PARADISE LOST

A Photo Essay, Without Photos

I’ve just returned from a week at Playa Conchal Resort in Costa Rica, a beautifully appointed tropical resort where my family and I were indulged with ideal weather, comfortable accommodation, a wide variety of delicious food and drink, and days spent lounging at poolside, wandering the beach, marvelling at the wildlife, and getting our adrenaline flowing with various gravity-defying and power-driven activities.

Here’s a typical day: I would rise with the sun around six, throw on a t-shirt, some shorts and sandals, grab my camera bag, and get a travel mug filled with Costa Rican coffee at the breakfast buffet just as they opened. Then I would head to the beach and either turn left or right. Right would take me to Brasilito, a nearby village that was waking with the morning sun. There, I’d wander the streets and alleyways photographing the light and shadows. Drowsy dogs, walls saturated in vivid colours, and doorways adorned with Christmas decorations were the focus of my photography. Returning along the beach, more photo opportunities awaited me as the sun was now breaking the hillside and reaching the sand and rolling surf. The shadow play on the sand through the trees was quite captivating, with footprints both fresh and fading interrupting the flat plane of sand.

On other days, turning left at the beach would take me eventually to a still sleepy beach cafe, where the bold colours and vacant furniture cried out to be photographed. Two small decaying, varicoloured rowboats left leaning upright against ancient trees also commanded my camera’s attention. But the best find of all was an abandoned house up on the hillside overlooking the beach. Half a dozen large, ornate orange pillars welcomed me to this fascinating former home. Behind these imposing sentries lay a large structure, entirely roofless, each room floored in ornate blue and white tile, half-concealed in dusty debris. The brilliance of the painted walls, some white, some orange, some blue, was artfully tainted by the patina of weather and age. Room by room I studied details with my camera, aligning windows and walls, studying proportions and colours and light. Why this once splendid home was abandoned, I don’t know. I paid two visits to this location, the second, on our final day, more methodical and studied than the first, paying very careful attention to my exposures and composition. Plans of a photo book began to form in my imagination, using these shots to complement other images from similar, but so different locations.

A pre-arranged rendezvous for a nine a.m. family breakfast pulled me homeward after each of my morning adventures, where my sleepy-faced family and I would plan the coming day. This generally consisted of pool time, beach time, and some sort of excursion, which included kayaking, zip lining, power boat tubing, and an amazing backroad ATV adventure, which turned out to be the highlight for my sons and I. My photography would continue at various points throughout the day, waiting for the warm slanted light at day’s end, usually at the beach, to finish off before a relaxing evening of dinner and conversation.

It was on our final day that this perfect routine came to an abrupt end, as it was late that morning when my camera bag was stolen from the beach. With surprising boldness, someone came up from behind our group of chairs and lifted my bag where my boys sat reading. For once, I had decided not to carry it with me as I enjoyed a short walk on the beach with my wife. At all other times, my bag was attached to my side like an appendage. This bag contained not only my valued Nikon, but three lenses, my wallet, my new iPod, my glasses, my watch, and various other items. And the greatest loss of all was hundreds of photographs that I so looked forward to coming home with, not only my personal work, but the documentation of an important family vacation.

A hasty search of the beach and the road and peering in windows of parked cars led nowhere, as did the subsequent involvement of resort security and the Costa Rican police. My unfocussed anger led to a profound disappointment which in turn, coloured my brilliant week in a drab grey. My impression of the warm and friendly Costa Rican people was suddenly tainted by one heartless individual, and my unwavering belief in karma began to crumble. This stuff doesn’t happen to me. Happy hour that afternoon wasn't, as I recounted with dismay the two or three or four steps that always seem to precede an unfortunate event.

We flew out of Costa Rica the following morning, and I left something very important behind. Beyond my camera equipment, beyond my personal possessions, all my identification, beyond even all those precious photographs, I left behind a part of my faith in people.

This photo-less essay has given me a chance to record, without camera and lens, the beauty and wonder of one short, but intense week in a place far from my home and my ways, and has given me a way to create something from nothing. There are far greater losses to experience than mine. My family is home safe and sound, and with time, I’ll probably get over this loss. And as I now proceed to try to replace all my identification, and attempt to hopefully recover my lost possessions through insurance, I hope that part of me that I left behind will someday return.

Wanita's Farm

While on a brief photography adventure in rural Ontario recently, an abandoned farm caught my eye. I stopped, pulled up the overgrown drive, parked the car and went off to explore. The property consisted of a weathered grey farm house, two large barns, and a few small storage buildings. I went off to explore the barns first, foraging through long grass and weeds to get there, and then began to take some photographs.

The barns were clearly long out of use, mostly empty, with a few remnants of human and animal life. Sunlight pierced the gaps in the wallboards, and the floor was missing large sections, making my steps rather tenuous. The rafters of the lower level of the big barn housed countless bird’s nests, like the barn itself, all void of life.

I have always had a fascination for places abandoned, so with more than a little anticipation, I made my way to the house to see what awaited. As I approached, I saw through the dim opening that one of the smaller buildings outside held haphazardly piled cardboard boxes, and in the other, cat litter bags filled with newspapers. Two doghouses lay partly hidden in the foliage, long vacant of their inhabitants. The outside of the house was strewn with various pieces of well weathered furniture; a couch and a mattress, and an old ringer washing machine lay on its side, all slowly being swallowed by the long weeds.

With eyes wide open, I approached the side door, which was propped open by a rusty paint can full of old brushes. The porch was scattered with pet cages, pieces of clothing, and various bits of refuse. Tentatively, I entered the kitchen to find the first of many rooms that were filled with a surprising richness of texture and colour and decay. Brushing off feelings of invasiveness, I began to look carefully at what lay before me. The personal items left behind by the final occupant slowly began to reveal aspects of who this person was: medicine bottles littered the floor, bags of pet food lay dusty in a cupboard, food containers sat on rusty fridge shelves, years past their best before date.

Correspondence left about the kitchen revealed specific details about the long-gone occupant: her name was Wanita, she had a daughter, and at that time, was soon to have a grandchild. She belonged to Columbia House Music Club, and had been called for jury duty in a nearby city. Despite the chaotic condition of the house, she seemed to have some sense of organization, as each piece of mail was scribed with its arrival date, none more recent than 1998.

I found myself stepping quietly as I went, as if another was in the house, soundless except for the occasional crack of broken glass underfoot and the buzzing of summer insects.

The remaining rooms on the main floor were scattered with old magazines, newspapers, and furniture, including a large wheeled pet cage. And there were not one, but two old console stereos, turntable lids open seemingly ready for the next record. Most of the windows were broken and the front door hung precariously from one hinge. Years of exposure to cold winters and hot summers had caused the painted walls to peel like a bad sunburn, revealing even more colour beneath. Two birds flew in a window and squawked at me as though this was their home, and I had no business being there.

I continued my exploring upstairs, where I found four more rooms, three of which were full of things left behind, mostly clothing and boxes. The fourth room was strangely empty, save for an old mattress, as though it were actually lived in. Childhood items scattered the floor, recalling perhaps a happier time. A few Christmas decorations hung in darkened corners. And, like the lower floor, there was colour and texture everywhere, with peeling paint again revealing another layer, another colour, and another time, beneath.

I left the house after taking a number of photographs, and began to wonder about Wanita, this woman who loved colour, and pets, and music, and Christmas. Did she dance to her records? Did she have a lover? Why did she leave her home? And, is she still alive?

A subsequent Google search yielded no results, unsurprisingly, but did lead me to her daughter’s Facebook page. She lives, apparently, in a town near the abandoned house. And after a long inner debate, I sent her a message explaining my experience at her former home, and asking if she could please give me more information about her mother and the house. She has not replied as yet, and so, like the pitch black basement I dared not enter, Wanita and her life will likely remain a mystery.

But I like a good mystery.

Now and Then

In my grade five classroom, we're currently discussing the conservation of energy, comparing current energy use to times past. This brought to discussion what my students would do without the amenities they are accustomed to. These are children, much like my own, who spend a considerable amount of their free time engaged with technology. This, in turn, caused me to reflect on exactly what I did many years ago to entertain myself when computers and video games did not exist.

Getting Stoned, Almost

Spending a lot more time outdoors first springs to mind, and the great outdoors holds a wide range of possibilities. Just today, a few of my fellow staff members were reminiscing on how much throwing snowballs (now outlawed in school yards) was a part of their youth. My contribution to the discussion related how, with a distinct lack of snow in Vancouver, we resorted to rock fights. Somewhat higher on the danger scale than snowballs, rock fighting required lightning fast reflexes, and the use of found objects as shields. I can still feel the cool steel swing seat in my hand and hear the ping of a deflected shot. And, remarkably, I still have the use of both my eyes.

Things Go Better with Coke

During one of those rare winters when we were blessed with snow, I recall using a using a large dish-shaped Coca Cola sign as a toboggan, spinning wildly down our street with too many friends on board, with not an ounce of control over our speed or direction. Where that sign came from, or who took it, I cannot tell.

Just Say No To Slugs

Growing up in the rain capital of Canada meant slugs were a rather abundant form of wildlife. Left alone, slugs are not particularly interesting; squishy, slow moving, and tending to leave a path of slime in their "wake". However, my brothers and I somehow discovered the magical transformation of a slug when salt was liberally sprinkled over it. The effect was immediate, and to a young and mischievous boy, imminently gratifying. The salt reacted quickly with the moisture on the slug's exterior, and the rest I will leave to imagination.

Here It Comes!

The desire to effect change in my world also was manifested in the brief but exciting process of placing a coin on a railroad track, waiting for an oncoming train, and witnessing the deformation of said coin to a flattened version of its former appearance. There was no better way to spend my allowance.

Improvisation, or Making Something from Nothing

Growing up in a large (six siblings) working class family often required some creativity in our free time activities. My first skateboard, for example, was crafted from a short length of plywood, to which was nailed the salvaged wheels from a pair of old roller skates. Not so great on corners, but good for speed on the straight track. My first bicycle was inherited from my older sister, an oversized "girl's" bike that, though a little cumbersome, was a sure winner in downhill races due to it's sheer mass and wheel size. And my friends and I use to spend countless hours playing an invented game we called "Peggy". Take two old broomsticks, remove the business end, then cut 4-5 inches off the other end (the peg). Burrow two holes in the ground about 25 feet apart (a resting place for the bat), then take turns pitching, and attempting to bat the peg as hard as you could. On contact, run as fast as you can back and forth until the peg is retrieved. Points scored for number of runs. Sort of a crude cricket.

From The Archives

This is the actual "peg" we played with. It is no surprise why my wife calls me a packrat.

Trick or Treat?

Halloween was a time of fun and adventure. Before they were banned, firecrackers provided endless opportunities for somewhat risky exploits. Not content with simply lighting and tossing, they were dismantled and redesigned into various incarnations, such as flame throwing toy cars, or, by carefully removing the powder inside, numerous other pyrotechnic possibilities. Costumes called for other creative directions, like the time I had to lay on my back across the kitchen table with a straw in my mouth, as my siblings covered my face with Plaster of Paris to fashion a Frankenstein mask. Other years, a hobo (now politically incorrect?) was my favourite, with the application of burned cork providing the necessary unshaven appearance.

Johnny in the Trunk

Although this may not qualify as a pastime, a good deal of my time was spent being victimized by my two older brothers. (Denying total innocence, I did pass on some of this abuse to my younger brother in my limited position of power.) At one time, the three of us shared a bedroom. Needless to say, bedtime was not a favourite time, as it was then that I would be required to play "The Screaming Contest". Here's how it worked: Each of us would take turns raising our voice louder than the previous person, with the constant and increasing threat of our dad coming downstairs wielding a yardstick. Thus the objective was not to be the one caught. And here's the catch...If I refused to participate, my oldest brother would reach up to a shelf and rattle his pocket knife, and then advise me that if I didn't join in, I would end up sharing the same fate as Johnny, "The Other Brother". This would fill me with fear, as I lived under the terrifying belief that in a wooden trunk in our playroom, there lay a brother I used to have, who did not play the screaming game. For years, I didn't go near that trunk, and as you can imagine, I succumbed to pressure and played the game. Unfortunately it was rigged, and I was always the one caught under the wrath of the yardstick. Somehow, I'm not bitter.

And So..

And so with all these memories in mind, did I have a more enriched childhood without modern technology? Perhaps not, but will my children have such stories to tell?

This illustration used to hang in the hallway of my childhood home. Unlike the ever flickering and changing images of TV and computers, this still image caused me to pause for many youthful moments and imagine myself as that little boy.

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This is a video of stills taken at my happy place in rural Southwestern Ontario.

Here's the routine: jump on my mountain bike, ride, stop, photograph, ride some more, stop, photograph, ride, stop, photograph...

Turn up the volume, or better yet, put on some headphones.

If you'd like to see more of my videos, or to see this in full resolution, as it should be seen,

go to Vimeo by following this link: http://www.vimeo.com/9192200

Okay, so here goes... I've done Gmail, Flickr, Facebook, YouTube and Vimeo. Still in search of internet adventure, and another creative outlet, it's time to start a blog. Currently working on a personal history of my varied employment. Stay tuned!