Return To India

Photos: My Scholarship entry - A desert adventure

jeanfrancois — Thu, 23 Oct 2014 02:25:00 GMT

For me photography is a passion that's entwined itself in my life. Rarely is there a moment where I'm not thinking about my next shot, my next project and most of all my next adventure. It consumes my thoughts and helps to keep me going when my body says otherwise. Photography has been a life saver at the time of losing my career, Photography found me and brought me back to an even keel . It is for those reasons, I use my photography to help others, whether by raising money for charities through my various exhibitions or through projects like Help Portrait, by giving a gift to those that otherwise would not receive. Previously I was a product of my work , but now I feel so much more because of photography and how it has taken me to places I would not have dared travel before. If I was fortunate to be chosen for the scholarship , I would be more than elated and would put 110 percent in achieving the beast out of the scholarship under the guidance of Jason Edwards. For me there can be no greater experience , to travel to a new place and to spend time doing what I love the best with someone with the same passion and with whom I can truly expand and learn my craft from.

trip of a lifetime

jeanfrancois — Sun, 23 Feb 2014 11:08:00 GMT

Travelling to Morocco last year was my first solo trip since being diagnosed with a long term illness, which had me medically retired. Being an enthuisat photographer Morocco was with out a doubt one of the top to photograph llist. Morocco and in particular Marrakech site and í reputation had set itself out as a destination primed for photography, its energetic and vibrant culture had me waiting with baited breath for touch down on moroccan soil with both my fujifim x10 & X100 in hand.

To cut the chase , because of my precarious health , this whole trip had to be planned out with millitary precision , especially if I was ever to convince my wife that in certain conditions I could go it alone abroad. My outline was simple and is as follows

10 nights in total in Morocco
one day in marrakech
14 hour trip to Risanni 2 nights in Risanni
3 nights in the desert staying in the desert with a berber family
a 14 hour trip back to Marrakech
3 nights in Marrakech
Fly home.

To cut a long story short to make this holiday about photography I had to do what was best for me which turned out to between 3-4 . In the morning shooting and the rest of the day resting in best . To most that would constitute the waste of a holiday, but to me all it meant i had to make those few hours shooting count. And the rest so that I could do the same again the next morning. In the end I felt it was a perfect combination of rest and photography, and in my opinion the photos proved justify the means to an end. And along the way I I had plenty of moment of fun, disasters, and unforgettable moments.

If I tried to write out my whole journey it woukd take chaper after chaper to give it real justice , so as an injustice to my trip. Those moments that made my trip especially memorable turned out to Be .

Fuji X10 camera breaks after an accidental fall whike on a tripod on the first
Next day my Remaining Fuji X100 is seized my the millitary , my silly mistake took photos of millitary base. Returned to me after 30 minutes of questioning with the deletion on photos on my card.
Getting lost alone in the desert
Getting lost every day in Marrakech walking to the town, taking taxi back after being completely and utterly Being lost on town. As a result I got of the tourist track and found the area not often listed on tourist guides
Spening the night in the night in the desert under the stars, a night of which I have nev7er experienced and one I will never forget.

I guess all in all the whole holiday was a real win. I proved that with very careful planning I can go on photo holidays alone, and with the tips I learned on this journey can only prove beneficial and I achived all I wanted to happen. Here are a few photos from the journey.

Anyone Seen a Taxi

jeanfrancois — Mon, 6 May 2013 01:59:00 GMT

The rest of the journey to Yercaud, Vicky managed occupied herself with the wondrous sights that made up the landscape from Cochin and Dharapurami, Our get off stop. The travel agent who organised most of our trip could not be faulted; his representative and driver could not have been nicer or more accommodating. To give you an example: to make our journey as easy as possible we were provided with an Idiots Guide on how to travel on the Great Indian Railway and not get lost. Basically it was a list of all the stations and times between each stop, leading right to the stop we were meant to alight from the train (which was also kindly highlighted in green). Easy; childs play; one could say and not dissimilar to the infamous travel song, ten green bottles. In essence each station passed, meant a station ticked off the list, thus denoting with one less to go.

Time can pass by surprisingly fast, when there is something to pre-occupy the mind and in a matter 6 hours later it was our stop to get off. So like a pair of professional train spotters we had our last stop in sight, with 45mins to Dharampuri. Being the man I am, I immediately took control of the luggage and singled handed lifted my EXTREMELY heavy luggage of the top luggage rack where the porters, who happened to be twice my age had annoyingly placed them with relative ease. Once down, I strategically dragged them out of our carriage and placed by the main door where all the passengers alight. However unlike UK train, where the doors are only opened when the train has come to a full stop , the doors on this train were locked open, thereby allowing for any unsuspecting tourist to fall off the train to certain death on the train tracks. This point was reiterated to me by dearest Vicky several times on discovering where I had left the luggage. I naturally reassured her fears, that I was very as steady on my feet, and that I was the type that was not easily frightened by the possibility falling to my certain death . However, the look on her face did give me a sense that, that my unfortunate fall from the train would have been somewhat preferable than losing the luggage. Safely to say we arrived at our stop, with all our luggage in tow.

The train station was nothing like I had expected, there were no porters, this meant me carrying and dragging both very, very heavy luggage along platform over a bridge and to what I thought would be a fleet of taxis or tok toks. . Instead there was a tok toks, but no taxi’s. I had thought to myself that we could take a tok tok, but given the our somewhat over-packing and being over laden with luggage for what might be considered a rookie backpackers holiday across three very spaced out towns in India, I thought better off it , than to openly suggest my idea to Vicky

In the end I decided to approach a group of men who seemed to be standing around the car park for no real reason at all. A similar stance often adopted by Uk taxi drivers, so I was confident of finding a taxi driver among them.

“To avoid confusion I fell back on the internationally recognised word for a taxi.

“Taxi, taxi” I said, At first they all seemed to just stare at me with a blank expression, then one shook his head from side to side , which in the UK means no.

So I smiled and went on my way. Then the guys shouts out

“Taxi sir, taxi”.

I was not sure what he was up to but after a 6 hours train journey I was in no mood for jokes, so I returned and repeated in a loud voice, as only tourists can do when abroad:

“ Taxi, taxi”.

Again he did the same thing, by now I was getting very confused and not sure whether we would ever be stepping into a taxi or spending the night here in an empty station car park debating the point of whether, he was a taxi driver or not.

Fortunately for me , I had Vicky and in a matter of minutes he was calling a friend who I think was a taxi or just a guy ready to make a few bucks.

Our troubles as always never just end at the first miles stone. Our next problem came when I showed him the address, the driver to my surprise made that strange sound that is often made , by mechanics, plumbers , builders or other trade folk when they are just about to rip you off make that sign “, Yercaud , is over 120 km and is on a mountain with over 22 hair pin bends”.,

We both looked at each other and knew we were in trouble, 22 hair pin bends were sure to come at a cost.

“4500 rupees” he says, I look at Vicky’s defiant stance as she moves to position herself in the sitting position which normally translate into:

“Oh hell no, I’d rather sit here all night, than part with a single rupee”.

However, after some extensive bargaining on my part , I manage to get Vicky to agree. Unfortunately I had not thought of bargaining with the driver and in a split second said:

“Yes, Yes that’s fine”

Realising my mistake, I took an oath, there and then that I would not to part with a single more rupee for this journey. You would not believe that only ten minutes into our 3 hour journey in sweltering heat , he says:

“Sir another 500 rupees for AC,”

I thought you’ve got to be kidding. You want to charge me a further 500 rupees for Air Conditioning in this 40 degree heat. At that point I was determined to show Vicky that her man never makes the same mistake twice. Out bargain me once fool on me, but out bargain me twice, well that’s double fool on me. Oh, You know what I am trying to say. Well to cut to the chase, I once more shouted at the top of my voice, “turn it off, turn it off, You had to be there I was commanding and extremely animated with my hand and head movement.

Then in the corner of my ear I hear,:

“John dear, 500 rupees is only about £6 , and if you think I am going to sit in this baking car for the next three hours, because you don’t want to spend another £6 , you have got another thing coming.

“ I meant to say” , I shout out again ,”” Turn it on , Turn it on”.

“ It is already on sir , 500 rupees ok with madam then sir”.

We did finally arrive over 4 hours later and I think even the driver did not think the journey was going to be as tough and hard as it was. However, we did have one thing to thanks for; there were only 20 hair pin bends on the mountain and not the 22 had we had been told.

Breakfast But Not In Bed

jeanfrancois — Wed, 1 May 2013 14:15:00 GMT

One of the main events on our Indian holiday was to ride the great Indian railway. A childhood memory, dating back over 41 years gave me my first taste of India and all it had to offer. From a child’s eye, these majestic stream trains stood over a 100ft tall and would snarl and screeched when pulling to the station as if a fire breathing dragon waiting to devour all on the platform . Well at least that how it seemed to a 7 year old in the flush of a child’s imagination. These were the stories that I would recount to Vicky and in many ways even though I knew the golden age of steam had sadly passed by , I still wanted to share my joy of travelling on one of the world’s largest railway with my nearest and dearest, Vicky.

In total we had a six hour journey ahead of us, and therefore an early start was to be had. This meant missing breakfast, which had we been in the UK would had been fine. After all my lovely wife, has a plethora Costa coffee pit stops only too willing to accommodate her early morning coffee fix of a large Americano, or a regular skinny latte. And to compliment the rush of caffeine, Vicky always knows how to make a bee line to the first establishment serving a full-English. Yet we’re not in the UK - “Vicky We are not in the UK” - but an exotic land alive with thousand flower flushed gardens that meet the banks of a million life giving lakes.

Sounds pretty good, well you would think. Getting on the train was easy peasy, with a payment of 200 Rupess (£2.50p) for two porters to carry our heavy suitcases, (I know they were heavy, the airline had kindly stuck a dirty big orange sticker on them just in case we happen to forget).

So far so good. Basically in terms of the Indian traveller we have it all “down Pat”. Reserved seats , air conditioned carriages , and what’s more, we would be catered to our every whim with a regular, serving of Chia, Coffee and the best there is to offer from the on board catering team.

This was the point however, I had come to realise that there was about to be trouble in my paradise. First arrives the tea, the rhythmic uttering of “Chia, ChChCh Chia gave us the head up so with rupees ready I purchase both two cups of chai for a total of 50 rupees (40 pence) . By now, both I and Vicky were more than ready to munch down on some good old stomach pleasing. I guess however, while I was licking my lip for Parath’s , Vicky was dreaming of two slices of bacon, a fried egg sunny side up, grilled tomatoes, two sausages and a generous portion of baked beans with of course the obligatory slice of brown bread toast.

All I know is that when the next man came saying samba, samba, breakfast, breakfast please ( he could see we were tourists) Vicky with a swift elbow in my ribs and a subtle nod of the heads, had me buying two portions of breakfast. That’s one for me and one for Vicky. It wasn’t until she opened the foil take away container:

I heard “Errr what’s that” said Vicky

I replied: “Its Parath’s with samba, India’s staple breakfast”.

It was then that I had an epiphany, a eureka moment, a realisation that during our 25 years of happy, joyous and blissful marriage; all the stories I had told Vicky, I had somehow forgotten to explain what to expect from the catering on an Indian train.

However, all credit where credit is due, Vicky did taste smallest piece of Parath’s and dip it into the the samba which is a yellow curry like substance. Good on you Sweetie I thought good on you. Then Vicky tells me as only Vicky can.

“Errr, I not eating this; it’s horrible and greasy”

Hey waste not, want not. After all, what would any self-respecting Indian do when faced with two portions of mouth-watering Samba and Parath’s in front of him, he eats it, even if he happens to be born in the UK. However, far from the delight of Vicky and to her amazement I get stuck in as I never have got stuck in before; Hands an all. Vick on seeing what must have appeared as strange behaviour without reservation to the fact that we were sitting in a packed carriage asks.

“Oh my god! Have you gone all native” .

I don’t think there’s anything I can say to top that.

Check back for the next post to find out what happen when you get of a stop that is 120 km from where you want to be

India we have landed

jeanfrancois — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 15:25:00 GMT

Landing in India had been all that I had hoped for; the near unbearable heat, the hustle and bustle of people going through their every lives, and the beep, beep of horns born out of the ubiquitous tok tok, motor bikes and of course the “Sound Horn Please” sign on every vehicle that travelled on 2 wheels or more.

Cochin the birth place of my father “Mr Anthony John Rodrigues, was a without a doubt a place of natural beauty and thankfully our B&B (yes we booked a B&B) was a mere stone’s throw from the water’s edge, which made up only a tiny part of an massive maze of back water passages that both Vicky and I would explore at the end of our holiday.

One of the main reason for visiting Cochin was to glimpse at the famous Chinese Fishing nets. I had seen photos of them in every travel and photographic magazine, but seeing them in their full glory only added to my child like pleasure and my wide eyed tourist naivety which to a local must have said fleece me. “My name is Jean-Francois and yes I am a tourist”

With my camera in hand I soon found myself being invited on the one of the rickety wooden Chinese fishing nets which perch over the water like graceful tropical cranes poised to catch their morning breakfast. I never would have thought that a hello would translate in to me taking a starring role in “ the toughest place to be a fisherman, Yet there I was one of the lads, and on my way to hauling in a fresh catch. I do however have my suspicions, that the caught fish had already been caught and were just chilling in the net until a clueless tourist would come along hoping for a that once in a life time catch, allowing for a recounting of fisherman tales for many year to come. So that’s what I did and I have to admit I was a having a real great time until he asked me for my new found fisherman friend ( not the sweets) asked for two thousand rupees , luckily for me, I being the hard-nosed business man that I am I managed to escape with my wallet only being 500 rupees lighter.

In hindsight , I can understand how sometime even though I think I might have things hard, there are always other who always have it . I guess it put my life into perspective. 500 rupees was really not that much to me but to him it meant a lot. Paying for a great experience whether it’s a theme park or maybe theatre is considered the norm in the UK , but here in India I had a chance to have lots of fun and help someone in need, at the same time, what could be better.

Check back for my next post to find out how Vicky’s hope for an full English breakfast, did not turn out as we (Vicky) had planned.

Returning To My Parents Home

jeanfrancois — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 09:00:00 GMT

Returning to the homeland of my parents some 41 years later, goes against every self-confessed promise I had ever made to myself as young man. However, this sudden re-examination of my one time stance of never wanting to travel back to India, now seems both illogical and somewhat regretful given that it's taken over 4 decades to realize what exotic adventures I had been missing out on.

Excited; yes, elated; getting closer: but neither emotion really goes far enough to express my true feelings as I sit counting down each second, while surrounded by the cold sterile decor of Heathrow's terminal 4 with my darling wife (Vicky), who had not been overly surprised by my burgeoning desire to return to India. After all. it was mostly inspired from within the pages of my now ubiquitous National Geographic travel magazines. Vicky had also earlier concluded that it would have only a matter of time before I had emerged from beneath the piles of travel and photography magazines, claiming to have become a true born again Indian, and testifying how the time had come to return to India to uncover the so claimed Royal linage of the Rodrigues family.

Well I guess I am going to have to sign off for now as my seat on Kuwait airways beacons me and in now less than 14 hours I will be touching down on Indian soil with Cochin being our first stop in what I hope to be the start of something special.

Photos: Profile

jeanfrancois — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 17:32:00 GMT

profile pic