Toronto Gay Pride Parade 2006

It was a perfect Sunday in Toronto – nice and sunny, but not too hot, and loaded with bodies in all stages of nakedness, a little something for every taste. Yes, it was the Gay Pride Weekend, crowned with the Gay Pride Parade on Sunday and we went to watch it and enjoy. It was colorful, crazy, noisy, curvy, shaky, wet (those damned water guns were everywhere, but a cold spray of water now and then was quite welcome to keep the head cool in the sun) and on occasions explicit. My absolute favorite is the Snow White, a well endowed edition, but because of the explicit content could not upload it here. I know you’re curious, so follow the link and enjoy the Parade! We surely did!

Camping in Europe

Vienna

 The reason I am writing wide awake at 5 o'clock in the morning is a severe case of jet lag. It keeps me yawning for most of the day and staring at the ceiling in the dark of the night. At least, it gives me time to reminisce on the trip I undertook with my wife. The trip kept us awake with excitement before, and is still keeping me awake now, upon our return. But, frankly, it was worth all the sleepless nights.

 We just returned from a 3-week camping trip in Europe. Here in Canada, camping is usually associated with wilderness, campfire, mosquitoes, bears, moose, fishing, porta-potty or not-a-potty relieving style and other charms of the “return to nature”. Since I have already been camping in Austria in my youth, I knew there are washrooms and hot showers available near the tent pitch. Vienna, with its high-class charm, was my favorite town then, and we decided to make it our first destination. Three and a half hours after landing in Munich and getting a rental car, we were there.

 Vienna, however, gave us a cold shoulder. Or, rather, cold shower, testing the waterproofing of our tent for two, which endured the test leaklessly. Cold and reserved were also the looks of its people, while we stumbled under umbrella from St. Stephen's Cathedral to Hofburg Imperial Palace and around. Beside being unfriendlier than I remember, Vienna was also more crowded and housed - metaphorically speaking - much greater number of homeless and panhandlers. The latter proved to be good training for what awaited us in Italy. Otherwise, it is still an awe-inspiring town, clean and grand, where street musicians play Strauss, sounds of Mozart follows you on the stroll through historic downtown and narrow streets serve to dazzle you when they open to a majestic sight of a palace, or a church, or a square where baroque monuments are framed with pictoresque 18th century facades. Visit to Schoenbrunn was a treat for itself and took a whole cloudy day, which was barely enough. It is hard to single out what impresses more - the palace with its gracious courtyard and huge flowery backyard, the Neptune Fountain, the Gloriette, the park, the maze, the zoo... If only the Viennese could learn to smile again!


 Slovenia

 Chilled by Vienna's weather and people, we headed south, our route cutting through newly accepted EU country Slovenia. The border between Germany and Austria was so thoroughly removed that we didn't even realize we were in another country until we reached Linz, which I knew for a fact to be in Austria. Now going south, we crossed the still-existing border between Austria and Slovenia. The transition of Slovenia from a former republic of former Yugoslavia to an accepted EU country is still in process, as we were reminded by the presence of the customs officers, the border itself and by handfulls of Slovenian currency "tolar" - not to be mistaken as "dollar", though pronunciation is similar - for change every time we paid in Euros. We paid the highway toll sometimes before and sometimes after we used a portion of a highway. For all I knew, we might have been charged twice for some sections.

 Our path took us through Postojna, at the southwest part of Slovenia, which is the town built around one of the biggest European caves. The joke goes: a couple of centuries ago a Slovene entered a bar in town complaining how he lost a silver coin near by. All the patrons hurried out and started digging for the coin, resulting in 20 kilometers of so far explored paths of Postojna Cave. The true story is more banal: Luka Cec, cave's discoverer, fell through a hole in the ground during one of his morning walks in 1818, thus discovering one of the main tourist attractions of this miniature country. We took the bait, cashed out about 18 Euros each for tickets and hopped on the little train that took us few kilometers deep in the cave. There we got off to continue on foot, following our guides through maze of stalactites hanging from the cave's ceiling, and stalagmites growing from its floor, which on some occasions met to form magnificent natural pillars. Each pillar needed few thousands years to form. All along our exploration, we were confronted with signs warning against taking pictures and videos in the cave. Futile effort, considering that nowadays cameras are built in every imaginable electronic device. Also, whoever cashes out 18 Euros to enter the cave, won't leave without snapping a few souvenir photos along the way. After a 2-kilometer stroll on cemented paths gave us a feel - too small for the price - of this natural wonder, we were ushered back to the train and out of the cave.

 Before we left Postojna and Slovenia for good, we went to see another attraction, Predjama Castle. Built at the entrance of another cave, it is an impressive, though somewhat tiny castle that seems invincible, especially for the time it was built, 700 years ago. Inside, only a few rooms were decorated in the spirit of medieval times, most of others still under construction, despite the castle being open for tourists and charging hefty price to enter. Castle's back is built into the cliff, which was enough for a man with a rich imagination like mine to picture nobles climbing steep stairs and enjoying fantastic view of the valley underneath, and servants washing laundry in the stone basins built into outer wall of the castles, drainage being just a hole in the wall, taking water down the hundred-feet cliff of the mountain. Having exhausted our interest for speleology, we drove towards Italy and our first originally planned destination, Venice.


 Venice

 Having wasted the daylight in the darkness of Slovenia's caves, we were at still-existing border with Italy at night. Our passports were checked by a fashion-model-turned-customs-officer blonde in uniform, with a rich layer of makeup covering any possible emotion her face could have betrayed. Her eyes, the coldest things I saw this far south from arctic circle, must have been designed to stop any thought of flirting from numerous truck drivers waiting to cross to Italy. I could feel her icy stare at the back of my neck as I violated speed limit to escape it. Hour and a half later we were in Venice where we managed to find the camp site without the city map and with only one u-turn! "Camping Venezia" was small and crowded, part of it closed for inevitable dusty expansion works, but its small size meant our tent was a short distance from washrooms and hot showers. From the downtown across the sea channel a band was clearly audible, playing badly some of Sinatra's evergreens.

 Camping in Europe is probably the friendliest and undoubtedly cheapest way to travel. We woke up to a chorus of "good mornings" in several languages, none of them Italian, from our neighboring campers. Older ones were sipping coffees in front of their recreation vehicles, while younger ones unzipped their tents open and lounged on the grass or the camping chairs beside. Too eager to get going, we decided to hurry with the morning rituals and have a breakfast in town. After a 5-minute bus ride we were picking our way from the bus terminal towards the pedestrian-only maze of streets and channels known as Venezia. Following map, instinct and signs pointing to Piazza San Marco, we enjoyed an early stroll through streets too narrow for three people to walk side by side, over stone and wooden bridges bridging equally narrow channels cluttered with parked gondolas. Along the way, we found several bakeries where we didn't need to pay a small fortune for fresh buns, mini-pizzas or sandwiches. Though still early in the morning, old town was quickly filling with tourists. Locals, rushing to work or to do the morning chores, were distinguishable from the touristy lot by the lack of cameras. Dragging along their two-wheeled briefcases or shopping carts, they plowed through sightseeing crowds clogging the narrow passages. After my leg savagely collided with an old lady's grocery cart in one such instance, I learned to respectfully clear the way for the locals.

 Margaret, my wife, who has never been to Italy before, marked our progress towards the centre with a series of "wows" which would become more frequent when streets opened to a square, or a canal. Long "wooooow" marked our ascent on the stone "Ponte di Rialto" bridge from 16th century which, beside its own beauty, rewarded us with the view of Grand Canal bathed in the morning sun and busy with morning traffic. When we finally approached Piazza San Marco, I asked Margaret if she was ready for the view and she nodded hungrily, her eyes shiny with anticipation. Still, when the street spat us out onto one of the most beautiful squares in the world, the lack of "wow" showed how much she was taken by the sight. After a while, head turning in all directions, she mouthed "holy smokes" and reached for her camera.

 The beauty of Venice, beside its rich architecture and network of canals, also lays in the lack of motorized traffic. If your elbows are sharp enough to make way through throngs of tourists, or, as we did, you stay away from the main tourist paths, it is easy to fall in love with this unique, sinking town. This late in September even the infamous stench was barely noticeable, and that only in some less-traveled canals. We rambled around until nightfall, then made our way back, passing by street musicians performing Italian classics on everything, from acoustic guitars and saxophones to wine glasses.


 Tuscany

 Florence, as opposed to Venice, is built at the banks of Arno river, on the solid ground and easily accessible to motorized traffic. Italian obsession with their motor vehicles and apparent unwillingness to go anywhere on foot shows in swarms of scooters zigzagging angrily among pedestrians and cars alike, making us jump aside whenever a scooterist decided to avoid the traffic congestion by bypassing it on the sidewalk. More often than not, a car would split the current of tourists, driving up the stream in pedestrian-only zone.

 Streets of Florence, heavily infested with tourists and unbudging traffic, reek of urine and car fumes. Camping, however, was more than pleasant experience. Our camp site "Camping Michelangelo" was positioned on the hillslope overlooking downtown. Every morning we enjoyed cappuccino in the camp's cafe with a view of Florence bathed in raising sun.

 Down in town, providing you were not run over in pedestrian-only zone by a scooter, or a car, or a horse carriage, you'll be mostly left breathless by piazzas and buildings rich with intricate details. Streets of the downtown transfer you to medieval times when Florence was flourishing, from 11th to 17th century. Walking the cobble-stoned streets, I almost expected to bump into a noble, some descendant of Medici family, the rulers of Florence from 15th to mid-18th century, or a knight, even a minor noble would do, someone like Machiavelli. Instead, I bumped endlessly into Japanese tourists and had an elbowing contest with an un-knightly chubby American with a crying face and a baseball hat, who was whimpering about having to walk(!) from one tourist site to another. Still, the sights worth fighting for were all around: at Piazza della Signoria stands the most famous naked man, Michelangelo's David at the entrance to Palazzo Vecchio, a duplicate - the original being moved to the Galleria dell'Academia - whose exposed intimate parts were photographed by millions of cameras, greatly surpassing Pamela Anderson; to the right from the fake David are original sculptures permanently exhibited on Loggia della Signoria, a platform dating from times preceding Michelangelo's; a short walk from there is Duomo, Florence's cathedral squeezed in an unfortunately small square, unfit to hold the number of tourists crowding there to see it.

 An hour drive from Florence is Pisa, famous for its Leaning Tower and Campo dei Miracoli, the square where the tower stands, or, rather, leans. At the square, beside the tower, are Pisa’s cathedral - also unimaginatively called Duomo - and the baptistery. Older than Florence's Duomo, Pisa's cathedral seems brighter, with more intricately woven lace-like facade. The whole square, Campo dei Miracoli, is spacious and doesn't leave you gasping for air even when filled with tourists. Leaning tower is there, inclined, it seems like it’s mischievously lurking from behind the cathedral. We couldn't climb up, because the number of visitors is limited and apparently we should have reserved the tickets in advance.

 Leaving Pisa, we took a country road through the lovely hills of Tuscany. It is exactly as shown on all the postcards and calendars - vineyards and small towns glued to the hilltops, looking like they are going to slide down from their cliffs any moment, yet somehow managing to cling on. When the road brought us to Volterra, a town built in and around the 12th century fortress, we made a stop to explore. The brown brick walls of the medieval city were not completely devoid of tourists, but it was considerably easier to move around, even to find certain corners and streets only to ourselves. Of course, no matter how narrow or steep a street was, eventually there were cars and scooters revving upwards noisily. Yet, it seemed that tranquility of the surrounding landscape sipped into Volterra and reflected in its relaxed atmosphere and slow pace.


 Rome

 Just when we thought the traffic can't get any worse than in Florence, we came close to Rome and changed our mind. Driving on a two-lane highway to the city was like playing 4 video games, trying to watch the road and all rearview mirrors at once. The cars were squeezing in front and behind us, two or three at a time, doing so in such speed that I could not understand how they did it without crashing. Once we reached the camp safely, we parked the car and decided not to drive until the day we left Rome.

 All fantastic buildings, monuments and ruins, for which Rome is famous, were crawling with tourists. Since there is no low season in Rome, I guess there is no perfect time to visit. We braced ourselves and dived into the tide of tourists, swimming in it as swift as we could. Remnants of Europe’s first great empire, the Roman Forums, are just being excavated. Romans, apparently, only recently - in the last couple of centuries - realized that once they were the cradle of civilization. Alas, by that time, generations of citizens of the Eternal City were building their houses with bricks and marble which used to hold the great halls of the Forum. Powerful nobles had parts of the Forums covered with soil so they could grow luxurious gardens on it. Today, gardens gone, there are few columns standing upright amongst ruins, like a few remaining teeth in otherwise toothless mouth, a sad reminder that once there was a mouthful of teeth smiling proudly at the world.

 A day after we visited Vatican and enjoyed magnificence of St. Peter’s Basilica, where Margaret touched the worn-out shiny foot of bronze St. Peter’s statue, but wouldn’t tell me what she wished or prayed for, we queued up early for Vatican museums. Though we arrived shortly after 9am, the queue was already stretching around few blocks, almost to the entrance to St. Peter’s Square. Determined to see the inside of the Vatican and foolish enough to wait, we crawled step by painful step until, few hours later, we were at the entrance, where they told us we have only an hour until closing! There is so much to see in Vatican museums, an hour is barely enough time to make a full round if you are walking constantly. Unfortunately, all those thousands of people lining up in front and behind us were also in the museum, making it impossible to stop and admire individual exhibits. The river of people simply swiped us and carried us along the hallways. But even then, the golden halls, murals and paintings on ceilings and walls were awe-inspiring, judging by “oohs” and “aahs” all around, including ours. Sweaty hour later, safely outside in fresh air, I couldn’t help but feeling cheated for paying 12 Euros per person only to be teased with what we could have seen if there was more time and less people.


 Verona

 Drive from Rome to Verona took us over the mountain, following a narrow road from Lucca to Modena through the landscape from fairy tales. We arrived to Verona at night, and had the first look at the town next morning, immediately charmed by its seducing beauty. Although Shakespeare, in truth, never walked Verona's romance-inspiring streets, his presence could be deeply felt in town. The fruit of his fictitious imagination, Juliet, became a part of history, as real as the tourists who flock around her statue to rub her right breast for good luck, love and happiness. The statue stands in the courtyard of what never was her family's house, under the balcony which never was the balcony of her room.

 Heavy rain which started around noon made further exploring impossible. It chased us from this diminutive town of love and romance, over the magnificent Alps towards Munich, our final destination. A day after Oktoberfest, there were still sausages, sauerkraut and beer waiting for us. We enjoyed beer and conversation with a German couple who shared our table at the market, then watched the night fall over Marienplatz.

Not-so-candid Camera

By Zoran Bozicevic, National Post, June 16, 2006
(from Canada.com web archive)

On my computer screen, a picture pops up, one of a few thousand that stream into the Post's photo department daily. In the photo, reproduced on this page, a Palestinian man clutches his automatic rifle, aiming at an unseen target, while an old woman looks on.

Just another gritty war scene from the Middle East? Not quite. A few awkward details pique my interest: (1) the woman is casually leaning against a doorframe amidst what purports to be a gunfight; (2) the fighter holds the rifle unnaturally high, so as to conveniently hide his face from the camera; (3) the rifle's butt-end, designed to brace snugly in the shoulder joint, is held at an odd angle. Had he fired the weapon from that position, the gun's recoil would have bruised him, and the rifle might even have kicked him in the face.

All of this convinced me the photo was staged. As an additional bit of evidence, the text in the caption provided says the Islamic Jihad gunman "holds his weapon" after an Israeli attack. From experience, I know that phrases such as this are used as euphemisms for the obvious: The guy is posing for the camera.

Such a photo should never make it into mass-circulated press agency databases. But, as in this case, they do. And too often, naive photo editors end up publishing them.

A staged picture such as this must pass at least two filters before it reaches the newspaper. First, it should have been eliminated by the photographer under scrutiny of his own professional conscience. Failing that, the photo should have been disposed of by an editor at the agency that received the photo.

From my own experience as a war photographer, I know that sometimes it's impossible to avoid people posing for the camera. But that doesn't mean those images have to end up in a newspaper: Whenever confronted with posing combatants aiming their guns at an imaginary enemy, I would dutifully take a few pictures, thank them and dispose of those pictures at the earliest opportunity.

It is odd the way people will change their behaviour in the presence of cameras. On one occasion I remember well, I encountered a family of Bosnian Muslim refugees from the besieged town of Srebrenica. The family members were all wailing -- partly from the sorrow of losing all their belongings during their flight, and partly from the relief of having escaped Srebrenica with their lives. Tears were pouring down their faces until I pointed the camera. Like magic, they all flashed smiles in unison. The result was a bizarre photograph: While I had not deliberately staged it, the discordance between context and facial expression made the shot look artificial.

While intentionally staging a photo is forbidden by the profession's code of ethics, there is more ambiguity about situations in which the subject stages it on his own accord. But even putting ethics to one side, this phenomenon can cause problems.

A rookie photographer I know, for instance, visited the frontline trenches in the Balkans during the early 1990s. It was a quiet, slow day. Much like the photographer who took the above-cited Palestinian photo, this young rookie was eager to get a combat shot. Eventually, a soldier said to him: "Hey, get a picture of me shooting," and, without waiting, pulled the trigger. Caught by surprise, the photographer missed the initial burst of fire. Moreover, he spent the next several hours crawling in the mud on his belly, hiding from the barrage of enemy fire that came in reply. Such are the perils of bringing out the ham in trigger-happy combatants.

The pre-digital generations of war journalists, dubbed the "war romanticists," guarded their reputations zealously. They were thrill-seekers, to be sure. But they were not cavalier about ethics. Indeed, they considered themselves "documentarists," and took pride in the fact that they never doctored their pictures or staged their subjects.

With the rise of digital photography, barriers to entry fell in the profession: Anyone could call himself a photojournalist, pick up a camera, and e-mail photos to editors around the world. The cost-cutting media increasingly relies on these cheap, sometimes unscrupulous, local stringers. In some cases, they flout professional objectivity, and take sides in the conflict they cover. In other cases, they stage pictures to keep employers happy. Or worse, they manipulate digital pictures after the fact, turning a photo into a work of fiction.

Sometimes, even staff photographers get tempted. Brian Walski, a staff photographer for the Los Angeles Times was in Iraq in 2003. He sent many great pictures from that assignment. However, he will be remembered for the one picture that cost him his job. In an act he describes as "temporary professional insanity," Walski manipulated a photo by combining elements of two digital photographs on his computer. The picture was used in two newspapers from the Times' chain. A day later, a technician discovered irregularities in the digital file and alerted Walski's editor. Walski admitted the manipulation and was fired.

Other cases are more ambiguous, but also troubling. In January, 2006, for instance, The New York Times and Time magazine published an AFP photo of Pakistani tribesmen in the ruins of a house allegedly bombed by U.S. aircraft. In the picture, reproduced on this page, the tribesmen stand by an unexploded bomb which allegedly hit the house. However, military analysts proved that the bomb in the picture was of Pakistani origin, and nothing like it is used by the U.S. military. The claim makes the authenticity of the picture questionable. (AFP says that the photograph, if staged, was staged by the tribesmen, not the photographer.)

The "romantic" days of war photography are gone. The likes of Robert Capa, who in 1954 stepped on a land mine in Vietnam and died while searching for a better camera angle, are now only names in history books. The rest of us, stuck in the era of high speed Internet, short attention span and general mistrust, will have to rely on our own common sense to separate the real from the fake.

(Zoran Bozicevic is associate photo editor at the National Post.)