On the busy streets of Mongolia.
In the main plaza of Dalanzadgad’s stadium, kids run and play and celebrate Naadam, the annual summertime festival of three traditional games: Mongolian wrestling, horse racing and archery.
An almost-empty alley in Beijing’s 798 Art Zone (Dashanzi Art District).
Returning to the Jasola area after a long day of shooting in the Jaitpoor neighbourhood, the taxi is crossing under the highway that rings New Delhi.
From an eastbound streetcar, taken just a few minutes after Biker on King.
Just two steps outside my hotel in Geneva, I didn’t even have time to raise the camera and aim. A lucky shot.
The ferry ride lasted only a few minutes. But the boat from Brooklyn to Governors Island may have well been a trip 90 years back in time.
Across Malawi, people cook their food on wood burning stoves. Even the Presidential residence, suspected one of the UNICEF Malawi staff, has a wood burning stove. Some for reasons of tradition, others for necessity. And with this type of cooking comes the search for fuel.
Biking through the center of Migowi, just a few hundred meters from the Healthy Center.
Seen from the passenger window of my taxi, on the way to the offices of UNICEF Malawi.
Preparing to travel to sub-Saharan Africa brings a host of health requirements and recommendations. Western clinics respond by offering us vaccines and pills and sprays and solutions and nets. Three sets of vials are on the counter in this photo: Meningitis, Polio and Yellow Fever. A few dollars, a few needles and a few minutes later, I’m protected from diseases – more than 10 in all – that continue to take massive toll around the globe. It’s all so easy for us. Yet for millions on the continent where I’m headed, getting such protection is anything but easy. These are some of the things we take for granted.
As I settled in for the four hour bus trip from the Mediterranean coastal city of Sfax eastward to Tozeur, I couldn’t help but notice I was being watched from across the isle. While I tore into my massive roasted chicken sandwich, a boy of about seven wouldn’t stop staring at me.
In my first few days in this country, I am perplexed by what appears to be a vast one-dimensionality to contemporary Tunisian music: the people all watch and listen to the same stuff. I’m not new to Arabic music. But with eerie similarity, it’s like The Big Game is on every channel, all day, all night, every day, every night. I don’t get it. I must be missing something.