Tire tracks mar the salt near the Bonneville Speedway. Drive at your own risk.
It seemed like I’d been walking for hours. I couldn’t tell. I lost track of time, long ago. There were signs that others had been here before me, tracks in the salt, but I was alone.
I thought I heard something and stopped to listen. Were my ears playing tricks on me, inventing sounds in the stillness that weren’t there? I couldn’t tell.
My pounding heart was the only sound. All else was stillness. Oppressive, silence.
I was alone.
I began again, and the muffled shuffle of my shoes in the salt beat eighth notes to the sixteenth notes of my heart.
I was thirsty. I needed water.
The setting sun glistens on the water covering the Bonneville Salt Flats.
I had run out . Yet, I could see it on the surface of the salt, shimmering, teasing, taunting. The closer I got the farther it seemed to be.
If I could just make it to the mountains.
Water covering the Bonneville Salt Flats forms a near perfect mirror.
Splashes, suddenly. The sound was refreshing. My steps disturbed a sea of glass. The mirage had not retreated. It was real. The surface stretched for miles. My footsteps sent expanding ripples across the glassy mirror, distorting the sky below me.
A thin sheet of water covers the Bonneville Salt Flats at certain times of the year.
I took two more steps and stumbled. The salt gave way to mud beneath it and my shoes remained behind. I fell to my knees and my pants sucked up water, wet coolness, rising slowly up my thighs. I watched the khaki darken with curiosity, as if my clothes were trying to suck waning life back into my body.
Shallow water covers miles and miles of the Bonneville Salt Flats at certain times of the year.
Somewhere inside my head I sensed, maybe even knew, I should not drink this water. It renewed these salt plains. But it was so blue, so clear, and the need was so great. My lips were cracked and my tongue was dry.
I could not resist.
A distant rocky mountain reflects on water covering the Bonneville Salt Flats.
I cupped my hands and scooped up the water. It felt cool on my skin, wet. I opened my mouth and slurped it in. Again, in my head, I knew. I should not have done this.
I was consumed by greed and the reaction was violent. I sputtered and spit. My throat burned. When the brine reached my stomach I retched.
It can be difficult to determine where the earth ends and the sky begins in the perfect reflections of the Bonneville Salt Flats.
Falling forward, my body pushed a large wave across the glass and I broke the surface. The water was not deep. Just enough to cover my face. Salt surrounded me and I looked upon my body, reflecting through the glassy side of a mirror.
When these waters withdraw, others will find evidence that I have been, preserved by salt.
The Bonneville Salt Flats near the Bonneville Speedway as seen from the air.
Wind blown lifeless vegetation hints at soil beneath the Bonneville Salt Flats.
A thin sheet of glass like water mirrors the surrounding mountains of the Bonneville Salt Flats.
The setting sun turns the white salt golden on the Bonneville Salt Flats.
Tire tracks mar the salt near the Bonneville Speedway. Drive at your own risk.
In many areas of the Bonneville Salt Flats, the layer of salt covering the earth is very thin and in need of replenishing.
A thin sheet of water covers the Bonneville Salt Flats, replenishing the layer or salt for which the speedway is famous.
In spite of harsh conditions, life will not be denied to the salty plants of the Bonneville Salt Flats.
Turning donuts in the salt is the perfect circular activity on the Bonneville Salt Flats.
Seasonal water covers the Bonneville Salt Flats replenishing the salty surface.
The setting sun glistens on the water covering the Bonneville Salt Flats.
Water covering the Bonneville Salt Flats forms a near perfect mirror for the surrounding mountains.
A distant rocky mountain reflects on water covering the Bonneville Salt Flats.
It can be difficult to determine where the earth ends and the sky begins in the perfect reflections of the Bonneville Salt Flats.
Water covering miles and miles of the Bonneville Salt Flats is only a few inches deep.
Baked by sun and blasted salt, the road surface leading to Bonneville Speedway is in constant need of repair.
Mountains rise out of the Bonneville Salt Flats.
Windstorms, dust storms, sand storms and salt storms can be common occurrences in Western Utah hear the Bonneville Salt Flats.
A lonely road leading to the Bonneville Speedway crosses the submerged salt flats.
The setting sun turns the white salt golden on the Bonneville Salt Flats, as seen from above.
The Bonneville Speedway on the Bonneville Salt Flats used to be thirteen miles long. Now it is only seven. It is not known if the cause of the shrinking salt is due to the depletion of the aquifer as a result of nearby mining, or, from seasonal heavy rains. Nevertheless, the land speed records which have been set in years past must now be accomplished in shorter distances, as time may be running out on the Bonneville Salt Flats.
On assignment, I flew in to Rabat, Morocco, on a private jet. As our team proceeded through customs, the agents held us up.
What were we planning to do?
What were we planning to film?
Where would we be going?
Moroccan media is tightly controlled and monitored by the Government. King Mohammed VI takes a personal interest in the message of his country. Foreigners can’t be trusted to portray an accurate or truthful picture of life in Morocco.
Built of red sandstone in the 10th century, Hassan Tower in Rabat, Morocco, was intended to be the tallest minaret in the world.
Rabat is the capitol city of The Kingdom of Morocco. Casablanca, made famous by the movie, is the country’s largest city. For more than a thousand years, the Western Kingdom of Morocco, or Marrakesh, was a powerful African dynasty.
Built in the 10th Century A.D.,cannons of the Kasbah of the Udayas in Rabat, Morocco would fire on Barbary pirates as they sailed up the Bou Regreg River.
Morocco is one of only three countries which have both a Mediterranean and Atlantic coast. From the 16th through 19th centuries, Barbary Pirates attacked ships and traded slaves along the Berber Coasts of Morocco, Algiers, Tunisia and Libya. In 1805, the United States executed a marginally successful military action against members of the Ottoman Empire in an effort to destroy the pirates and free American slaves. With European colonialism seeking to dominate much of Africa, political and economic tensions grew during the latter part of the 19th century. Moroccan independence essentially ended when France signed a treaty designating Morocco as a French protectorate in 1912. The French governed Morocco until 1956 when Sultan Mohammed V successfully negotiated Moroccan independence.
The Mausoleum of Mohammed V is the resting place of the late King of Morocco, along with his two sons, King Hassan II and Prince Abdallah.
With Mohammed V’s succession to the throne, the spirit of independence and the power of the Monarchy re-emerged in Morocco. Mohammed V ruled for just 5 years. His son, Hassan II, became king upon his father’s death. Hassan II died in 1999 and his son, Mohammed VI, ascended to the throne.
As King, Mohammed VI has implemented progressive changes in Morocco, adopting a new constitution reducing the overall powers of the Monarchy while implementing a Parliamentary government with an appointed Prime Minister. Yet, Mohammed VI still wields tremendous power and controls much of the country’s resources. He personally owns the country’s phosphate mines, which account for 75% of the world’s reserves and he has a net worth greater than the Queen of England.
A man watches the waters of Bou Regreg river for signs of fish, while empty boats rest on the opposite shore.
According to the World Health Organization, poverty remains high in Morocco. While Mohammed VI has placed modest emphasis on reducing the widening gap between rich and poor, civil rights abuses, government corruption and economic distress account for an increasingly disaffected populous. On the world stage, The United Nations has criticized Morocco for military action and occupation of a Western Saharan region populated by the indigenous Sahwari people who claim Western Sahara belongs to them.
As we stood in the customs office, the agents explained that we could not bring our equipment into their country. We must return our equipment to the airplane or we would not be allowed to enter. So, we shlepped our heavy black pelican cases back out on to the tarmac and stowed them on the plane.
I keep a camera in my backpack.
Ceremonial Palace Guards in traditional costume, stand watch on horseback over the official residence of King Mohammed VI.
Politics and customs agents aside, a highlight of my visit to Morocco was eating lunch at a traditional restaurant which required ritual hand washing before eating. I held my hands over a beautiful ceramic basin as the Maitre d’ poured warm water from a hand painted glazed pitcher. Another waiter provided a warm towel to dry with. I don’t remember much about the food, but, as we were leaving the restaurant, the Maitre d’ repeated the washing experience by pouring warm rose water over our hands. The scent was strong and pleasing and stayed with me throughout the day.
Now, when I catch the scent of roses, I am transported back to that tiny restaurant in Rabat. I hear the call to prayer echoing across the ancient city and I want to reach in my backpack and check to see if my camera is still there.
Two women pause for a moment of reflection on the banks of the Bou Regreg River in Rabat, Morocco.
In the 10th century, guards of the Almohads could look out over the mouth of the River Bou Regreg from the parapets of the Kasbah of the Udayas and watch for invading armies.
In Rabat, Morocco, beautiful gardens have been restored to their former ancient beauty inside the Kasbah of the Udayas.
There are several ways out of the Kasbah of the Udayas in Rabat, Morocco.
The Moroccan flag flies over the palace grounds of Mohammed VI, King of Morocco.
Back alley shops are common in Rabat, Morocco, where Mom and Pop wait for customers.
Built in the 10th Century A.D.,cannons of the Kasbah of the Udayas in Rabat, Morocco would fire on Barbary pirates as they sailed up the Bou Regreg River.
An alley market in Rabat, Morocco boasts a wide variety of merchandise.
A lone man watches the waters of Bou Regreg river for signs of fish, while empty boats rest on the opposite shore.
The town of Salé rises across the river Bou Regreg from the capitol of Rabat, Morocco.
Military police guard the palace of King Mohammed VI of Morocco.
Birds carve out ideal homes in the ancient Hassan Tower of Rabat, Morocco.
Imperial symbols adorn the marble floors of the Mausoleum of Mohammed V in Rabat, Morocco.
Friends? Brothers? Men of Morocco.
Moroccan Man.
Moslem women rest on stone benches outside the Palace of Mohammed VI in Rabat, Morocco.
A Moroccan woman rests on the painted iron grate overlooking the tower of Hassan in Rabat, Morocco.
Two Moroccan men discuss the matters of state, outside the palace of Mohammed VI in Rabat, Morocco.
10th century Moslem influences inform the architecture and staff of the Mausoleum of Mohammed V and the Palace of Mohammed VI.
The official flag of the Kingdom of Morocco.
Built of red sandstone in the 10th century, Hassan Tower in Rabat, Morocco, was intended to be the tallest minaret in the world.
Signs and flags everywhere indicate that the official name of the country is The Kingdom of Morocco.
The official flag of Morocco flies over stone pillars, remnants of the walls of Hassan Tower, in the palace court of Mohammed VI, King of Morocco.
The 10th century minaret of Hassan Tower rises above stone pillar remnants in Rabat, Morocco.
The Mausoleum of Mohammed V is the resting place of the late King of Morocco, along with his two sons, King Hassan II and Prince Abdallah.
An official Palace Guard on horseback in traditional costume guards the official residence of King Mohammed VI.
An aged Moroccan woman conducts business by cell phone in Rabat, Morocco.
Ceremonial Palace Guards in traditional costume, stand watch on horseback over the official residence of King Mohammed VI.
It can be painful when a pilgrimage is not all it was supposed to be.
Tired, alone and far from home, the Eternal City, can be an unforgiving place. Religious tradition may favor the Catholics in Rome, yet Islam entertains apocryphal hope for ultimate victory in the struggle for religious domination. Global politics and religious ideology lose their import when you are sick and hungry. With no place left to go, a bridge over the Tiber River is as good a place as any to end a pilgrimage.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
It was raining in Paris that morning as I sought shelter beneath the balustrades and terraces of the Louvre Palace. My timing was off. The museum was closed. I was not alone in my disappointment as I watched a woman trudge beneath our columned shelter and sit, wearily, against stone. She was not present with the host of tourists surrounding this space. She looked beyond, focused on something my eyes could not see. Trouble, sadness, sorrow, suffering. I could not know. Yet, in her eyes I could see the reflection of ghosts in Paris. On this day, I would not see the Mona Lisa smile.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
When I showed him this picture, he laughed and laughed. So did his buddies.
Just before sunset, we stopped on the banks of the Lubumbashi river in the DR Congo. Families were washing clothes and bathing in the river. It was hot, and humid. When I pulled out my camera, I was surrounded by children, laughing, dancing and posing. We did not speak the same language, in words. But, the joy of the children was contagious. In a land so different from my own, we shared a laugh, and a smile.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
A wooden cane and stone steps provide respite when carrying the weight of the world in Istanbul.
He sat on steps outside a mosque in Istanbul, worry lines carving canyons in his forehead. Perhaps the proximity to God, and a wooden cane will keep the weight of worldly cares from crushing him. Perhaps a silent prayer will reach to heaven or a moment in tower shadows will heal his heart. I can not say.
Crowds ascended sacred steps as the old man remained.
I watched with him as long as I could, hoping for relief, praying that, perhaps, he, too, could go home.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
Stylishly dressed in a green leopard print, this young girl has just one dress.
She was taller than the boys she played with. Her green leopard-print dress fluttered in a breeze of fluid motion. A dirt street in Kinshasa had become an earthy futbol stadium; I, the paparazzi, she, the star. When she kicked a well-worn ball through a makeshift goal, her teammates cheered. As the game resumed, she turned and looked at me, wary. Our eyes met. She seemed to hold a world of experience behind questioning eyes. I smiled. A small boy kicked the ball. I took her picture. She darted away, leopard dress clinging to her graceful form.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
For any passing through Cedar City this summer, please stop by and visit the 2015 Cedar City Art Walk. I’ve been invited to participate in the Gallery Show. My show is in the Southern Utah University Hunter Conference Center. I have ten 16×20 prints on display. The show runs from June 5 through August 31. Another good reason to see the show is that it runs concurrently with the world famous Utah Shakespeare Festival.
Some of these photos have been posted on my blog and some have not. I’ll be posting one a week for the next ten weeks of the show along with a very short story about the photo.
Here’s a bit of info on the Festival:
The Art Walk is a collaboration between artists, business, and galleries in the community. Final Fridays, June 26, July 31 and August 28 from 5:00 – 8:00 pm are gallery strolls that offer participants a change to engage with talented visual artists from Utah. Some locations will have musical performances and receptions.
James Dalrymple’s Photography on display at the SUU Hunter Conference Center for the Cedar City Art Walk.
Before my eyes could adjust, the smell was upon me–pungent and powerful. My eyes were stinging with scents I did not recognize. Inside the ancient spice bazaar, crowds were swirling, the noise was disorienting. Shop keepers smiled and nodded at weathered women. Women scowled back in negotiation. Shouting began as a wave that crested and broke over exotic shops in the tidal rhythm of the ancient spice trade.
Islam is the most populous major religion in Turkey. Although no longer required, many women still wear the burka in public.
I raised my camera to capture the confusion and she froze. Perhaps she thought her burka made her invisible. Amidst the current of chaos she had been invisible. I would not have noticed the androgynous shape among the many shapes in motion. It was in that moment of pause that our eyes met. Her eyes were all I could see. Sights and sounds and people were swirling about us and I could see her eyes.
Sadness.
I think that’s what I felt. I’m not sure if that’s what I saw.
She raised her hand, translucent against her robes and I took the photograph. We stood there for moments, centuries swirling before us. I could not see beneath her coverings. I had no desire to violate tradition. But in that moment, in her eyes, I could sense a depth of inner life, hidden beneath the burka; hopes, dreams, struggles, desires, hiding in the Misir Carsisi Spice Bazaar, in Istanbul.
Where do you think the White Witch of Narnia got hers?
In the Spice Bazaar in Istanbul I believe it just might be the best quality in the world.
Scented with the aroma of jasmen blossoms, jasmen tea has been a popular drink in the Middle East and Asia for thousands of years.
Sausages anyone?
Saffron, caviar, spices, and of course, sausage.
Before Pfizer began selling little blue pills, the Spice Bazaar was your best source for spicing up your love life.
Your best source for love potion number 9.
Not one of the things I knew Iran was famous for.
The Spice Bazaar, or Misir Carsisi also means Egyptian Bazaar. Misir in Turkish is also mistranslated to mean corn bazaar, although, outside the bazaar you can find some delicious barbecued corn.
Fresh, hot and seasoned with exotic spices, don’t miss the barbecued corn from the street vendors outside the Spice Bazaar.
Islam is the most populous major religion in Turkey. Although no longer required, many women still wear the burka in public.
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I hear them, the voices in my head. They tell me stories. I can see them with my heart.
They're Calling To Me 