A Palestinian Rapper in Beirut

A fresh minded 22 year old Palestinian, first generation to be born in the Burg el-Barajneh refugee camp in the suburbs of Beirut to a member of Hamas and his wife. Instead of encouraging violence, Mohammed al-Turk, aka TNT spreads words of resistance through his music.
He's young and fed up with the cramped living conditions, lack of job opportunities, social stigma and dual identity that being raised in one of Lebanon's 12 official refugee camps for displaced Palestinians offer.
Rap is his weapon against his situation, described as 'war music' by the man himself. His inspiration came not from the streets of New York like the origins of rap, but the streets of his neighbourhood, and he and is partner Yaseen, known as i'Voice (invincible voice) have sculpted the lyrics and beats to suit their message and their audience.
Having performed across Europe and the USA at various world music festivals, TNT disappeared in Oslo before performing at the Oslo world music festival in Norway in November this year (2010). The reason for his disappearance is still not clear, although media sources say that his discovery is not far away. I hope that he is safe, well and not in trouble.

Playing in the afternoon sunlight, flying a kite.
A boy living in a refugee camp near Peshawar, Pakistan.
His parents are from Afghanistan, they are living in Pakistan and the boy is essentially non-existent; having no formal record in either country.
The UNHCR estimate that there are upwards of two million Afghan refugees currently displaced in northern Pakistan alone. Countless other men women and children have fled further to the borders of Europe in search of a better life.

Stuck in the Outback

Driving a mini-bus through the outback, water in the engine, stuck in a river, waiting, crocodiles sitting on the bank, waiting.
To our luck a local guy was passing, he pulled us out before he went onto run over a dingo and hire a prostitute.
This was the real north-western Australia, and it's people were helpful, charismatic, and a little wild around the edges!

Iranian De-dash

I'd been in Tehran for a week or so and I decided to hop on an overnight train to Mashad. The journey took me trough the bleak desert of central Iran, and onwards to the north-eastern region of the country, close to Turkmenistan.
The moment I found my cabin on the train I greeted my fellow travelers 'salam aleikum'. They soon discovered that my Farsi wasn't great and that I was not Iranian.

We laughed and joked in bits of languages we all had in common and watched the sun set on the minus 18 degree dust rolling past the window.
We arrived in Mashad to heavy snow and yet colder temperatures when Mortezza insisted that I stay at his house. I went home with him, we lit a fire and smoked cigarettes before sleeping.
Little was I to know that we would spend the next two weeks together. We visited some of his friends and he showed me the sights of the city, including an amazing mosque complex covered in mirrors and glass. After constant hospitality and generosity we went back to Tehran.
I stayed with Mortezza and his friends in Tehran for a couple of days, mostly taking high speed tours around the city's icy streets on a motorcycle.
We left each other at the train station as I headed further south. I gave him some gifts and got on the train.

Damit garm de-dash. Khoob-est ti?

Working kids

Downtown Dhaka, the heart and soul of Bangladesh.
On first arrival the sounds were intriguing; car horns, the endless bells of bicycles that glided through the streets by lantern light, and the seemingly never ending sound of electric sewing machines. Homeless children of all ages are gathered from the streets and railway stations of the city and taken to various mini-factories. From here they are comparative to modern slaves, as they are often made to work 15 or more hours a day, making clothing in return for food and shelter.
Waking up to a new day, the sewing machines could be heard until I retired again in the late evening. These children and teenagers in the photograph were just a few amongst the many young workers that produce clothing for western Europe.
What does your label say?

Two farmers in the desert.

I once owned a camel. A beautiful dromedary camel called Alfie. I rode him from his home in Palmyra (Todmor in Arabic) to Damascus.

After a couple of weeks I met these two young shepherds with their flock in the desert.
I made them tea on my gas burner, and as dusk drew nearer we walked to their farm, past a few hills in a nearby valley.
The walk made me smile because it was something reminiscent of the tale of Noah and his ark. Three men, a camel, a donkey, a flock of sheep, a couple of goats, all followed by the sheepdogs.
A feast was made by Amir's mother, followed by a shisha pipe with his father.

That night curiosity, generosity, intrigue and friendship all followed us into their Bedouin home.
Syrian desert October/November 2007

The hills around Kabul

I decided to climb a hill.
My friend and travel buddy Egill and I decided to climb the biggest hill we could see, as to get the best view of the city.
On the way up some children were waving for us to go and see them. We wandered over and their father (photographed) invited us in for tea and biscuits.
We discussed the view over Kabul, his life and the loss of his leg by standing on a landmine, left over from the war against the Soviets in a previous decade.
He directed us to the best path, waved goodbye and continued sitting on his chair overlooking Kabul, watching the city living.