A Cypress tree takes a bow as a cat crosses the street, then stops in its tracks lifting its back leg to scratch his belly with absolutely no care in the world. On the contrary, my adrenaline is tweaked as I drive along unaware of what I will find. Everything seems so different than what I imagined and remember from when I was growing up. I felt I was traveling into the cusp of a change, a transition, like the calm before a storm.

I was born and grew up in North Myrtle Beach, a coastal town in South Carolina along Highway 17, that curiously and literally wraps around another community called Atlantic Beach. Both are part of The Grand Strand, primarily a resort area with over 14 million visitors a year and an estimated 329,500 in population that stretches along 60 miles in an almost rectangular shape along the Eastern seaboard.

Towards its tail end, heading north along Highway 17 are four city blocks stemming perpendicular from the highway towards the ocean and some six blocks than run parallel, isolating Atlantic Beach from North Myrtle Beach. There are no other roads, other than Hwy 17, that lead from one community to the other.

The ocean boulevard is fenced off on both sides. Only a bike path and walking trail is accessible, creating limited entry. If you walk along the shoreline, it’s obvious where this area begins and ends because the high-rises suddenly stop and big green metallic signs mark the city limits of North Myrtle Beach on either side. Only then, the precious sea oats and sand dunes enjoy their unobstructed views.

As a white middle class girl back in the 1970s and 80s, when I still lived in North Myrtle Beach, I had no reason to go to Atlantic Beach. It was still racially segregated, mostly by choice and had begun to disintegrate, letting drugs and prostitution ruin its historical reputation. You see, from the late 1930s all the way into the 60s this was one of the liveliest places for blacks in the segregated south because it was one of the only beaches, as far as my research has led, where they were socially allowed to go and enjoy recreational activities in and around the ocean, all the way from Virginia, where highway 17 begins, to Georgia. Later, in 1966, a state charter was issued making it the first and only black-owned oceanfront town, and as far as I know — please correct me if I am not — it still remains one of the only black-governed and owned beaches in the nation.

Only a handful of people walk along the beachfront and the ones I came across were varied in color. It’s clean, the sand dunes and sea oats enjoy their peaceful view and a few impressive “cottages” have been built within the last few years but many of the old buildings have been boarded up or completely ripped apart by hurricanes or old age. There is a quirky eeriness about it all.

It´s Saturday afternoon. Right between two local businesses on the main street, several middle-aged white men and an older black man wearing a baseball cap talk loudly as they hang out drinking Budweiser beer out of a can. Meanwhile, a women in a beat-up car with two kids in the back drive by, her head turning from one side to another. Either she’s lost or is looking for someone so when she finally gets to the end of the street she makes a U-turn. Most people, when making a U-turn are unaware that they´re heading into a different territory. Once they make their way down to Atlantic Beach they realize that the ocean boulevard is blocked by fences and the road suddenly terminates.

I moved away from “the beach”, as we locals call our town, back in 1987. The last time I was there was 3 years ago during my summer vacation when a friend invited me to join her at the Atlantic Beach Jazz Festival. I remember being impressed by the atmosphere I found: incredible talent by African American musicians and a very relaxed community that welcomed everyone with a big smile. As I sat on a lounge chair that afternoon, drinking wine, watching the sun set behind the stage and enjoying the beautiful sounds, an overwhelming sensation came over me. This was definitely a special place.

Upon my return this year, during the Christmas holidays, I decided to take my camera and act upon those feelings. I wanted to learn more about the history of this community before it changed.

An unusual fog had rolled in, created by the contrast of warm weather and humidity adding a certain sense of mystery to the stark white winter mood of this little town. I felt the fog portrayed its unique history and current situation.

During my research I had the chance to speak with some very competent people who have taken a personal interest in saving this beachfront area from being massified, Yes, they want their community to prosper as long as it preserves not only an important part of its American history, but of its Black American history as well.

When blues, jazz and R&B bands performed along the Grand Strand they usually spent the night in Atlantic Beach where they continued to play in jam sessions way into the early morning hours. Artists included Marvin Gaye, Ray Charles, Chuck Berry, Otis Redding, Fats Domino, Little Richard… Among the lucky listeners were the privileged people who could bring their families to Atlantic Beach on holidays.

I truly hope to see this historical community evolve and prosper so that others can enjoy its fortunate location and beauty in the years to come. May the Black Pearl once again preserve its nature and find its way back into the eyes of the world.

During my free time, I took a trip to Los Angeles to do a story for El País Semanal, and I was captivated by some characters. A normal thing in L.A. and especially on Hollywood Boulevard is to see a lot of people adopting different personalities. Even if their faces are disguised, covered up or distorted, they are people like you or me with their opinions and conversations, as you can see in this video taken by journalist Alvaro Corcuera.

Last week was the presidential elections in the United States, and as an American living in Spain I was happy to wake up in my country during Election Day. The next morning is when the conversation between Superman and El Monstruo about Obama’s victory took place. And when I took this picture of Spiderman. He, Superman, The Monster and Obama are people (in disguise) and I am a fan of them.

Hollywood Boulevard, Los Angeles.
This picture is shot with a Hasselblad 501CM and digital back, with a 40mm ISO 200 lens, shot 125 F. 5.6.

It’s my first time in Palestine. It may seem strange, but I’m looking forward to it.

I had heard so many stories about how the Israelis get tough at customs and checkpoints that I was stressed out, with the adrenaline rush, that rush that is part of the lives of so many journalists. We finally entered a place where you can’t go back to Israel, on the highway that goes to Jerusalem from Ben Gurion Airport.

It was a surprise to see that the hills on both sides of the road were snow-covered: something that is not very usual. The snow has a peaceful effect, it takes away the noise and whitens the atmosphere leaving it virgin.

We started to enter a neighborhood on the outskirts of Ramallah, but I couldn’t see anything through my window, so I tried to lower it. I couldn’t. At that moment, several snowballs hit that window like shots and scared me so much that I almost ended up on the floor of the car. They were kids playing, throwing balls at the cars: thank goodness I didn’t manage to roll down the window.

Oddly enough, during my week in Ramallah and Jerusalem, that was not the only time I saw kids throwing round objects. What a game!

A block away from my hotel, almost at night, I see a Palestinian snowman on top of a car. I ask the taxi driver to stop, look around to make sure no kid is going to throw a ball at me, and go over to photograph it. In the end, the kids who had made the little snowman took pictures with me, they too were excited.

The photo is taken with a Hasselblad 503CW, a 40 lens, at F4 and 1/15 seconds, with a Hasselblad CFV digital back.

nieve en palestina
nieve en palestina

Charred Hall, National Democratic Party Building, Cairo, Egypt, April 2012.

The headquarters of the NDP, the National Democratic Party of Egypt, was burned down on 28 January 2011 during the Arab Spring Revolution. The building housed the party of the then president, Hosni Mubarak, state commissions such as the Human Rights and Women’s Commission, a bank and other official political offices. In April this year we were invited to Cairo for a couple of days by a group of journalists to get to know the city, before participating in the International Conference on Tourism and the Media, held in Marsa Alam on the Red Sea.

During the tour we stopped at the Egyptian Museum and from the garden it is absolutely impossible not to notice the back of the burnt-out NDP building.

So as my journalist friends and my photographic instinct that cannot be resisted have taught me, I left the group to satisfy my curiosity. Standing in front of the large, high iron gates at the entrance, I noticed that they were open. So I took my adventure a little further. I didn’t want to go alone to avoid an unpleasant surprise like finding some security guard or an upset policeman, so I returned to the museum to join the first colleague I met. With our hearts pounding, a trickle of sweat running down our foreheads, and obviously very nervous, we entered with virtually no resistance. As soon as we entered, we turned right and went up some stairs that led us to what I thought was a lobby, and continued up some more luxurious stairs to where I photographed this room and this hall, where I think the PND offices were (someone correct me if I’m wrong, please). What an adrenaline rush! After taking 10 pictures in several areas of that floor we went down to leave by another part of the complex and continue taking pictures on the way.

I left there feeling proud to have photographed such an important symbolic testament to the revolution and fall of Egypt’s three-decade dictatorial regime. A historical document that probably won’t stand for much longer. Countless important documents were lost during the fires that ravaged the building, making the NDP corruption trial more difficult.

The photograph was taken with a Classic 501 CM Body, Carl Zeiss 4/40 lenses and adapted Digital Back CFV, all from Hasselblad and a 400 ASA, Shutter 30 and 4 F stop. The image has been processed from a RAW file with Hasselblad’s Flexcolor application and minimally optimized into a digital jpg file.

It was a flight to Khartoum (Sudan) and the plane was still on the runway when an announcement from the captain prevented me from selecting a film: “Hold on tight, we’re leaving the gate in five minutes”. Then I heard a passenger say: “The captain just got up to go pee. Is that why we waited five more minutes?

Pink and turquoise cause a sandstorm. A girl with velvet lips is wearing a fake leather jacket, it’s 100 degrees outside and it’s winter. The football stadium has no grass, the amusement park has no sound. Many men dressed in white. Turquoise is more of a fluorescent green when we land in the Republic of Sudan.

“Sudanese Marines, Port Sudan National Airport, Republic of Sudan, November 2016.”

The Republic of Sudan, often referred to as Northern Sudan or simply Sudan, is not Southern Sudan. Before the Sudanese Civil War there was only one Sudan, but in 2011 the people of Southern Sudan decided to separate by vote. South Sudan is now in the middle of a terrible Civil War; North Sudan has very difficult areas, but if you are an experienced traveler it might be a good place for your next adventure.

Just a few months ago, in November 2016, I traveled to Sudan at the invitation of the World Tourism Organization and was given the opportunity as a photographer to experience a country that is very untraveled. Apart from all the contradictions and the conflicts that exist in travelling to a country that is experiencing such a difficult human situation, if you are brave and like to see unique destinations, this authentic experience will leave you dazzled.

There are abandoned train tracks covered by fine desert sand and four typical houses in the shape of a circular hut with a pointed roof and the appearance of wading birds; the dry branches of dead trees grow among what was once the home of the employees of the Sudanese railway company in Port Sudan. Travelling along a quiet road while a scorching sun frying the roof of your car you get the feeling that water here is more important than toilet paper, although the latter is also important. The camels graze without their herds; the herds can be seen at night with their headlights. Creative energy flows through the unknown as adrenaline pumps into the breath of another moment.

A night market showcases the local cultures and traditions of the Beja people. Long sticks, afro hair, white skirts and black vests describe the style of the so-called Fuzzy-Wuzzies. “Fuzzy-Wuzzy was the term used by the colonial British soldiers to call the Beja warriors who supported the Sudanese Mahdi in the Mahdist War,” and even Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem in their honor. The respect the soldiers had for them came from the British infantry squares that were destroyed by these tribal warriors and their martial prowess. Winston Churchill declared that they were the only tribe that ever defeated the British Army.

The next day in another market two young people are waving long sabers and fixing their white teeth with small pieces of wood. They look very innocent until you try to take a picture of one of them, and then they ask you for money. Someone has come to take pictures here before me .

The poem ‘Fuzzy-Wuzzy‘, de Kipling.

The Red Sea is only 20 blocks away from this market, but it gives the strange feeling from their dusty skin that these men never go there. They graze camels for weeks, sometimes months, without any reference to time or distance. The only interest they have in water, is drinking it. An image of these Fuzzy-Wuzzies as one of the most fun encounters sticks in my mind.

When you travel to a place like this, either you end up in a van with velvet curtains adorned with colored tassels or on a motorcycle arranged as if it were a float, or you attract a lot of attention. While trying to choose the best character for a possible script, a group of Fuzzy-Wuzzies huddled around my van try to see through the tinted windows. Whether it was a group of naked girls in a tub of bubbling water or a local politician, they would have the same expression. He who does not hear evil or see evil does not even know what evil is.

Notes from my journal November 13, 2016.

Flight QR 1323 from Doha to Khartoum 12.45 am.

The colors of pink and turquoise rise out of a sand storm. A young woman with plum lips wears a faux fur jacket in 38 degree celsius winter weather. The soccer stadium has no grass, the amusement park no sound in broad daylight. That turquoise paint is now more like fluorescent mint green as we touch down in the Republic of the Sudan.

April 11, 2019.

A quiet corner has turned into an uprising. The president of the Republic of the Sudan Omar Al- Basir has been forced out of power. Protesters came to the streets in December and have been persistent in their mission to make a change. The military sided with protesters and have taken over power until elections can be held. The environment as of today is still unstable as most protesters would prefer a civilian run government. Omar Al-Basir became president 30 years ago out of a military coup and is now wanted by international court for human rights violations and war crimes in Darfur. To give you an idea Sudan is North of South Sudan, south of Egypt and surrounded by the Central African Republic, Libya, Chad, Eritrea, Ethiopia and The Red Sea on the African continent. A few years ago I was invited to visit Sudan and immediately accepted. Upon the news of its current situation I would like to share my photographs and some of the notes from my journal.

I traveled to Sudan on an invitation from the UNWTO and was given the opportunity as a photographer to see a country very little traveled. Aside from all the contradictions and conflict that exist in traveling to a country with human rights violations, as a brave heart I enjoy traveling to unique destinations and experiencing authentic places.

Searching for the Fuzzy Wuzzy

“Fuzzy-Wuzzy” was the term used by British colonial soldiers for the 19th-century Beja warriors supporting the Sudanese Mahdi in the Mahdist War”, and Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem in their honor. The respect the soldiers had for them came from the British Infantry squares that were broken by these tribal warriors and their martial prowess. Winston Churchill declared them the only tribe that ever defeated the British Army.

Fuzzy Wuzzy Poem

The Red Sea is only about 20 blocks away from this market, but there is a strange sensation from their dusty powdered skin that these men never go there. They walk herding camels for weeks and sometimes months, with no reference to time and distance at all. The only interest in water is for drinking. This photograph is one of my encounters with the Fuzzy Wuzzies.

When you travel to a place like this you either end up in a mini van with velvet curtains bordered by colorful tassels or a moped dressed up as some kind of parade float. Trying to cast the best character for a possible script, a group crowded around our minivan, trying their hardest to see inside the dark tinted windows. It could have been a group of naked ladies in a tank of bubbly water or it could have been the local guy who sells sandals and they would have had the same expression. The one of hear no evil, see no evil, don´t even know what evil is, that is the feeling I got from these men.

The American flag was already there by hope and desire, or simply because it is iconic.

Two years ago I traveled to Cuba with the premonition that soon this island would change if not already. One of the areas I strolled around was the old American Embassy in Havana.

The metal sticks that surrounded the compound made an impression just like the little girl that rode her scooter in and around one of the Cuban policemen that patrolled the area.

A woman in Santiago de Cuba walking home from the market proudly smiled as I asked her to pose; not only was she wearing the American flag on her head, she was standing in front of the Cuban flag painted on the wall.

In another instance on the beach in Siboney, near Santiago, a group of young people were having a good time on a Sunday afternoon. In that photograph one of the girls is dancing straddling another and also has a bandana of an American flag on her head.

Back in Havana at the art school, ISA, when walking around the painters studio, I came across a not-quite finished painting with a skull and again a bandana on his head.

Whether it is conscience or not, positive or negative, the flag;s presence never really left.

As new relations between Cuba and the United States have drawn closer it is even more obvious. This past week not only has the American Embassy in Havana reopened but images have been pouring out of people hanging the flag, in their businesses, on their balconies and wearing them on their clothes, showing their content that once again they will have the chance to travel and relate to some of the people they love only some 90 miles across the water.

When you travel to the depths of Africa there are many decisions to be made and countless things to prepare. Taking malaria pills? What plugs should you take? Visas, contact numbers, what happens if your mobile phone doesn’t work (indeed, this happens in some parts of the world), or carrying cash in case you can’t find an ATM. The list is endless, which means that the journey really begins long before you leave home, especially when you travel to Africa. To arrive on this continent without being open to adventure is to deny its essence. Even though I had prepared everything well, I had no idea what awaited me 24 hours later.

Three flights later, I arrived in a town called Livingston, on the Zambian side of Victoria Falls. Indeed, Zimbabwe and Zambia share the falls and the name pays tribute to the famous explorer David Livingston.

The purpose of my trip was to attend the general assembly of the UNWTO, World Tourism Organization, hosted by Zimbabwe and Zambia. However, I wanted to arrive a week earlier to discover the latter country, which had always interested me. Zambia is peaceful (unlike its neighbours) with 70 different tribes living together with little conflict. Its cultural diversity gives the country an impressive variety of colour and harmony that has helped preserve its unique traditions. Zambia is also a safe and easy country for a woman to travel alone.

Leaving the airport at the side of the road, I see a sign that reads: Painted Dog (Licaones, a wild African dog), one of my favorite animals, endangered and very difficult to see. I once saw one in the Sabi Sabi Nature Reserve in South Africa. Maybe this time I will be just as lucky. On the plane back home, a flight attendant told me that a family from Licaones lived by the airport and that they liked to cross the road.

Once we left the dry falls behind (they were dry, indeed), the driver told me that they were holding back the waters to reopen the levees when the officials who were coming for the big event passed by. In the front seat, I flipped through the newspaper headlines: Dog Impersonating Lion at Chinese Zoo and Man in New York Sentenced for Impersonating Subway Driver

Monkeys in this part of Africa are like stray cats or pigeons in any European city – they are everywhere! The first and most important advice I was given as soon as I arrived at what was to be my home for the next few days (the Sussi & Chuma sanctuary) was to never leave the door open or any food left behind. If you’re not careful, the monkeys here will drink your beer, watch TV and leave you a few surprises under the covers.

Before sunset, I ran to the dock, crossing some wooden planks until I reached a tiny river boat. The captain was waiting to take me for a ride on the Zambezi River. At that moment, I started to make one of my biggest dreams come true. The sun, a huge red ball, settling on the land and reflecting off the water, as if in slow motion. At that moment, I realized that I was not alone in enjoying the moment: a family of hippos, with their big eyes, was floating on the surface with a watchful eye. During our trip, I saw a group of elephants on a small island. Are they in Zimbabwe or Zambia? The birds I discovered were fascinating and of incredible variety. Their colours, shapes, sizes and sounds filled the sky. Suddenly, the driver’s cell phone rang, interrupting the magic of the moment. The Minister of Tourism was waiting for me. I had to go back.

That afternoon I met some very interesting personalities. Caristo Chitamfya, a TV presenter and my host during the days before the general assembly. Mulenga Kapwepwe, an incredibly powerful African woman. Author, producer, Arts Council committee member and an enthusiastic supporter of her country’s culture. Both were involved in organizing the events surrounding the general assembly and ensuring that the event represented the rich human diversity of Zambia.

While gathering information, before I traveled to Africa, I revisited Maske, one of my photography books, authored by Phyllis Galembo. I dived back into the chapter on Zambia called The Masked Lovales. I was immediately drawn to the portraits of the dancers. I wondered if once I was in Africa, I would have the opportunity to photograph one of them. On the night of the big event, Mulenga invited me to a festival where the dancers were to appear. Perhaps another of my dreams would come true.

Caristo drove me home on the dirt road that led to Sussi & Chuma. On the way, she turned down the radio so I could see and hear the animals before they saw us. If you’re not careful, the giant elephants can wreck your car.

As I walked over the wooden bridge that led to my cabin in the trees, a hippopotamus made a sound I had never heard before. A kind of coughing sound that sounded like a car engine trying to start. I was uneasy at the thought of going out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette before going to bed, but I decided to face my fears. On the way out, an adrenaline rush ran through me, like the water in the Zambezi hitting the rocks. The wind whistled through the leaves, intensifying the sound of something creaking below. I never knew what it was but I never stopped thinking about Africa and how easy it is to fall in love with this continent.

The next day was one of overwhelming excitement. I flew over Victoria Falls by helicopter. I cried with emotion as I realized how lucky I was to be able to witness such beauty. From up there, I saw an elephant go into the bushes. An image I had already seen in National Geographic but never in real life. Later, I enjoyed a walk in a nature reserve for tourists, along with two white lions. I thought it was very strange but the lions looked good. A park ranger, armed with a giant rifle, led us to a pair of rhinos. He explained that he was carrying the gun in case the animals decided that our presence was too much. I ended the morning with a meal in an authentic restaurant in the country where hands are the only utensils to eat with.

Later, as we approached Livingston’s Golf Club, the smoke from the grills flooded the sky. Once on the course, we saw people in costumes, dancing in the parking area. I realized that this was a big event. The arrival of KK.

KK, also known as Dr. Kenneth Kaunda, is a political giant in Africa, founding father of Zambia and its first president from 1964 to 1991. He participated in and founded independent movements, including the African National Congress, which dreamed of equality. KK also fought for the independence of Rhodesia which was then in the hands of European colonies. At 89, he is a living legend. He still fights for peace and the peaceful resolution of the conflicts that plague his continent, lately he is more dedicated to the fight against AIDS.

As the audience cheered and the music grew thanks to the drums, KK came out of his sports car, waving with his left hand and his usual white handkerchief. He shook hands with anyone who asked him. He was accompanied by a handful of politicians and some members of the groups who were to perform later. KK took a seat in the extravagant tent that had been set up for him and other high dignitaries and the ceremony began. I am not entirely sure but I suspect that almost every tribe, dance, traditional dress and musical instrument in Zambia was represented there. The performers danced while the audience roared with such joy and intensity that the sound deafened the waterfalls. At one point, even KK stood up to dance.

I had almost forgotten my dancers when suddenly one of them asked me to dance. Later I chased him until the ceremony was over. I followed him to the bus, where the other dancers were waiting to change clothes. My dancer tried to avoid me until Caristo appeared and introduced us. Shyly, he let me take some pictures of him. I insisted with Caristo until he explained to me that the Lovales were considered sacred beings. Perhaps, one day, I can return to Zambia to portray these special beings as they deserve.

Imagine what the rest of my trip was like!

South African Elections: May 8, 2019

Mandela and Soccer: “Being happy with what one is and what one is doing is well being between mind and body.” was found on the cover of a notebook from a visit to South Africa in 2009. The smell of the ocean’s spray blowing in the wind and even the sound of the crashing waves must have been the sensations of hope to him then.

When a human life has been brought down to confinement the longing for freedom is definitely intensified. A strange feeling came over me that day that in order to make a difference in the world something drastic sometimes has to happen. Is risking freedom the sacrifice needed to achieve equality? The writing on my notebook must have been about Mandela’s happiness in his pursuit that kept him in well-being. 10 years ago I visited South Africa, this seems like a long time ago but it has been 25 years since the African National Congress has been in power which is even longer. It was a few months before the 2010 world cup of soccer, that coincidentally Spain won and the first time the world cup was held in an African country. I took a personal interest in visiting South Africa photographing subjects that were of interest.

Of course I had to visit Robben island just off the coast of Cape Town, the prison where Nelson Mandela served for 27 years. On May 7, South Africa voted in their 6th democratic elections since apartheid. It seems as though once again the African National Congress has won. A few hours after a clear win Nelson Mandela’s official twitter account @nelsonmandela was quoted in saying “We need to know with a fresh conviction that we all share a common humanity and that our diversity in the world is the strength for our future together.” Out of the fortress of white power in South Africa in the early 1900’s grew African nationalism and this bred politicians constructing racial rule which turned into segregation hence “apartheid”.

A young law student by the name of Nelson Mandela became so horrified about what was happening that his ambition became to fight for what he thought was right and how he wanted to fix the world. He joined the ANC and quickly became an underground leader, it wasn’t long until warrants for his arrest began to fly. He became quite famous for his disguises and successful for dodging the police. Eventually when he was on trial for conspiring to overthrow the government from a mass non-cooperation national strike, he read a 5 hour statement, his final words then reciting from memory while facing the judge were: “During my lifetime I have dedicated myself to this struggle of the African People.

I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persona live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.” Eventually, Mandela was freed from prison.

In 1994 he became President of South Africa and his awards are many. Being described as the Father of the Nation his party has long lived his legacy. I agree we must not forget him in moments like these, but more importantly not forget what he fought for. Many changes have swept through the party and through South Africa in recent times. Just to name a few, the angry cries of economic failure, corruption, poor education, unemployment rates, the need for land reform, etc.

If we share a common humanity then why do we try to have more than others, and if diversity is the strength of our future then why do we create gaps between have and haves nots. If we talk about politics shouldn’t we concentrate on checks and balances? As Spike Lee says “Do The Right Thing”. No more said.

When I check in on a plane, the first thing I ask for is a window. A lot of things happen through those windows.

In this case I was on the last row, and as always when I landed I wanted to get off and get out.

All of a sudden you hear a stewardess on the loudspeaker asking us to please sit down until the commander comes down first. As this was not enough reason for us to sit down, she communicated again to tell us that she was coming down first to accompany the soldier below. That’s when I saw all the passengers sit down and looked out the window again.

The photo is taken with a Hasselblad 503cw camera, with a 4/50 distagon lens, and shot with iso 400 at 1/60 F. 4, from the window of a Delta plane at Atlanta airport, Georgia, USA.

Desde la ventana de un avión