SACHA DEAN BIYAN | FEED

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SACHA DEAN BIYAN

ICE QUEEN • An ad I shot in 2001 for Absolut Vodka, celebrating the opening of North America’s first and only Ice Hotel—Hôtel de Glace—in Quebec City. This sub-zero masterpiece, built entirely from snow and sculpted ice, is an architectural marvel that’s reimagined and rebuilt every winter. Thankfully, we had plenty of Absolut on hand to keep us warm during the shoot.▪️

ICE QUEEN • An ad I shot in 2001 for Absolut Vodka, celebrating the opening of North America’s first and only Ice Hotel—Hôtel de Glace—in Quebec City. This sub-zero masterpiece, built entirely from snow and sculpted ice, is an architectural marvel that’s reimagined and rebuilt every winter. Thankfully, we had plenty of Absolut on hand to keep us warm during the shoot.▪️

LIVING ON THE EDGE • Of all the places I’ve traveled, Ladakh has got to be one of the most exhilarating. It’s unlike anywhere in India—or on earth for that matter—a place that literally pushes you to the edge. But to reach its most fascinating destination requires serious nerves of steel.

Zanskar Valley, located deep in the eastern wilderness of Ladakh, exists in a time and space of its own—a place of towering mountains, crystal-clear lakes, and ancient monasteries. I’ve seen the Andes, the Alps, and parts of the Himalayas, but nothing like this. Once, as we drove through a mountain range, tears filled my eyes—not from the cold, but from the phantasmagoria that unfolded before me, sculpted by time into shapes that seemed unreal.

At sunrise, under a cloudless sky, I set off from Leh, the capital of Ladakh, with my driver in a souped-up SUV. The road—if you could call it that—was a snaking hairpin ledge hacked into the mountainside. Below, the Indus River rumbled, overflowing with snowmelt, and above, loomed some of the world’s highest peaks.

As we ascended, the air thinned, the temperature dropped, and the peaks closed in like walls of ice. At 15,000 feet, we were on one of the highest motorable roads in the world. Crazy hairpin turns, sheer cliffs with no guardrails, and army convoys barreling past made the drive all the more nerve-wracking.

Then, the land seemed to turn against us. Forests and streams vanished, replaced by jagged, alien rock formations. We entered Moonland—a barren wasteland of black, red, and orange stone. Eagles soared above distant glaciers, but we had no time to stop. A blizzard loomed, and we were forced to drive through the night on a faster, deadlier route.

As our SUV bounced along the cliff’s edge, its headlights slicing through pitch darkness, it felt like we were driving into an abyss. No lights. No signs. No barriers. 15,000 feet below us, a black lake. One wrong move, and we’d be swallowed by the night.

It almost happened. Check out videos 3 & 4 (“Hell”) to see just how close we came to disaster. It was the seventh time I cheated death. With only two lives left, maybe I’ll just sip a margarita at the beach next time. 😎

LIVING ON THE EDGE • Of all the places I’ve traveled, Ladakh has got to be one of the most exhilarating. It’s unlike anywhere in India—or on earth for that matter—a place that literally pushes you to the edge. But to reach its most fascinating destination requires serious nerves of steel.

Zanskar Valley, located deep in the eastern wilderness of Ladakh, exists in a time and space of its own—a place of towering mountains, crystal-clear lakes, and ancient monasteries. I’ve seen the Andes, the Alps, and parts of the Himalayas, but nothing like this. Once, as we drove through a mountain range, tears filled my eyes—not from the cold, but from the phantasmagoria that unfolded before me, sculpted by time into shapes that seemed unreal.

At sunrise, under a cloudless sky, I set off from Leh, the capital of Ladakh, with my driver in a souped-up SUV. The road—if you could call it that—was a snaking hairpin ledge hacked into the mountainside. Below, the Indus River rumbled, overflowing with snowmelt, and above, loomed some of the world’s highest peaks.

As we ascended, the air thinned, the temperature dropped, and the peaks closed in like walls of ice. At 15,000 feet, we were on one of the highest motorable roads in the world. Crazy hairpin turns, sheer cliffs with no guardrails, and army convoys barreling past made the drive all the more nerve-wracking.

Then, the land seemed to turn against us. Forests and streams vanished, replaced by jagged, alien rock formations. We entered Moonland—a barren wasteland of black, red, and orange stone. Eagles soared above distant glaciers, but we had no time to stop. A blizzard loomed, and we were forced to drive through the night on a faster, deadlier route.

As our SUV bounced along the cliff’s edge, its headlights slicing through pitch darkness, it felt like we were driving into an abyss. No lights. No signs. No barriers. 15,000 feet below us, a black lake. One wrong move, and we’d be swallowed by the night.

It almost happened. Check out videos 3 & 4 (“Hell”) to see just how close we came to disaster. It was the seventh time I cheated death. With only two lives left, maybe I’ll just sip a margarita at the beach next time. 😎

FRAGMENTS • I shot this photo over 30 years ago, somewhere in the Philippines. The rice terraces stretched for miles, carved into the mountainside and glistening after the night’s rain. Water pooled in cascading layers, reflecting green rice shoots and a pale blue sky. In the distance, they dissolved into thick mist.

I stood there, breathing in the cool, damp air. The smell of wet soil and fresh grass lingered, mingling with the faint trace of wood smoke rising from the village below. Sounds came and went: a distant rooster’s crow, water trickling down the slopes, leaves stirring in the breeze. At times, I heard the soft squish of boots in the mud and the murmur of farmers heading to the fields. But mostly, it was quiet—the kind of quiet that sharpens everything else.

At least, that’s what my diary says.

The memory itself has faded, but for years, I’ve trained myself to notice and record the fragments that define moments like this. It’s astounding how much detail can be packed into a single instant. My diaries are filled with notes and scribbles—attempts to capture the elusive subtleties: the way mist swirled in the backlight of the rising sun, the ripple of water as a frog leapt into a puddle, the faint hum of hidden streams winding through the terraces.

As poetic as it may all sound, writing this post was anything but. It was like piecing together a puzzle. Bits of what I saw, smelled, heard, and felt were scattered across my notes. A few details stayed vivid, while others surfaced only after some thought. But much of it was gone. Reconstructing the scene meant slotting those missing fragments into the hazy picture of what I remembered. My camera captured the shapes and colors, but it was the smells, sounds, and textures that truly brought me back to that moment.

I do this because memory is fickle. It fades, distorts, and rewrites itself. Even in my diary, I know that the feeling and the description of the feeling aren’t the same. From experiencing to describing, something always gets lost in translation. No words ever seem sharp or deep enough to capture a moment. But maybe that’s the point—some things aren’t meant to be explained, only felt. ▪️

FRAGMENTS • I shot this photo over 30 years ago, somewhere in the Philippines. The rice terraces stretched for miles, carved into the mountainside and glistening after the night’s rain. Water pooled in cascading layers, reflecting green rice shoots and a pale blue sky. In the distance, they dissolved into thick mist.

I stood there, breathing in the cool, damp air. The smell of wet soil and fresh grass lingered, mingling with the faint trace of wood smoke rising from the village below. Sounds came and went: a distant rooster’s crow, water trickling down the slopes, leaves stirring in the breeze. At times, I heard the soft squish of boots in the mud and the murmur of farmers heading to the fields. But mostly, it was quiet—the kind of quiet that sharpens everything else.

At least, that’s what my diary says.

The memory itself has faded, but for years, I’ve trained myself to notice and record the fragments that define moments like this. It’s astounding how much detail can be packed into a single instant. My diaries are filled with notes and scribbles—attempts to capture the elusive subtleties: the way mist swirled in the backlight of the rising sun, the ripple of water as a frog leapt into a puddle, the faint hum of hidden streams winding through the terraces.

As poetic as it may all sound, writing this post was anything but. It was like piecing together a puzzle. Bits of what I saw, smelled, heard, and felt were scattered across my notes. A few details stayed vivid, while others surfaced only after some thought. But much of it was gone. Reconstructing the scene meant slotting those missing fragments into the hazy picture of what I remembered. My camera captured the shapes and colors, but it was the smells, sounds, and textures that truly brought me back to that moment.

I do this because memory is fickle. It fades, distorts, and rewrites itself. Even in my diary, I know that the feeling and the description of the feeling aren’t the same. From experiencing to describing, something always gets lost in translation. No words ever seem sharp or deep enough to capture a moment. But maybe that’s the point—some things aren’t meant to be explained, only felt. ▪️

ETERNAL NOMADS • As I step out of my tent at dawn, it feels like I’ve crossed through a portal. A blinding light jolts me then dissolves, revealing the golden dunes of the Thar Desert. On the horizon, Jaisalmer Fort rises like a mirage—a relic from a time when the city pulsed with music, art, and trade. Once a bustling stop along the Silk Route, the “Golden City” of Jaisalmer now stands still, its stories buried in the sand.

I’ve come to meet the ghummakars, the nomads who’ve roamed these dunes for centuries. They’re storytellers, snake charmers, musicians, and dancers, once cherished by maharajas but now scraping by selling trinkets to tourists. Marginalized as low-caste “gypsies,” they literally bear the weight of survival on their backs.

After a breakfast of roti and chai, my guide and I head deeper into the Thar. The sun is merciless, the humidity clinging like a second skin. We drive for hours along desolate roads that stretch endlessly. The emptiness is broken only by the occasional shrub. It’s hard to imagine how life can survive here, yet the ghummakars have thrived for generations.

By dusk, we reach a makeshift encampment near the Pakistan border. We’re greeted by an old man sporting a yellow turban, a white handlebar mustache, and a toothless grin. We follow him into his modest home where the walls are adorned with colorful textiles, woven baskets, and faded Bollywood posters. The room is thick with smoke and the scent of spices.

His wife sits in the back, stirring a pot over an open fire. She’s dressed in a bright red saree, and her metal bracelets and anklets clink to the rhythm of her body. Huddled nearby, her three children gaze up at me shyly, their soiled faces reflecting the flicker of the flames. We share a meal of spiced lentils, flatbreads, and fresh chutney, followed by ladoos for dessert.

As the night chill sets in, we gather around a bonfire with other tribe members. One by one, they begin chanting songs, weaving tales as old as the sand beneath us. Under a starry sky, the women sway in dance to a soft drumbeat, their motion fluid like the dunes. I sit hypnotized, drawn to the soul of these people, to a world slowly slipping away.▪️

ETERNAL NOMADS • As I step out of my tent at dawn, it feels like I’ve crossed through a portal. A blinding light jolts me then dissolves, revealing the golden dunes of the Thar Desert. On the horizon, Jaisalmer Fort rises like a mirage—a relic from a time when the city pulsed with music, art, and trade. Once a bustling stop along the Silk Route, the “Golden City” of Jaisalmer now stands still, its stories buried in the sand.

I’ve come to meet the ghummakars, the nomads who’ve roamed these dunes for centuries. They’re storytellers, snake charmers, musicians, and dancers, once cherished by maharajas but now scraping by selling trinkets to tourists. Marginalized as low-caste “gypsies,” they literally bear the weight of survival on their backs.

After a breakfast of roti and chai, my guide and I head deeper into the Thar. The sun is merciless, the humidity clinging like a second skin. We drive for hours along desolate roads that stretch endlessly. The emptiness is broken only by the occasional shrub. It’s hard to imagine how life can survive here, yet the ghummakars have thrived for generations.

By dusk, we reach a makeshift encampment near the Pakistan border. We’re greeted by an old man sporting a yellow turban, a white handlebar mustache, and a toothless grin. We follow him into his modest home where the walls are adorned with colorful textiles, woven baskets, and faded Bollywood posters. The room is thick with smoke and the scent of spices.

His wife sits in the back, stirring a pot over an open fire. She’s dressed in a bright red saree, and her metal bracelets and anklets clink to the rhythm of her body. Huddled nearby, her three children gaze up at me shyly, their soiled faces reflecting the flicker of the flames. We share a meal of spiced lentils, flatbreads, and fresh chutney, followed by ladoos for dessert.

As the night chill sets in, we gather around a bonfire with other tribe members. One by one, they begin chanting songs, weaving tales as old as the sand beneath us. Under a starry sky, the women sway in dance to a soft drumbeat, their motion fluid like the dunes. I sit hypnotized, drawn to the soul of these people, to a world slowly slipping away.▪️

GURUS & GANGSTERS • Stepwells have existed in India for centuries, ingeniously designed to collect water during dry seasons. They once served as communal spaces for locals to gather, bathe, and draw water. I became fascinated by them years ago after seeing an image in a magazine. The crisscrossing staircases reminded me of M.C. Escher’s famous “Relativity” drawing.

These unique geometric wonders, merging architecture, engineering, and art, have been photographed endlessly. Do a quick Google search and you’ll be flooded with countless generic “stock photo” style images. So, during my trip to India last year, I set out to put my own spin on it, unaware how complicated it would be.

I scouted locations across Rajasthan before finding my perfect stepwell in Jaipur. It wasn’t the biggest or most famous, but its graphic symmetry and ornate masonry made it the most photogenic. There was just one problem: it was closed to the public. But this was India. With the right connections and money, rules can be bent.

After my guide chatted up half the city, we met a guy renting elephants who hooked us up with a shady Afghan in tight jeans and Gucci sunglasses. Turned out, he was a fixer for the local mafia who knew exactly how to make my shot happen—for a price, of course.

He led me through an ornate gate to a stunning whitewashed villa, straight out of a Bollywood gangster flick. Instead of a cigar-chomping mob boss, I met a bearded yogi named Santosh, sitting on the rooftop, meditating. The stepwell lay on his property, a family heirloom for generations.

Santosh was no ordinary guru. He had traveled the world, spoke fluent English and German, and was a savvy businessman. We chatted for an hour against the historic backdrop of Amer Fort and cut a deal over spicy chai. He agreed to produce my photo—for a price, of course—handpicking the women from a nearby village and even styling their costumes.

In the end, I got the exact shot I wanted, proving that photography isn’t just about clicking a shutter. It’s an adventure that requires an open mind, a little hustle, charm, and a touch of divine intervention—especially when it takes a guru and a gangster to make it happen. 😎

GURUS & GANGSTERS • Stepwells have existed in India for centuries, ingeniously designed to collect water during dry seasons. They once served as communal spaces for locals to gather, bathe, and draw water. I became fascinated by them years ago after seeing an image in a magazine. The crisscrossing staircases reminded me of M.C. Escher’s famous “Relativity” drawing.

These unique geometric wonders, merging architecture, engineering, and art, have been photographed endlessly. Do a quick Google search and you’ll be flooded with countless generic “stock photo” style images. So, during my trip to India last year, I set out to put my own spin on it, unaware how complicated it would be.

I scouted locations across Rajasthan before finding my perfect stepwell in Jaipur. It wasn’t the biggest or most famous, but its graphic symmetry and ornate masonry made it the most photogenic. There was just one problem: it was closed to the public. But this was India. With the right connections and money, rules can be bent.

After my guide chatted up half the city, we met a guy renting elephants who hooked us up with a shady Afghan in tight jeans and Gucci sunglasses. Turned out, he was a fixer for the local mafia who knew exactly how to make my shot happen—for a price, of course.

He led me through an ornate gate to a stunning whitewashed villa, straight out of a Bollywood gangster flick. Instead of a cigar-chomping mob boss, I met a bearded yogi named Santosh, sitting on the rooftop, meditating. The stepwell lay on his property, a family heirloom for generations.

Santosh was no ordinary guru. He had traveled the world, spoke fluent English and German, and was a savvy businessman. We chatted for an hour against the historic backdrop of Amer Fort and cut a deal over spicy chai. He agreed to produce my photo—for a price, of course—handpicking the women from a nearby village and even styling their costumes.

In the end, I got the exact shot I wanted, proving that photography isn’t just about clicking a shutter. It’s an adventure that requires an open mind, a little hustle, charm, and a touch of divine intervention—especially when it takes a guru and a gangster to make it happen. 😎

RIVER OF SOULS • Last year, on my way to the Himalayas, I had a few days to kill in Kathmandu. I usually steer clear of tourist spots, but after almost 20 years since my last visit, I was curious to see how much had changed. The city was an eclectic mix of ancient palaces and temples, and modern architecture. Traditional markets and shops now coexisted with trendy cafes and boutiques. The scars of the 2015 earthquake were still evident, but so was the resilience of the Nepalese people.

One evening, I went to Pashupatinath, a vast complex of temples and ashrams teeming with pilgrims and tourists. The main attraction lies along the Bagmati River where centuries-old cremation rituals are still performed. Here, I watched families cleanse their deceased loved ones in the holy waters, scrubbing away the last remnants of life. The corpses were then wrapped in colorful cloth and laid atop wooden pyres. Priests chanted mantras as family members lit the fire. The crackle of burning wood signaled the beginning of the end.

Smoke billowed into the sky, and a breeze carried the scent of burning flesh and sandalwood incense across the river. A monkey scurrying along the bank was startled by a sudden deep guttural cry. The air was heavy with grief as mourners grappled with their loss. Some gazed into the flames, searching for meaning; others turned away, unable to face reality. As the bodies incinerated, families huddled together until only embers and memories remained. Entire lifetimes were reduced to dust in no time!

A group of sadhus sat nearby, as calm as Hindu cows. Their painted faces and colorful robes were just as I remembered, but now their presence felt out of place. These “holy men” weren’t meditating; they were waiting for tourists, staging Instagram holiness in exchange for rupees. In a world craving spectacle, even the sacred had become a commodity.

As the sun set and the fires burned brighter, I felt everything around me in flux. The city, the people, even the ground beneath my feet had changed since my last visit. The only constant was the inevitability of it all. Life is brief, life is tragic, and like the river of souls, life flows on, indifferently.▪️

RIVER OF SOULS • Last year, on my way to the Himalayas, I had a few days to kill in Kathmandu. I usually steer clear of tourist spots, but after almost 20 years since my last visit, I was curious to see how much had changed. The city was an eclectic mix of ancient palaces and temples, and modern architecture. Traditional markets and shops now coexisted with trendy cafes and boutiques. The scars of the 2015 earthquake were still evident, but so was the resilience of the Nepalese people.

One evening, I went to Pashupatinath, a vast complex of temples and ashrams teeming with pilgrims and tourists. The main attraction lies along the Bagmati River where centuries-old cremation rituals are still performed. Here, I watched families cleanse their deceased loved ones in the holy waters, scrubbing away the last remnants of life. The corpses were then wrapped in colorful cloth and laid atop wooden pyres. Priests chanted mantras as family members lit the fire. The crackle of burning wood signaled the beginning of the end.

Smoke billowed into the sky, and a breeze carried the scent of burning flesh and sandalwood incense across the river. A monkey scurrying along the bank was startled by a sudden deep guttural cry. The air was heavy with grief as mourners grappled with their loss. Some gazed into the flames, searching for meaning; others turned away, unable to face reality. As the bodies incinerated, families huddled together until only embers and memories remained. Entire lifetimes were reduced to dust in no time!

A group of sadhus sat nearby, as calm as Hindu cows. Their painted faces and colorful robes were just as I remembered, but now their presence felt out of place. These “holy men” weren’t meditating; they were waiting for tourists, staging Instagram holiness in exchange for rupees. In a world craving spectacle, even the sacred had become a commodity.

As the sun set and the fires burned brighter, I felt everything around me in flux. The city, the people, even the ground beneath my feet had changed since my last visit. The only constant was the inevitability of it all. Life is brief, life is tragic, and like the river of souls, life flows on, indifferently.▪️

ON MY DEATHBED, I’ll ask myself one simple question: “Did you squeeze the juice out of life?” If the answer is not a resounding, “YES!!!”, I’m going to Hell. ▪️

ON MY DEATHBED, I’ll ask myself one simple question: “Did you squeeze the juice out of life?” If the answer is not a resounding, “YES!!!”, I’m going to Hell. ▪️

OUTSIDE LOOKING IN • When I arrived in Kathmandu last year, one of the first things I noticed was the number of children living on the streets. In rural Nepal, poverty is rampant, and life is incredibly tough. Many kids flee to the capital, hoping for a better future. Instead, they find even harsher conditions. Most end up begging and pickpocketing to survive, spending what little they earn on cheap drugs and glue. They live in constant danger, facing numerous risks, such as violence, poor health and sanitation, forced labor, and addiction.

One day, while stuck in a traffic jam in Kathmandu, two boys, no more than 15 years old, tapped on my window. They were soaking wet from a recent downpour. With big brown eyes and sad faces, they offered colorful balloons for sale. I didn’t need balloons, but I saw a great photo opportunity. I quickly snapped this shot and gave them a tip. Later, in a park, I met two younger boys selling cotton candy with an irresistible pitch. “Uncle,” they said with mischievous smirks, “You look sour. You need this cotton candy to sweeten up.” Thanks to their hustle, they got the sweeter end of the deal. I captured the second photo as they walked away.

Throughout my travels, I’ve witnessed firsthand the hardships children face in underdeveloped countries. In the Peruvian altiplano, kids sold rocks by the side of the road because they had nothing else. In Calcutta, I met a teenage runaway who worked for a drug cartel and had his stomach slashed open by rival gangsters. In Sulawesi, Indonesia, a mother boiled rocks in a pot to appease her children crying from hunger. I can recount similar stories from almost every continent, all equally heart-breaking.

Despite the efforts of many NGOs to set up shelters and provide education, healthcare, and counseling, some children are too deeply entrenched in street life to accept help. They are addicted to the freedom and the substances that offer them a temporary escape from their pain. It’s a sad cycle that’s tough to break — one that requires more effort to give these kids a fair shot at life. Every child deserves a chance to dream beyond the streets.▪️

OUTSIDE LOOKING IN • When I arrived in Kathmandu last year, one of the first things I noticed was the number of children living on the streets. In rural Nepal, poverty is rampant, and life is incredibly tough. Many kids flee to the capital, hoping for a better future. Instead, they find even harsher conditions. Most end up begging and pickpocketing to survive, spending what little they earn on cheap drugs and glue. They live in constant danger, facing numerous risks, such as violence, poor health and sanitation, forced labor, and addiction.

One day, while stuck in a traffic jam in Kathmandu, two boys, no more than 15 years old, tapped on my window. They were soaking wet from a recent downpour. With big brown eyes and sad faces, they offered colorful balloons for sale. I didn’t need balloons, but I saw a great photo opportunity. I quickly snapped this shot and gave them a tip. Later, in a park, I met two younger boys selling cotton candy with an irresistible pitch. “Uncle,” they said with mischievous smirks, “You look sour. You need this cotton candy to sweeten up.” Thanks to their hustle, they got the sweeter end of the deal. I captured the second photo as they walked away.

Throughout my travels, I’ve witnessed firsthand the hardships children face in underdeveloped countries. In the Peruvian altiplano, kids sold rocks by the side of the road because they had nothing else. In Calcutta, I met a teenage runaway who worked for a drug cartel and had his stomach slashed open by rival gangsters. In Sulawesi, Indonesia, a mother boiled rocks in a pot to appease her children crying from hunger. I can recount similar stories from almost every continent, all equally heart-breaking.

Despite the efforts of many NGOs to set up shelters and provide education, healthcare, and counseling, some children are too deeply entrenched in street life to accept help. They are addicted to the freedom and the substances that offer them a temporary escape from their pain. It’s a sad cycle that’s tough to break — one that requires more effort to give these kids a fair shot at life. Every child deserves a chance to dream beyond the streets.▪️

FLYING HIGH • In this photo, monks fly a kite at 15,000 feet against the backdrop of the Himalayas in Upper Mustang. Last year, I spent nearly three months at these lofty altitudes in Nepal and northern India, reaching up to 20,000 feet, just 9,000 feet shy of Everest. It surpassed my previous record of 16,000 feet in the Chilean Andes over two decades ago.

I knew that at age 56 navigating the world’s highest mountain range would be a daunting challenge. Six months before my trip, I embarked on a rigorous training regimen, focusing on building cardiovascular endurance, core strength, and acclimatizing to high altitude. Each minute on the treadmill and bike, each push-up, pull-up, lunge, squat, and deadlift brought me closer to my goal. Additionally, altitude simulation became a key part of my preparation, priming my body for the thin Himalayan air.

From past experiences, I also knew I’d have to endure long periods of solitude and discomfort. Mental strain often proves to be the breaking point on such trips. Through meditation and mindfulness, I honed my ability to silence doubts and fears, using visualization as my superpower.

Once I was in the Himalayas, proper hydration and nutrition were essential for sustaining my energy levels and preventing altitude sickness. While chewing cocoa leaves helped with acclimatization in the Andes, raw garlic did the trick in the Himalayas. I drank plenty of water and prioritized a high-protein diet, consisting mainly of meat and lentils, even in remote areas where junk foods and sugar prevailed.

All this discipline paid off as I was able to venture to some far out locations and capture, arguably, the best photographs of my life. From breathtaking landscapes to portraits of fascinating indigenous cultures, I came back with so many incredible images that it’s taking me months to go through them all.

Like all great journeys, this one tested my physical and mental resolve to the limit. Each workout, every moment of mindfulness, and each step taken with purpose contributed to my success. Armed with nothing but a dream and sheer determination, I reached the highest inner and outer peak of my life. I can’t wait to go back.▪

FLYING HIGH • In this photo, monks fly a kite at 15,000 feet against the backdrop of the Himalayas in Upper Mustang. Last year, I spent nearly three months at these lofty altitudes in Nepal and northern India, reaching up to 20,000 feet, just 9,000 feet shy of Everest. It surpassed my previous record of 16,000 feet in the Chilean Andes over two decades ago.

I knew that at age 56 navigating the world’s highest mountain range would be a daunting challenge. Six months before my trip, I embarked on a rigorous training regimen, focusing on building cardiovascular endurance, core strength, and acclimatizing to high altitude. Each minute on the treadmill and bike, each push-up, pull-up, lunge, squat, and deadlift brought me closer to my goal. Additionally, altitude simulation became a key part of my preparation, priming my body for the thin Himalayan air.

From past experiences, I also knew I’d have to endure long periods of solitude and discomfort. Mental strain often proves to be the breaking point on such trips. Through meditation and mindfulness, I honed my ability to silence doubts and fears, using visualization as my superpower.

Once I was in the Himalayas, proper hydration and nutrition were essential for sustaining my energy levels and preventing altitude sickness. While chewing cocoa leaves helped with acclimatization in the Andes, raw garlic did the trick in the Himalayas. I drank plenty of water and prioritized a high-protein diet, consisting mainly of meat and lentils, even in remote areas where junk foods and sugar prevailed.

All this discipline paid off as I was able to venture to some far out locations and capture, arguably, the best photographs of my life. From breathtaking landscapes to portraits of fascinating indigenous cultures, I came back with so many incredible images that it’s taking me months to go through them all.

Like all great journeys, this one tested my physical and mental resolve to the limit. Each workout, every moment of mindfulness, and each step taken with purpose contributed to my success. Armed with nothing but a dream and sheer determination, I reached the highest inner and outer peak of my life. I can’t wait to go back.▪

LITTLE BUDDHA • I shot this image at the onset of my trip through the Himalayas last year in the beautiful historic city of Patan, or Lalitpur, as it’s now known. Located on the outskirts of Kathmandu, Patan was and still is a vibrant center of Nepalese art, tradition and culture. With its narrow streets, brick houses, and ancient monuments, it evokes a distinctive old-world charm.

Among the numerous Buddhist shrines and monasteries in the city, the most sacred is the Golden Temple, which was built in the 14th century and has outlasted various dynasties that once battled to rule the city. The main shrine houses a large Buddha statue, which was apparently discovered in a dense jungle and rescued from ruin by one of the original priests of the monastery.

In this photo, Nirzol, a nine year old novice monk, stands at the entrance gate of the Golden Temple. He was designated as the Bapacha, the monastery’s principal priest for a month—a distinguished title bestowed to an exceptional boy between the ages of eight and twelve. When I met Nirzol in September, he had been living in total isolation from the outside world; no connection even to his family. For the entire month, this little Buddha in training would focus his attention only on his religious duties and serving the needs of the bigger Buddha. ▪️

LITTLE BUDDHA • I shot this image at the onset of my trip through the Himalayas last year in the beautiful historic city of Patan, or Lalitpur, as it’s now known. Located on the outskirts of Kathmandu, Patan was and still is a vibrant center of Nepalese art, tradition and culture. With its narrow streets, brick houses, and ancient monuments, it evokes a distinctive old-world charm.

Among the numerous Buddhist shrines and monasteries in the city, the most sacred is the Golden Temple, which was built in the 14th century and has outlasted various dynasties that once battled to rule the city. The main shrine houses a large Buddha statue, which was apparently discovered in a dense jungle and rescued from ruin by one of the original priests of the monastery.

In this photo, Nirzol, a nine year old novice monk, stands at the entrance gate of the Golden Temple. He was designated as the Bapacha, the monastery’s principal priest for a month—a distinguished title bestowed to an exceptional boy between the ages of eight and twelve. When I met Nirzol in September, he had been living in total isolation from the outside world; no connection even to his family. For the entire month, this little Buddha in training would focus his attention only on his religious duties and serving the needs of the bigger Buddha. ▪️

HIDDEN GEMS • During my recent trip to the Himalayas, a local monk invited me to an out-of-the way monastery. We arrived at dawn to a magnificent complex with a golden roof gleaming in the morning light. Colorful prayer flags lined the path to its entrance, leading us to a serene courtyard garden. On one of the terraces, two young monks recited mantras, pausing now and then to admire the valley below. True to my guide’s word, no tourists were in sight.

Each year, it seems I have to travel further off the beaten path to find authentic places like this, untouched by tourism. The world has shrunk since smartphones and social media spawned a new breed of ‘explorers.’ Obsessed with likes and follows, aspiring influencers and photographers now venture to far flung locations, hell-bent on capturing the next viral image. These are often hit and run jobs—snapshots that reduce vibrant local cultures to mere photo backdrops and, ultimately, turn them into cultural clichés.

In my years of travel, I immersed myself in diverse cultures, valuing experiences over photos. Sometimes I spent days or even months engaging with the locals before taking a single shot. Delving into their lives, and their ancestral traditions and beliefs, remains the most fascinating and rewarding part of my journeys. These interactions allowed me to forge meaningful connections with indigenous cultures around the world and uncover countless untold stories.

Understanding the depth of a foreign culture empowers photographers to craft uniquely insightful photos while respecting the ways of the community. It guides us to act ethically, ensuring we take every precaution to protect the heritage of those we portray. This extra effort makes the difference between a snapshot and a photograph. Perhaps the ‘snapshot’ trend stems from indifference or laziness—or maybe it’s just a product of our insta-everything society. As long as this mentality prevails, some gems are best kept hidden. ▪️

HIDDEN GEMS • During my recent trip to the Himalayas, a local monk invited me to an out-of-the way monastery. We arrived at dawn to a magnificent complex with a golden roof gleaming in the morning light. Colorful prayer flags lined the path to its entrance, leading us to a serene courtyard garden. On one of the terraces, two young monks recited mantras, pausing now and then to admire the valley below. True to my guide’s word, no tourists were in sight.

Each year, it seems I have to travel further off the beaten path to find authentic places like this, untouched by tourism. The world has shrunk since smartphones and social media spawned a new breed of ‘explorers.’ Obsessed with likes and follows, aspiring influencers and photographers now venture to far flung locations, hell-bent on capturing the next viral image. These are often hit and run jobs—snapshots that reduce vibrant local cultures to mere photo backdrops and, ultimately, turn them into cultural clichés.

In my years of travel, I immersed myself in diverse cultures, valuing experiences over photos. Sometimes I spent days or even months engaging with the locals before taking a single shot. Delving into their lives, and their ancestral traditions and beliefs, remains the most fascinating and rewarding part of my journeys. These interactions allowed me to forge meaningful connections with indigenous cultures around the world and uncover countless untold stories.

Understanding the depth of a foreign culture empowers photographers to craft uniquely insightful photos while respecting the ways of the community. It guides us to act ethically, ensuring we take every precaution to protect the heritage of those we portray. This extra effort makes the difference between a snapshot and a photograph. Perhaps the ‘snapshot’ trend stems from indifference or laziness—or maybe it’s just a product of our insta-everything society. As long as this mentality prevails, some gems are best kept hidden. ▪️

CHICKEN RUN • Rush hour in Kathmandu, where chickens travel faster than cars. This dude was zipping thru traffic, presumably on his way to the market, with at least twenty live chickens dangling from his bike. Maybe he should use the car-pool lane next time. 😂

CHICKEN RUN • Rush hour in Kathmandu, where chickens travel faster than cars. This dude was zipping thru traffic, presumably on his way to the market, with at least twenty live chickens dangling from his bike. Maybe he should use the car-pool lane next time. 😂

A NEW DAY • In the soft glow of twilight, Bhaktapur’s Durbar Square stirs awake with a gentle hum of activity. The air, crisp and fragrant with incense wafting from nearby temples, hangs in anticipation of yet another bustling day. In a secluded corner, with my camera poised on a tripod, I sit back and observe the morning unfolding. Like a sniper, I await the perfect convergence of elements to fire my shutter.

In these fleeting moments, before the day fully awakens, the true essence of Durbar Square’s heritage pervades the senses ever so strongly. Soon, the square will transform into a vibrant cacophony of colors, sounds, and aromas. But for now, in the hush of dawn, it remains a sanctuary of calm, enveloping me completely.

Surrounded by centuries-old architecture, a lone dog watches three women sweeping their brooms serenely amidst a sea of pigeons. Dressed in vibrant saris, they dust away the remnants of yesterday, infusing the square with a renewed sense of cleanliness. The rhythmic swish of their brooms against the cobblestones mixed with the gentle cooing of the pigeons lulls the lazy dog back to sleep.

Gradually, other figures enter my frame. Shopkeepers unveil their stalls, setting out colorful trinkets, spices, and textiles, ready to entice passing visitors. Devotees make their way to the nearby temples, offering prayers and lighting oil lamps, their faces aglow with devotion. And then, in a serendipitous moment, it happens. A cluster of pigeons takes flight, their wings catching the first rays of dawn, completing the perfect scene I’d been waiting for. ▪️

A NEW DAY • In the soft glow of twilight, Bhaktapur’s Durbar Square stirs awake with a gentle hum of activity. The air, crisp and fragrant with incense wafting from nearby temples, hangs in anticipation of yet another bustling day. In a secluded corner, with my camera poised on a tripod, I sit back and observe the morning unfolding. Like a sniper, I await the perfect convergence of elements to fire my shutter.

In these fleeting moments, before the day fully awakens, the true essence of Durbar Square’s heritage pervades the senses ever so strongly. Soon, the square will transform into a vibrant cacophony of colors, sounds, and aromas. But for now, in the hush of dawn, it remains a sanctuary of calm, enveloping me completely.

Surrounded by centuries-old architecture, a lone dog watches three women sweeping their brooms serenely amidst a sea of pigeons. Dressed in vibrant saris, they dust away the remnants of yesterday, infusing the square with a renewed sense of cleanliness. The rhythmic swish of their brooms against the cobblestones mixed with the gentle cooing of the pigeons lulls the lazy dog back to sleep.

Gradually, other figures enter my frame. Shopkeepers unveil their stalls, setting out colorful trinkets, spices, and textiles, ready to entice passing visitors. Devotees make their way to the nearby temples, offering prayers and lighting oil lamps, their faces aglow with devotion. And then, in a serendipitous moment, it happens. A cluster of pigeons takes flight, their wings catching the first rays of dawn, completing the perfect scene I’d been waiting for. ▪️

LOSING MYSELF • Today, on my 56th birthday, I find myself literally on top of the world. As you read this, I’m in Nepal, navigating the Himalayas at 15,000 feet and counting. I’m chasing a feeling that’s elusive and impossible to articulate—a natural high I get only in far flung places like this. It’s amidst the vast valleys, the majestic peaks, and the mystical allure of ancient cultures that I’m able to free myself from the shackles of familiarity.

Sometimes you have to lose yourself to find yourself…

I’ve been on the road since mid-September, and for the next two months, my path will take me to remote corners of Nepal and northern India, places unmarked on any map. For nearly 35 years, these off-the-grid solo journeys have tested my mettle and served as my conduits to self-discovery. They’re challenging trips, which demand meticulous planning, and months of physical and mental training. The risks are plenty, but the rewards are life-affirming.

Take it from me, I broke too many bones and had five near-death experiences during these crazy adventures; yet, it only fueled my desire to travel. Why? Because the fragility of life is no longer an abstract concept to me. It galvanized into a reality when death stared me in the face. In those dark moments, the brevity of life hit me like a rock, shattering my preconceptions, and forcing me to reevaluate my priorities. Now, my life is extra lean, and my goals very, very clear. It may sound like a cliché, but each second truly does matter.

Ultimately, we’re nothing but decaying organisms. As the clock ticks away, I’m fortunate to feel more alive than ever—physically, mentally, and spiritually. It’s a sensation that surpasses the vigor of my youth, proving that life’s true essence transcends mere age. And yet, I’m acutely aware of the end game.

So, as I march into the unknown, I take comfort in knowing that I carry not just the weight of years but a lightness of being. Each step I take, I’m mindful of my impermanence, cognizant that time is the best birthday gift of all. ▪️

———————————-
All photos above taken by my most excellent guide, translator, fixer, and photo assistant: @gurungjampa. सबै थोकको लागी धन्यवाद!

LOSING MYSELF • Today, on my 56th birthday, I find myself literally on top of the world. As you read this, I’m in Nepal, navigating the Himalayas at 15,000 feet and counting. I’m chasing a feeling that’s elusive and impossible to articulate—a natural high I get only in far flung places like this. It’s amidst the vast valleys, the majestic peaks, and the mystical allure of ancient cultures that I’m able to free myself from the shackles of familiarity.

Sometimes you have to lose yourself to find yourself…

I’ve been on the road since mid-September, and for the next two months, my path will take me to remote corners of Nepal and northern India, places unmarked on any map. For nearly 35 years, these off-the-grid solo journeys have tested my mettle and served as my conduits to self-discovery. They’re challenging trips, which demand meticulous planning, and months of physical and mental training. The risks are plenty, but the rewards are life-affirming.

Take it from me, I broke too many bones and had five near-death experiences during these crazy adventures; yet, it only fueled my desire to travel. Why? Because the fragility of life is no longer an abstract concept to me. It galvanized into a reality when death stared me in the face. In those dark moments, the brevity of life hit me like a rock, shattering my preconceptions, and forcing me to reevaluate my priorities. Now, my life is extra lean, and my goals very, very clear. It may sound like a cliché, but each second truly does matter.

Ultimately, we’re nothing but decaying organisms. As the clock ticks away, I’m fortunate to feel more alive than ever—physically, mentally, and spiritually. It’s a sensation that surpasses the vigor of my youth, proving that life’s true essence transcends mere age. And yet, I’m acutely aware of the end game.

So, as I march into the unknown, I take comfort in knowing that I carry not just the weight of years but a lightness of being. Each step I take, I’m mindful of my impermanence, cognizant that time is the best birthday gift of all. ▪️

———————————-
All photos above taken by my most excellent guide, translator, fixer, and photo assistant: @gurungjampa. सबै थोकको लागी धन्यवाद!

THAT’S ME • I like to look at things backwards, inside out and upside down—just to see if they look any better.▪

THAT’S ME • I like to look at things backwards, inside out and upside down—just to see if they look any better.▪

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 🎂 to my beautiful goddess, Natasha. Photo taken on our wedding day in Bali, 2015. ♥️

HAPPY BIRTHDAY 🎂 to my beautiful goddess, Natasha. Photo taken on our wedding day in Bali, 2015. ♥️

A NEW YORK STATE OF MIND • Dear New York, I love you. I love you for adopting me as no other city in the world ever could. I love you for inspiring me and depressing me—often at the same time. I love you for the good times and the bad, and for the invaluable lessons you taught me. I love you for introducing me to the most beautiful girl in the world. I love you for making me a better person and for so much more...

I love you for those crisp autumn mornings and restless summer nights. I love you for keeping your best kept secrets hidden from tourists. I love you for your dusty record shops and dollar slices in the Village. I love you for my favorite bar at the corner of Church and Walker, and for almost everything in TriBeCa. I love you for the countless blurry nights in your underground clubs.

I love you for your diversity and for bringing together the most creative and inspiring characters of all races, cultures, religions, sexual orientations and income brackets. I love you for your tolerance and for your humanity. I love you for your unrelenting energy, for your insanity, for your impetuousness, for your insolence and resilience.

And if that’s not enough... I love you despite your traffic, your jackhammering, the blare of your sirens, your garbage piled on the sidewalks, your roads pitted with potholes, your outrageous prices, your rats and roaches on steroids, your stench of pee and puke at 3 in the morning, your crazy cyclists—and heck, I’ll even forgive you for your Wall Street bros. Cuz that’s how much I love you!

Sure, you drive me nuts at times, so much so that I once swore to never return. But you are the place my heart calls home, for you are the only city in the world where I truly feel like myself. ♥️

A NEW YORK STATE OF MIND • Dear New York, I love you. I love you for adopting me as no other city in the world ever could. I love you for inspiring me and depressing me—often at the same time. I love you for the good times and the bad, and for the invaluable lessons you taught me. I love you for introducing me to the most beautiful girl in the world. I love you for making me a better person and for so much more...

I love you for those crisp autumn mornings and restless summer nights. I love you for keeping your best kept secrets hidden from tourists. I love you for your dusty record shops and dollar slices in the Village. I love you for my favorite bar at the corner of Church and Walker, and for almost everything in TriBeCa. I love you for the countless blurry nights in your underground clubs.

I love you for your diversity and for bringing together the most creative and inspiring characters of all races, cultures, religions, sexual orientations and income brackets. I love you for your tolerance and for your humanity. I love you for your unrelenting energy, for your insanity, for your impetuousness, for your insolence and resilience.

And if that’s not enough... I love you despite your traffic, your jackhammering, the blare of your sirens, your garbage piled on the sidewalks, your roads pitted with potholes, your outrageous prices, your rats and roaches on steroids, your stench of pee and puke at 3 in the morning, your crazy cyclists—and heck, I’ll even forgive you for your Wall Street bros. Cuz that’s how much I love you!

Sure, you drive me nuts at times, so much so that I once swore to never return. But you are the place my heart calls home, for you are the only city in the world where I truly feel like myself. ♥️

A WALK AMONGST THE GODS • Approximately two hours to the south of Osaka lies the Kumano Kodō pilgrimage trail, an intricate network of ancient paths that meanders through the rugged mountains of the Kii Peninsula. For a thousand years, these sacred routes have been trodden by people of all walks of Japanese society. From peasants and monks to emperors and samurai, all were seeking the gateway to the hidden, immaterial world of ‘kami’, Shinto deities thought to be the founders of Japanese civilization.

In this mystical land, where towering trees, cascading waterfalls, and untamed peaks were once worshipped as gods, I embarked on a mini-pilgrimage of my own. Completing the entire Kumano Kodō circuit can be a daunting task, demanding four to five days of trekking through steep mountainous terrain. I chose a more basic experience—a single day spent in the company of gods.

My journey began in darkness, but the sky soon opened up, spilling a diffuse light over the mountain. The forest lay shrouded in a thick mist, the distant trees veiled in mystery. The crisp autumn air held a refreshing coolness, laden with a touch of humidity. The chatter of birds, the chirping of insects, and the rustling of leaves in the breeze accompanied my footsteps. Otherwise, the forest was silent and still.

As the clouds broke, sunbeams pierced through the canopy, illuminating the long stony path ahead. I walked for twelve miles in total solitude, pausing occasionally beneath the shade of giant Japanese cedars to snap a photo or simply savor the profound silence that enveloped me. Every village, farmstead, and shrine along the way resonated with echoes of history. The sight of fellow pilgrims, clad in traditional attire, as they ascended seemingly endless staircases, transported me back in time.

By day's end, I felt at once exhausted and exhilarated. I couldn’t help but reflect on the countless people, especially the frail and elderly, who had completed the entire arduous pilgrimage driven purely by faith. It served as a vivid reminder that, ultimately, we’re all seeking a connection to the divine, and each step, no matter how difficult or painful, brings us closer to transcendence.▪️

A WALK AMONGST THE GODS • Approximately two hours to the south of Osaka lies the Kumano Kodō pilgrimage trail, an intricate network of ancient paths that meanders through the rugged mountains of the Kii Peninsula. For a thousand years, these sacred routes have been trodden by people of all walks of Japanese society. From peasants and monks to emperors and samurai, all were seeking the gateway to the hidden, immaterial world of ‘kami’, Shinto deities thought to be the founders of Japanese civilization.

In this mystical land, where towering trees, cascading waterfalls, and untamed peaks were once worshipped as gods, I embarked on a mini-pilgrimage of my own. Completing the entire Kumano Kodō circuit can be a daunting task, demanding four to five days of trekking through steep mountainous terrain. I chose a more basic experience—a single day spent in the company of gods.

My journey began in darkness, but the sky soon opened up, spilling a diffuse light over the mountain. The forest lay shrouded in a thick mist, the distant trees veiled in mystery. The crisp autumn air held a refreshing coolness, laden with a touch of humidity. The chatter of birds, the chirping of insects, and the rustling of leaves in the breeze accompanied my footsteps. Otherwise, the forest was silent and still.

As the clouds broke, sunbeams pierced through the canopy, illuminating the long stony path ahead. I walked for twelve miles in total solitude, pausing occasionally beneath the shade of giant Japanese cedars to snap a photo or simply savor the profound silence that enveloped me. Every village, farmstead, and shrine along the way resonated with echoes of history. The sight of fellow pilgrims, clad in traditional attire, as they ascended seemingly endless staircases, transported me back in time.

By day's end, I felt at once exhausted and exhilarated. I couldn’t help but reflect on the countless people, especially the frail and elderly, who had completed the entire arduous pilgrimage driven purely by faith. It served as a vivid reminder that, ultimately, we’re all seeking a connection to the divine, and each step, no matter how difficult or painful, brings us closer to transcendence.▪️

BORN TO BE WILD • In the high, windswept steppes of Mongolia roam the Przewalski’s horses—the only true wild horses known to still exist. In 2005, over the course of three weeks, I followed these majestic creatures across the vast, untouched grasslands of Mongolia’s Wild West.

Descendants of the steeds that once carried Genghis Khan and his warriors across continents, the Przewalski’s horses are a living embodiment of Mongolia's illustrious past. They evoke a connection to a time when the land was an untamed frontier and empires were forged on horseback. It's almost as if the ancient rumble of hooves still echoes across these plains, carrying with them the legacy of a bygone era.

With each click of my camera, I tried to capture not just the physical beauty of these magnificent animals, but the essence of their wildness. The wind-whipped manes, the fierce eyes, the lustrous coats, the powerful muscles in motion—all these bits came together to form a portrait of raw, unbridled freedom. In their presence, I felt a profound connection to the primal forces of nature, a reminder that in this remote corner of the world, the spirit of the wild still thrives. ▪️

BORN TO BE WILD • In the high, windswept steppes of Mongolia roam the Przewalski’s horses—the only true wild horses known to still exist. In 2005, over the course of three weeks, I followed these majestic creatures across the vast, untouched grasslands of Mongolia’s Wild West.

Descendants of the steeds that once carried Genghis Khan and his warriors across continents, the Przewalski’s horses are a living embodiment of Mongolia's illustrious past. They evoke a connection to a time when the land was an untamed frontier and empires were forged on horseback. It's almost as if the ancient rumble of hooves still echoes across these plains, carrying with them the legacy of a bygone era.

With each click of my camera, I tried to capture not just the physical beauty of these magnificent animals, but the essence of their wildness. The wind-whipped manes, the fierce eyes, the lustrous coats, the powerful muscles in motion—all these bits came together to form a portrait of raw, unbridled freedom. In their presence, I felt a profound connection to the primal forces of nature, a reminder that in this remote corner of the world, the spirit of the wild still thrives. ▪️

BEHIND OPEN DOORS • High up in the Himalayas, nestled between India and China, lies a mystical land that remained hidden from the world until only a few decades ago. Aptly known as the "Last Shangri-La," the tiny Buddhist kingdom of Bhutan cautiously opened its doors to tourism in 1974. Then, in 1999, it became the last country to adopt television, effectively ending its isolation from the outside world.

Though Bhutan was late to the party, it took barely two decades for Western influences to start altering its cultural DNA. I traveled there in 2018 to film a documentary for PBS investigating the side effects of globalization. What I discovered wasn’t surprising or unusual for a fledging democracy. In developing nations, progress indeed improves literacy, longevity and health care, but it does so at a cost. Whenever global and local collide, the usual casualty is tradition.

I witnessed this dichotomy firsthand in Bhutan’s burgeoning capital city of Thimphu. Within the hallowed halls of Thimphu's grand monasteries, scarlet-robed monks chanted timeless Buddhist verses. Yet, nearby, in a downtown square, trendy teens clad in jeans and hoodies smoked cigarettes and exchanged the latest hip-hop songs, Bollywood gossip, and viral videos.

Venturing outside Thimphu, the cultural landscape was vastly different. In the serene valley of Bumthang, cradled by the Black Mountains, tradition was planted deep. Inside some of the country's oldest Buddhist sanctuaries, a new generation was embarking on a venerable path, fully aware of the pivotal role they play in shaping their nation’s future.

In contrast to the frenetic vibe of Thimphu’s youth, the budding monks in Bumthang opted for a more contemplative existence. Undeterred by the lure of modernity, they devoted their time to unraveling the secrets of Buddhist cosmology and shamanism. Despite their best efforts to honor the legacy of their ancestors, only time will tell if the Last Shangri-La can strike the right balance between preserving its heritage and thriving in a modern world.▪️

BEHIND OPEN DOORS • High up in the Himalayas, nestled between India and China, lies a mystical land that remained hidden from the world until only a few decades ago. Aptly known as the "Last Shangri-La," the tiny Buddhist kingdom of Bhutan cautiously opened its doors to tourism in 1974. Then, in 1999, it became the last country to adopt television, effectively ending its isolation from the outside world.

Though Bhutan was late to the party, it took barely two decades for Western influences to start altering its cultural DNA. I traveled there in 2018 to film a documentary for PBS investigating the side effects of globalization. What I discovered wasn’t surprising or unusual for a fledging democracy. In developing nations, progress indeed improves literacy, longevity and health care, but it does so at a cost. Whenever global and local collide, the usual casualty is tradition.

I witnessed this dichotomy firsthand in Bhutan’s burgeoning capital city of Thimphu. Within the hallowed halls of Thimphu's grand monasteries, scarlet-robed monks chanted timeless Buddhist verses. Yet, nearby, in a downtown square, trendy teens clad in jeans and hoodies smoked cigarettes and exchanged the latest hip-hop songs, Bollywood gossip, and viral videos.

Venturing outside Thimphu, the cultural landscape was vastly different. In the serene valley of Bumthang, cradled by the Black Mountains, tradition was planted deep. Inside some of the country's oldest Buddhist sanctuaries, a new generation was embarking on a venerable path, fully aware of the pivotal role they play in shaping their nation’s future.

In contrast to the frenetic vibe of Thimphu’s youth, the budding monks in Bumthang opted for a more contemplative existence. Undeterred by the lure of modernity, they devoted their time to unraveling the secrets of Buddhist cosmology and shamanism. Despite their best efforts to honor the legacy of their ancestors, only time will tell if the Last Shangri-La can strike the right balance between preserving its heritage and thriving in a modern world.▪️

WANDERING & WONDERING • Once upon a time, I had the whole world in my hands—quite literally. On my ninth birthday, my parents gave me a globe of the world. The moment I picked it up, I became the Master of the Universe. My imagination ran wild, leading me on all sorts of daring escapades in distant lands. That magical gift sat next to my bed for the rest of my childhood, sowing the seeds of curiosity and wonder in my fertile mind. Each night, I’d spin it and let my dreams whisk me away to wherever my finger landed.

I’ve been living that dream ever since. With ninety countries checked off my list, I’ve come to realize that the wide-eyed kid in me still calls the shots. The same insatiable curiosity keeps me wandering to new horizons and wondering what adventures I’ll encounter next.▪️

WANDERING & WONDERING • Once upon a time, I had the whole world in my hands—quite literally. On my ninth birthday, my parents gave me a globe of the world. The moment I picked it up, I became the Master of the Universe. My imagination ran wild, leading me on all sorts of daring escapades in distant lands. That magical gift sat next to my bed for the rest of my childhood, sowing the seeds of curiosity and wonder in my fertile mind. Each night, I’d spin it and let my dreams whisk me away to wherever my finger landed.

I’ve been living that dream ever since. With ninety countries checked off my list, I’ve come to realize that the wide-eyed kid in me still calls the shots. The same insatiable curiosity keeps me wandering to new horizons and wondering what adventures I’ll encounter next.▪️

AWAKE IN A DREAM • As the sun creeps up, the sky transforms into a vivid canvas, brushed with shades of crimson and rose. Against the backdrop of the warm morning glow, a flotilla of hot air balloons emerges over an alien landscape, evoking a surrealist painting. With the click of my camera, I resume my journey across this otherworldly realm, like a somnambulist, awake in a dream. On every side, I’m surrounded by fantastical rock formations, born from ancient volcanic fury, and weathered by the relentless forces of heat and wind.

In this mystical land, the tales of bygone civilizations echo through the uncanny valleys and the intricate network of caves, and carved dwellings. From the hidden depths of subterranean cities to the towering heights of fairy chimneys, history and mystery entwine. Here in Cappadocia, time stands still and the boundary between reality and fantasy is often blurred. ▪️

AWAKE IN A DREAM • As the sun creeps up, the sky transforms into a vivid canvas, brushed with shades of crimson and rose. Against the backdrop of the warm morning glow, a flotilla of hot air balloons emerges over an alien landscape, evoking a surrealist painting. With the click of my camera, I resume my journey across this otherworldly realm, like a somnambulist, awake in a dream. On every side, I’m surrounded by fantastical rock formations, born from ancient volcanic fury, and weathered by the relentless forces of heat and wind.

In this mystical land, the tales of bygone civilizations echo through the uncanny valleys and the intricate network of caves, and carved dwellings. From the hidden depths of subterranean cities to the towering heights of fairy chimneys, history and mystery entwine. Here in Cappadocia, time stands still and the boundary between reality and fantasy is often blurred. ▪️

ME, MY FUJI AND I • I shot these photos with my new Fujifilm medium format camera during a recent trip to Cappadocia, Turkey. With its bizarre rock formations, ancient cave dwellings, and alien landscapes, Cappadocia was the perfect playground to test my new toy. I usually don’t talk shop but as I get a lot of questions about my gear, I wanted to dedicate at least one post to the subject.

Over the past 25 years, I’ve relied almost exclusively on two camera brands for both my commercial and personal work. Until recently, around 90% of my images were taken with either a Pentax or Hasselblad medium format camera (analog and digital). I was especially loyal to their film cameras because they were rugged, reliable and required minimal maintenance. I abused them constantly and cleaned them so rarely that they may well be carrying dust from 90 countries. Yet they never failed me.

My trusty Pentax 645N and 67II as well as my workhorse Hasselblad 500CM cameras traveled the world with me. They withstood the extreme humidity of the Amazon jungle, the bone-chilling cold of the Arctic tundra and the severe sandstorms of the Sahara desert. They endured the scorching heat of India, navigated the rivers of China and the vast steppes of Mongolia, and even braved the mean streets of NYC. The photographs captured with these cameras hang in homes, galleries, and museums across several continents.

Nostalgia aside, I knew it was time to switch teams the moment I picked up the Fujifilm GFX 100S, a state-of-the-art mirrorless medium format camera equipped with a 102 MP full frame sensor. In terms of handling and image quality, it rivals my Hasselblad X2D—but at half the cost! And compared to the similarly priced Pentax 645Z, which I’ve owned for almost a decade, the GFX 100S is lighter, faster, smarter, and more capable.

In short, the GFX 100S is undoubtedly one of the best cameras I’ve used, especially for night photography. I’m constantly blown away by the results and thrilled to see my digital images looking like film again, which motivates me to shoot more. Only time will tell if it earns a special place in my heart like its analog predecessors. ▪️

ME, MY FUJI AND I • I shot these photos with my new Fujifilm medium format camera during a recent trip to Cappadocia, Turkey. With its bizarre rock formations, ancient cave dwellings, and alien landscapes, Cappadocia was the perfect playground to test my new toy. I usually don’t talk shop but as I get a lot of questions about my gear, I wanted to dedicate at least one post to the subject.

Over the past 25 years, I’ve relied almost exclusively on two camera brands for both my commercial and personal work. Until recently, around 90% of my images were taken with either a Pentax or Hasselblad medium format camera (analog and digital). I was especially loyal to their film cameras because they were rugged, reliable and required minimal maintenance. I abused them constantly and cleaned them so rarely that they may well be carrying dust from 90 countries. Yet they never failed me.

My trusty Pentax 645N and 67II as well as my workhorse Hasselblad 500CM cameras traveled the world with me. They withstood the extreme humidity of the Amazon jungle, the bone-chilling cold of the Arctic tundra and the severe sandstorms of the Sahara desert. They endured the scorching heat of India, navigated the rivers of China and the vast steppes of Mongolia, and even braved the mean streets of NYC. The photographs captured with these cameras hang in homes, galleries, and museums across several continents.

Nostalgia aside, I knew it was time to switch teams the moment I picked up the Fujifilm GFX 100S, a state-of-the-art mirrorless medium format camera equipped with a 102 MP full frame sensor. In terms of handling and image quality, it rivals my Hasselblad X2D—but at half the cost! And compared to the similarly priced Pentax 645Z, which I’ve owned for almost a decade, the GFX 100S is lighter, faster, smarter, and more capable.

In short, the GFX 100S is undoubtedly one of the best cameras I’ve used, especially for night photography. I’m constantly blown away by the results and thrilled to see my digital images looking like film again, which motivates me to shoot more. Only time will tell if it earns a special place in my heart like its analog predecessors. ▪️

SHARE THE FANTASY �• Three years ago, at the height of the pandemic, I bit the bullet and joined Instagram. My first post was about a 1979 TV commercial for Chanel No. 5 with the tagline “Share the Fantasy”. Circling back, here’s my own ad I shot decades later as an homage to that iconic clip directed by Ridley Scott (swipe left).▪️

SHARE THE FANTASY • Three years ago, at the height of the pandemic, I bit the bullet and joined Instagram. My first post was about a 1979 TV commercial for Chanel No. 5 with the tagline “Share the Fantasy”. Circling back, here’s my own ad I shot decades later as an homage to that iconic clip directed by Ridley Scott (swipe left).▪️

SOCIAL MEDIA. ▪️

SOCIAL MEDIA. ▪️

CELEBRATING eight years on the run with my partner in crime, Natasha. Cheers to many more adventures together. ✈️🌎🍾🥂♥️

CELEBRATING eight years on the run with my partner in crime, Natasha. Cheers to many more adventures together. ✈️🌎🍾🥂♥️

JUICY FRUiT 😋

JUICY FRUiT 😋

ADDICTED • Might as well face it, I’m addicted to the Robert Palmer Girls. Remember them? The electric-guitar-toting supermodels in little black dresses… They had a signature look: slicked-back hair, white powdered faces, smoldering eyes and blood red lips. If you grew up in the 80s, you've seen the video, you know the song, and you probably recognize the look in this image.

Robert Palmer’s 1986 hit, “Addicted to Love”, was on heavy rotation in our studio when I shot this back in 2002 for a cosmetics campaign. Few music videos manage to feel relevant after thirty seven years, yet this classic still appears on style moodboards to this day. Perhaps its longevity can be attributed to its pedigree.

Palmer’s leggy fembots look like they stepped out of a Helmut Newton photoshoot. However, the video was actually directed by Terence Donovan, the Vogue photographer who helped fuel the MTV video explosion that defined the 80s. And while many of my favorite music videos of that era have faded into obscurity, this particular piece of pop culture remains… “simply irresistible”. Sorry, couldn’t resist.▪

ADDICTED • Might as well face it, I’m addicted to the Robert Palmer Girls. Remember them? The electric-guitar-toting supermodels in little black dresses… They had a signature look: slicked-back hair, white powdered faces, smoldering eyes and blood red lips. If you grew up in the 80s, you've seen the video, you know the song, and you probably recognize the look in this image.

Robert Palmer’s 1986 hit, “Addicted to Love”, was on heavy rotation in our studio when I shot this back in 2002 for a cosmetics campaign. Few music videos manage to feel relevant after thirty seven years, yet this classic still appears on style moodboards to this day. Perhaps its longevity can be attributed to its pedigree.

Palmer’s leggy fembots look like they stepped out of a Helmut Newton photoshoot. However, the video was actually directed by Terence Donovan, the Vogue photographer who helped fuel the MTV video explosion that defined the 80s. And while many of my favorite music videos of that era have faded into obscurity, this particular piece of pop culture remains… “simply irresistible”. Sorry, couldn’t resist.▪

DRESSED TO ILL, 2003 • Whatever you do, do it with style! Wardrobe by @rosacha▪️

DRESSED TO ILL, 2003 • Whatever you do, do it with style! Wardrobe by @rosacha▪️

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