stresses are a poison then the Parisian café is my antidote. An outpatient therapy. My over-the-counter remedy.

I never knew I could contemplate the delicate flavour intricacies of a cup of coffee as painstakingly as I have in a Parisian café.

I never knew how long I could successfully stare off into an unspecified point in space before I sat in a Parisian café.

I never thought about nothing at all as much and for as long as I did in a Parisian café.

I suppose the frenzied movement that engulfs you on the streets of Paris is what makes reprieve so much sweeter, so much more gratifying to escape.

Either way it’s a gift and I accept it brazenly each time that I go. For there are few places more charming in the world to revel in the art of absolutely nothing.

(To view the full Paris image series head here.)

My plane touched down in the darkness and I knew that my first nights encounter with Beijing would either be a thrilling blend of romantic sights and the scents of exoticism, or just plain terrifying.

I was alone. Which in itself was not the issue, but I’d had virtually no sleep in the past 48 hours, the bags under my eyes had grown large enough in size to carry a weeks shopping from Marks and Spencer’s and due to exhaustion and a moderate yet unpleasant bout of stomach flu I had begun to question my body’s ability to stand upright without assistance. I somehow made it into the back of a taxi and no sooner were we on the road and headed in the direction of ancient history, of Tiananmen Square and the mystical Forbidden City, or so I guessed.

The vast expanses of highway soon turned into a maze of small alleyways and the emptiness of the airport was a distant scene as the frenzy of late night pedestrians pulsed through the streets by bicycle, rickshaw, and foot. The glimmering lights of the lanterns hanging from each dwelling space guided us through the narrow roads and all at once, my exhaustion evaporated and my senses were alight with the intensity of a thousand blazing torches.

I had arrived in one of Beijing’s ancient Hutongs, the old neighborhoods where the locals have lived for many centuries. I had imagined what one might be like, and then right there before me it all was, laid out beautifully like an extravagantly designed film scene…

Everyone was on their mark, choreographed to ride past on their rickshaws at precisely the right intervals, to sit pensively smoking their pipe in the frame of the doorway, their wafts of smoke perfectly illuminated under the scarlet-colored lanterns, the impeccable juxtaposition of light and shadow in the alleyway and the steady flow of extras directed to walk ever so naturally over the floodlit cobblestones as they chattered away in their native tongue and exited into the darkness of stage right.

Twenty yards up on our left, we spotted my guesthouse. As I unsuccessfully attempted Mandarin pleasantries and paid the driver, the star of the next scene entered the doorway, the aroma of savory meats and tobacco following her.

“Nihao!” she said on cue. “Welcome to Beijing.”

I have just returned from six weeks on the road with The Pastoral Women’s Council in Northern Tanzania.

The days were long and the continuous car journeys across the immense landscape were even longer. Village to village, week by week, I think we must have covered every inch of Maasai country. It was tiring, the roads dangerous at times, physically demanding, mentally exhausting, and absolutely bloody brilliant.

Working with The PWC were some of the most motivating and inspiring hours I have probably ever spent doing anything. The team are a collection of indescribably dedicated people who embody the phrase “giving back.” They are educated, they are optimistic, they are motivated, and they are committed to giving back to their communities in a way I could have hardly comprehended unless I had seen it for myself. Spending days, weeks, and months on the road at a time they leave their families to visit remote villages where women and children need their help. They are working tirelessly to change things for their communities and seeing them in action was quite a humbling experience.

It was a privilege to meet them, to learn more from them about the plight of Maasai women and children, and the Maasai culture in general, and the work that I did simply would not have been possible without them. Like literally, it would not have been even close to possible as I do not speak the dialect and I had no other means of transport! They are a fun and lively bunch as well and that never hurts now does it?

Unfortunately I was not able to write as many blog posts as I would have liked to while over there, but I simply did not have the access to internet that I would have needed, and so I tried to keep up with behind the scenes images and info on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram (@realeyesannie). Hopefully some of you followed along and didn’t mind too much my hijacking of your news feeds.

The majority of the trip was spent travelling to the various projects of PWC in most of the areas in which they work. From Song and Dance Projects, to Women’s Right’s Committees, to Sponsored Girls, to Women’s Livestock Projects, we visited, and I documented.

The girls that I met at the various schools were so dedicated. They just simply wanted to be in school, and were thrilled that they had the chance. They had such a burning desire to learn, and to be educated, and they spoke of it as if it was the absolute ONLY thing standing between them and a life of premature marriage, early motherhood, and a future they don’t want. Probably because education IS the only thing standing between them and that life they don’t want.

They cling on to education like a fly to honey because they know it is the only way forward for them. What stands in their way sometimes is an inability to pay for the schooling, and the girls who are lucky enough to be sponsored know they are the lucky ones. Like families all around the world many Maasai parents simply do not have the means to put them through school. Sponsorship is so important for them….

…and so the girls spoke to me spiritedly (in impeccable English might I add) of their educational experiences, of their home villages, and of their lives at the school…. and then the quality of their voices change when I ask them what would happen if their sponsorship ended.

” I want to be a doctor so I can help my community, so I NEED to be in school. This is my dream. If I don’t have sponsorship, then none of this is possible. How can I help my community then? What help am I to anyone then?”

Hearing them and the desperation in their voices made me hate myself for every half-assed school assignment I ever turned in, every day that I pretended to be ill so that I could skip out on a day of class. How much I just took it all for granted. How much we all took it for granted. Perspective change to say the least.

The women that I met village after village were so open with me once they learned that I was working with PWC, and they really understood the importance and potential of sharing their stories in front of the lens. These women wanted their stories and their voices to be heard, and I as a photographer was extremely grateful for their openness.

Day after day I heard stories from women whose lives were changing for the better because of PWC’s projects. If you have read any of my other blog posts about PWC then you may have read a bit about Maasai culture and about some of the projects and how they are helping change norms. Livestock projects are giving women economic power, and a voice, something not typical in Maasai society, and once they find this voice, they really are starting to use it!!! (Many times much to the dismay of the men)

The various other PWC projects from Women’s Rights Committees to My Rights My Voice are working to help educate the Maasai about their rights, and give them a platform for sharing their stories, and voicing their opinions.

PWC is working on the ground 27 hours a day, 8 days a week, beyond their means, to help raise women up. But change and progress can take a long time, and unfortunately takes a lot of funding as well.

The current struggles the Maasai people are facing with Land rights is another very serious issue they face at the moment and while I did not personally document this, they are up against monumental threats, and you can read much more about their land struggles here and here. They are facing what most unfortunate groups of people in history have had to face when their land has suddenly become valuable to outside groups, and the Maasai of Northern Tanzania have the real misfortune of living in some of the most coveted Safari territory in all the world. It is a very serious thing they are facing right now, up against big government, and big foreign money, and they are trying to garner as much international attention about it as possible. It is the only chance they have really to ensure the survival of their indigenous culture. International pressure and media interest seems to be their only fight.

My time with PWC was obviously very personally rewarding, but was also incredibly fruitful work-wise. As I now begin to process all of the content that I returned with and the editing process commences, I hope to have much more content and shareable material to present to you in the coming weeks. Perhaps all I ask is that you do just that, share. I will do my best to create some video and content in the coming weeks that is deliciously shareable and cool, and maybe if I can get Bieber to see some of this stuff his trillions of followers will do all of the work for me. Ideal!

Hopefully we can all find a way to relate to these stories, and see these as universal issues. The world is getting so small, we are all becoming so interconnected, and we can do so much more to contribute now that we couldn’t have done before.

In the words of one of the Maasai women who so eloquently summed it all up for me:

“The progress of the Maasai and the progress of women is the progress of all people.”

Won’t argue with that.

-Anne

I will be headed to Northern Tanzania for several weeks where I will be working with the women of the Pastoral Women’s Council.

“A muddy face and a sticky hand

Windswept hair and a pocket full of sand

Missing teeth, a mischievous grin

Curious smiles and that angelic skin

Running and jumping as they look to the skies

Life itself reflected in those big, bright eyes

Pure joy, all heart, innocence defined

Childhood is Heaven and Earth intertwined.”

-Anne Oswald

I remember. I remember that I was in a field. I remember where I was standing. I remember that I was a child. I remember the golden light in the sky, the way it shone down upon the long grasses that I walked through like it longed for me to see them in all of their sunbathed glory. I remember the way it felt on my hands as I ran through the grasses and let their sharp ends pass over my fingertips. I remember how the wind first sounded, like it had waited for me to arrive and once I had it whispered softly into my ear as it passed through my hair and traveled alongside me as I ran freely. I remember believing that if I ran fast enough the wind would help lift me and I would take off flying into the magical evening sky. Most of all I remember my mom watching, smiling. When I smiled, she did too. When I stared intently at something, she did too. My happiness and wonderment was her happiness and wonderment and I remember thinking that that moment would last forever. Nothing else in the world mattered. Nothing else existed. This WAS existence. There was the sun, and the dominating blue sky, and the rough earth beneath me. There was the warm breeze, and the birds gently singing along to the tune of its melody. My eyes were wide with curiosity at the nature around me and my imagination overflowing with possibilities. My feet were beautifully soiled with the Earth on which I’d walked and my tangled hair full of nature’s debris blew back and forth as I talked. I talked to the birds, I talked to the sky, I sang to the grass, and dreamed I would fly. I don’t remember where we had come from, and I don’t remember where we were going to next, but I remember that moment. I was a child, and my mom joyfully observed as I made that field, and the world, my playmate. It was my friend, and I it’s companion. I was a little girl, still existing in that world of youthful innocence and perpetual fascination. A world that my mom must have known does not last. For she lived every moment in that field as I did, she felt the texture of the ground on her feet as I did, and heard the same soulful song of the birds as I did. As the same breeze would greet her she would laugh aloud and would look up at the skies as I spoke to a cloud. It was real, it was joy, it was simple, and it was extraordinary.

It was childhood. It is now a memory. Life IS memories. It is a series of moments like these that are strung together to make up one’s life. Those that happen in the Springtime of one’s life are what some may consider the most miraculous of all, for my mother describes this memory of ours just as she would describe witnessing a miracle. She was in the presence of something so pure, so true, so innocent, yet so fleeting, that she believes the Heavens themselves were watching with fascination. Childhood. The beautiful imperfection of my disheveled hair, the curiosity in my adventurous smile, my sun-kissed complexion, my gap-toothed smile, my spirit, my heart, hers too.

…These sentimental trademarks of a growing child and the sweet innocence of youth is what makes documenting a child’s journey through life’s milestones such an extraordinary thing. Time moves fast, children grow into adults, and that world of youthful innocence and perpetual fascination slowly fades, and all that we have to remember our children as they were are our memories and our photos. We have the ability to take control of these memories and ensure their survival. How wonderful a gift it is to give ourselves a beautiful glimpse back into that world we all once inhabited. To be inspired by and reminded of our children as they were, in an image.  Not just a snapshot. Not just a photo. But a portrait. A most authentic visual translation of an individual’s spirit. A most sentimental piece of art.

A portrait has the potential to be an incredibly powerful and communicative thing.…

a wordless story,

an unintentional dialogue,

a secret disclosed,

a soul revealed,

a spirit discovered,

and a realness uncovered.

When captured with gentle deliberation and an ever-observing eye, a portrait can reveal a child’s personality in its realest and most intimate form. This gentle deliberation and ever-observing eye is that of the photographer’s, whose job it is to seek out these moments and capture them artistically, in the right place, in the right lighting, and with the overall desired aesthetic effect. It may take only seconds to snap an image, but to do it correctly takes years of hard work, dedication, skill, and passion. Creating timeless and artistic portraits of your children that you can treasure for a lifetime takes preparation, perspiration, and inspiration, like all art. A portrait of your child can act as a portal, a doorway, a time machine, so that you can forever preserve your memories of them, and revisit, reminisce, and remember what you cherish most in this world.

-Annie