Embracing Randomness

Right now I'm reading a book called Vagabonding: The Art of Long Term World Travel by Rolf Potts. One of the author's recurring admonitions is to view "mishaps" as an opportunity for discovery....a way of finding out where the unexpected will lead. Embrace randomness.

Several days ago my friend Deb and I arrived in Fji, and after dropping off our bags at the hotel, we went into town to find some flip flops (who else besides me would take off for the South Pacific and forget to pack flip flops?!) and after making my purchase I asked the shopkeeper to recommend a pub which catered to locals. I

fully expected to be disappointed by some l

ocal version of The Hard Rock Cafe, but as

we strolled into "Club Nadi" I was delighted to discover that we were the only kaivalagis there.

Deb was the only woman in the joint, but she's nothing if not a good sport, so we decided to stay. We struck up a conversation with a couple of guys at a nearby table, and several adult beverages later, one of them accompanied us to a nearby Indian restaurant so we wouldn't get lost.

On a subsequent visit to our now favorite pub, we were introduced to the chief of one of the outlying villages, as well as his daughter and son-in-law.

The chief was very jovial and invited me to come stay at his home whenever I wanted. I was excited by the prospect of seeing what life was like in a Fijian

village , so I eagerly accepted his invitation and arranged to meet him later that week after Deb returned to the States.

On the day of my departure, my internal compass told me to stop by the pub one last time before heading to the airport.

As luck would have it, the guy who took us to the Indian restaurant was there and told me that the "chief" was not who he claimed to be, but in fact a con-man who lured unsuspecting tourists to the other side of the island, got them to pay for a bunch of "groceries" before boarding a ferry which, according to my guide book, could take anywhere from two hours to four days, and then ditched them once they arrived.

Since I had already paid for the plane ticket, I decided to board the flight to Suva anyway. In the spirit of Vagabonding, one of my mantras is "embrace randomness".

During the 30 minute flight, I surveyed the list of places to stay in my guide book, and randomly chose a guest house with the auspicious name "Nanette's Accommodation".

I showed up on the doorstep at 8 o'clock at night without a reservation and the girl at the front desk told me

there were no vacancies. She reiterated this 5 or 6 times while pointing to the reservation book...until a random guy loitering around the parking lot insisted that there was space available.

I was eventually led upstairs to a spacious room, which, in sharp contrast to previous accommodations on this trip, had towels that were dry and didn't smell like mildew, pillowcases without fresh blood stains and a private hot shower instead of communal room with no door and a single faucet trickling cold, rust-colored water onto a slimy floor that can only be described as a biology experiment gone wrong. I had hit the jackpot.

I was delighted to learn that the room was only $50.00/night and

includes breakfast. It also includes a pack of dogs that barks round the clock, a

gaggle of college students from across the street that hoots and hollers 'til the wee hours and a

rooster that starts cockle-doodle-doing about 4 in the morning. If I can find that damn bird we're gonna have chicken pot pie for dinner.

The only other person at breakfast the next morning was a British guy named Howard. We struck up a conversation about what had brought each of us to Fiji. He's here doing marine conservation for South Pacific Projects, a non-profit organization he founded to protect the eco-system on the reefs

As soon as I told him I was a photographer, he asked if I'd be willing to consider photo-documenting his project in exchange for a couple of weeks of free room and board on a private island, diving in crystal blue water on pristine reefs teeming with exotic fish and coral in one of the most beautiful and inaccessible locations on the planet, oh...and a possible side trip to meet the King of Fiji's grandson. Our father who art in heaven, Howard be thy name.

After breakfast, I took a stroll through town. My first stop was a church with an enormous sanctuary, empty except for 4 or 5 people. I took a seat for a few minutes to collect my thoughts and plan my route, and before I knew it I had drifted off....until I awoke to the sound of a hymn that I recognized from childhood being sung in Fijian in perfect harmony by three women sitting nearby. A fitting benediction...my decision to come to Suva was working out just fine.

Another stop on my self-guided tour was the Fiji Museum which featured an exhibit detailing the story of a missionary who was invited for dinner by some locals back in the 1800's. Apparently he failed to understand that he WAS dinner. All that was left were the bottoms of his shoes, which were on display in the glass case. Apparently he must have said something about "saving souls".

Here at the guest house are two girls who work the front desk, make our breakfast, clean our rooms and provide an overall atmosphere of cheerfulness and hospitality. Turns out they're cousins, and I overheard them talking about going home to their village for the weekend.

Undaunted in my quest to find a real Fijian chief and experience life in a village, I brashly invited myself home with them. They seem as excited as I do. Apparently the last kaivalagis seen entering their village were a couple of Peace Corps workers about 20 years ago.

Maybe I'll ask if I should bring something for dinner.

Fiji Has a Lotta Fish Per Cubic Inch

Went diving today. I have never seen so many fish in my life.

A Few Thoughts On Creativity

My résumé includes the following job experience:

1. Lawn mowing

2. Cleaning ceiling fans

3. Frying taco shells

4. Busing tables in my college cafeteria (I thought it would be a great way to meet chicks...until I found out you had to wear a paper hat)

5. Roustabout on an off-shore oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico

6. Shelving books at my college library

7. Selling records and cassettes (remember those?)

8. D.J.'ing at a radio station and at an ice skating rink

9. Working for a tax consulting firm

10. Stenciling people's house numbers on their curb

11. Selling camera equipment

12. Car rental agent

13. Pizza delivery guy

14. T.V news reporter (while I was a pizza delivery guy. Seriously)

15. Teaching English as a second language

16. Being an extra in a Jackie Chan film

17. Dubbing Chinese kung fu movies into English

18. Marketing manager for an publishing company traveling all over southeast Asia

19. Being a human test subject for pharmaceuticals not yet approved by the FDA

20. Picking up dead bodies at night for a funeral home

The last time I picked up a corpse was in 1988. Ironically it was the body of the embalmer I worked with every night. Ever since then I've been a full time professional photographer. Speaking of which...there's no better way to beat the life and soul out of something you love than to do it for a living.

Which is why I'm re-examining the way I take photographs. For more than two decades, almost every time I've put the camera to my eye, there was that little voice in the back of my head that said "Is this what the client wants?" "Will this satisfy the art director?" "Will they pay me when I send them the invoice?"

Even when shooting photos for fun, on some level there was still that nagging voice: "I wonder if I can sell this image" or "Don't forget to leave some negative space for a headline!" or even "Won't it be cool to show this to my friends when I get home?"

I've wrestled with the question "What am I bringing to this photograph that conveys my unique vision, that makes the viewer see things in a new way, that isn't the same trite sunset or predictable image that anyone with a camera could take?"

It's especially difficult to screw up....or to be creative, when I find myself in an exotic environment or in front of an exotic subject, and the light is just right. How do I create a photograph that isn't simply clicking the shutter and recording something that's been handed to me on a silver platter? The "compliment" that really makes me wince is "Wow! It looks just like a postcard!"

One of my idols, Sean Kernan, is not only an incredible photographer, but a magnificent writer and gifted teacher as well. His photographs are simple, poetic, breathtaking. And they don't rely on fancy Photoshop® work or trendy tricks or trying to serving up the flavor of the month. Do yourself a favor and check out his work at seankernan.com.

Several years ago, I had the good fortune to attend one of Sean's workshops. We did much less photography than I expected and much more in the way of experimentation. Sean had us drawing pictures, doing Chinese calligraphy, meditation, leg wrestling, improvisation using sounds and movement. I remember him saying something to the effect that creativity is a room into which there are many doors, and that "keeping your creative faucet dripping" in any way you choose is of vital importance if you want to keep fresh ideas flowing.

And so....despite the fact that I've been sailing in a photographer's paradise, I challenged myself not to take ANY photos while I was here in Tonga. It was brutal. Several hundred times each day I would catch myself framing the perfect image in my mind. But I resisted the urge to grab my camera. I felt like a heroin addict during my first week of withdrawal.

And then, my creativity started to bubble up in other ways....building a big spiral out of rocks on the sand, encouraging everyone in the group to make a unique hat out of aluminum foil, painting abstract shapes with a flashlight on a moonlit beach.

And then Sean's words came back to me. It dawned on me that when there are no rules, no correct way to do things, no bacon to bring home, when I'm not a hired expert who has to deliver the goods, what remains is the sheer delight that always accompanies playfulness, self-expression and creating something new.

I hope to bring that freedom back to my photography and to approach everything I do with that same sense of creativity, playfulness and joy.

Where the Heck is Tonga?

It's in the middle of nowhere.

It's in the South Pacific Ocean.

It's a group of 176 islands.

Its closest neighbor is Fiji.

It has a king.

The language has a lot of vowels and not enough consonants.

The flag looks like the Swiss Army and the Red Cross got together and decided to form a country.

It is unbelievably beautiful.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane is that all the men look like super heroes from another planet. Here in Tonga, Arnold Schwarznegger would be a girly man. The national sport is rugby, which makes American football look about as macho as riding a pink tricycle. The Tongans do very well in rugby, largely due to the fact that when they walk onto the field, their opponents huddle together and cry like little girls.

For the first leg of my around the world odyssey, I spent a week on a sailboat meandering around the exquisite islands of Tonga. Each day our "to do" list looked exactly the same:

1. Wake up

2. Apply suntan lotion.

3. Visit yet another pristine beach with turquoise waters and coral reefs.

4. Take a nap

5. Drink rum punch

6. Repeat as necessary

Needless to say, this hectic schedule has taken atoll, so I'm off to Fiji for some rest and relaxation.

Traveling Light

I’ve sold my clothes and my shoes.

I’ve sold my furniture and everything hanging on my walls.

I’ve sold my lawn mower and my house.

I’ve sold all my photography gear and closed the studio where I’ve worked for 20 years.

I’ve left nothing in storage and gotten rid of everything I own except what I can carry.

It's been incredibly liberating to watch all my stuff disappear.

I’ve left behind everyone I know and everything that’s familiar to me.

I’ve stepped off a cliff into complete and utter uncertainty.

I’m traveling the world...embracing the unforeseen and reveling in the unexpected.

My Heart is On Fire!

My sister Devra and I had been estranged for more than a year. No visits, no emails, no phone calls, nothing. I also hadn't had any contact with my niece Ellis, who was four years old the last time I saw her.

One day, out of the blue, I received the following email from my sister:

Date: Tue, 9 Feb 2010 16:37:52 -0800 (PST)
To: John Langford john@johnlangford.com
Subject: conversation with ellis

John,
Here's a conversation I had with Ellis while I was driving her to school this morning:

Ellis: Mom. I want you to get married

Me: OK. Me too

Ellis: Can I come to the wedding?

Me: Of course

Ellis: Are you gonna dance at your wedding?

Me: Yep

Ellis: Can I dance too?

Me: Of course. Do you want to dance with me?

Ellis: No, I want my own dance

Me: Who would you like to dance with?

Ellis: Uncle John

About three months and many emails later, Devra needed to come to Austin for a sales meeting, so she and Ellis stayed for the weekend. Devra and I talked until the wee hours, and when I woke up the next morning and walked into the kitchen to fire up the coffee pot, Ellis emerged from the guest room while her mom got a little more shut-eye.

I wasn't quite awake yet, and unprepared for the barrage of questions that are part of a well-rested five year old's morning routine. As I attempted to lubricate my synapses with caffeine, her eyes turned to the woodblock print hanging above my fireplace.

"What's that a picture of Uncle John?" she inquired.

Rather than spoon-feeding her a "grown up" answer, I wanted to see what would happen if I answered her question with a question.

"What do you think it's a picture of Ellis?" I replied

"It looks like a heart and some thorns."

"That's what it looks like to me too."

"Why is the heart on fire?"

"Why do you think it's on fire?"

"I don't know."

"Well, to me, the fire stands for all the good feelings in life, like happiness and joy and love...like the way I love you."

"And what about the thorns?"

"What do you think they mean?"

"I don't know."

"Well, those might mean all the feelings like sadness, or being angry or lonely or afraid."

"I'm afraid of the dark."

"Yeah...I was too when I was your age. But you'll grow out of it."Just then her mom emerged from the bedroom, desperately in need of coffee, so my conversation with Ellis ended.

Later that afternoon, Devra left Ellis in my care while she went to her meeting. I took Ellis to a crawfish boil where I knew there would be lots of other kids there and a trampoline, and mountains of food.

There was a Cajun band playing, and Ellis was fascinated by the accordion, so I asked her if she wanted to dance. She and I have a tradition of turning up the stereo really loud and jumping around like a couple of lunatics, but that's only because I know she won't make fun of me. I'm ultra self-conscious when it comes to dancing in public, especially when I'm the only one dancing and it's broad daylight. But I picked Ellis up and held her hand as if we were waltzing, and we started swaying to the music.

When the song ended and I set her down, she made a bee-line for the trampoline, and pretty soon she was assigning time slots to the other, much older kids. I wandered over to where a group of my friends was chatting and joined the conversation.

Some time passed, and then I heard Ellis hollering in the background. I turned to face her, but I couldn't understand what she was saying as she jumped up and down with a big grin on her face.

"What?" I said.

She continued to shout in her raspy voice, but I still couldn't decipher what she was saying.

Walking closer, I said "What?"

Again, I couldn't understand her reply.

I walked to the edge of the trampoline and finally I heard her clearly....

"Uncle John! My heart is on fire!"

Many thanks and much love to my friend Irene Perez Omer for creating the print entitled "Communion"...a word which has additional meaning to me now. You can see more of her work at www.iconarts.com

An Army of One

Sometimes you gotta face the fact that you're just outnumbered. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Or the Spartans at Thermopylae.

Any time someone uses the phrase "That's our policy" as a smoke screen for laziness, or obstinance or just plain meanness, I imagine myself drawing the razor-sharp, white-hot sword of righteous indignation from its scabbard (schwing!) and lopping off heads like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Especially when the policy is clearly the antithesis of common sense. Which it usually is.

The other day I needed to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch to Lowe's. "Why so much mulch?" you might well ask. Despite my meticulous calculations as to how much mulch would be needed to fill three flower beds, I was off by a quarter ton. But let's not get side-tracked. Needless to say nine 50 lb. bags weigh...well...a lot! So I pulled my vehicle right up next to the pallet where they keep the mulch, so all they had to do was lift the bags directly from my truck onto the pallet. Easy.

I darted inside the garden center, and handed my receipt to the cashier.

"We don't do returns here...you'll need to go to the customer service desk."

If you've ever been to Lowe's, you know that Customer Service is about a quarter mile from the Garden Center. So off I trotted. Walking at a brisk pace the journey took about 3 minutes. I presented my receipt.

"I'd like to return some mulch, please."

"You'll need to bring the mulch inside so we can count the bags" droned the obviously bored and under-worked customer service representative, not even looking up at me.

That's what I'd call about 450 lbs. of unhelpfulness. Are you effing kidding me? These thoughts scrolled across my forehead in 6 foot tall red neon letters.

"Um...isn't one of your employees gonna have to accompany me to my vehicle to unload the mulch?"

"Yes sir...This is Brandon. He'll help you."

"How 'bout this idea? I'm parked right next to the pallet of mulch. To make it easier for everyone, how 'bout we go ahead and handle the return now, and then Brandon can verify the number of bags. If I miscounted, then I'll come back and we'll square up."

"I'm sorry sir...that's our policy."

It occured to me that I might have a stroke right there at the customer service counter. How's that for about a quarter ton of irony?

"May I speak to the manager please?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing heavily, she dialed the phone and explained the situation to the manager in an exasperated tone, then hung up and monotoned "The manager says that's our policy."

Am I insane? Is this really happening? Have I unwittingly stepped through a hidden portal into Crazy World?

"May I SPEAK to the manager please?" By now the other employees nearby were starting to take notice. Meanwhile Brandon had wandered off to download the new "Complete Waste of Time" app on his iPhone. Or maybe was he "tweeting" about the Mad Man at the counter who thought he was William Wallace waging war against the English.

She dialed the phone again and handed me the receiver....

"Hi...my name's John Langford. How are you this evening? I need to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch and I was wondering if...."

"I'm on my way."

The manager arrived and I shook his hand warmly. Assuming there had been some misunderstanding, I described the situation in calm detail, to which he responded "Oh yeah...we can handle that...no problem."

Turning to the cashier and trying to conceal my expression of glee, I handed her my receipt.

"Sir...we'll need to see the bags of mulch before we can process the return" the manager said.

I couldn't believe my ears! I WAS in Crazy World!! I was speaking English, but they only understood "Red Tape." No wait...I'd been here before. This was one of those "Am I gonna just laugh at the complete and utter absurdity of it all...or am I gonna lose my cool (too late!)" moments. Why didn't I realize it sooner?!

"Let's go..." I said.

As we hiked to my truck, I told the manager not to take it as a personal attack, but that I'd like to respectfully register my protest against their policy in the strongest terms possible, and that I thought it was completely ridiculous.

By the time we completed our cross-country trek, we were chatting amiably about his kids, how long he had lived in Austin and so on. Sure enough there were nine bags of mulch in my truck. Be still my tongue.

A quarter mile later we were back at the cash register, where he confirmed that I had indeed returned nine bags of mulch. The cashier issued a return, and I strolled the now familiar route back to my car. It was like deja vu all over again.

At least I got some exercise. And a 450 lb. reminder that when I least expect it, I'll find myself in yet another episode of Cosmic Candid Camera.