LIFESTYLE

What can we shoot for you?

Flak jackets and helmets were required while in Iraq. Shortly after we left this site, the workers were fired upon by snipers. See story below and here.		The markets in Kuwait, called souks, contained date shops like this one. Fresh, dried, honeyed and rolled in toasted sesame seeds - take your pick. Yummy!
Guard outside the magnificant Mysore Palace, southern India.		The intricate carving and painting on Hindu Temples is a visual treat.
Prudoe Bay, Alaska on Christmas night, 2002. The windchill factor was 56 below zero Fahrenheit. Our equipment froze and would not function after 10 minutes exposure. We shot both film and digital to insure against mechanical failure. With only 2 hours of light each day, there was no chance of a reshoot!		We saw hundreds of wild camels roaming openly in Iraq. In the camel farm pictured here, the animals are trained for racing. Small boys are used as jockeys. Velcro is placed on the camel's back to help hold the riders on.

The Salvos Go To War
The Middle East - May, 2003

	Suzanne drives in Iraq with Jr. Action Figures in the backseat

In Iraq, our required armed military escort, called Shooters, were US National Guardsmen from West Virginia. They were not regular Army at all, just once a month weekend warriors. They had no idea how or why their number had come up for duty in Iraq. They had been in country exactly 19 days, 7 hours and 18 minutes. Dale was 15 years old and Nick was 12.

OK, maybe they were 19 - 20 years old max - but no more. Nick was a theater major and Dale worked at a restaurant back home in the kitchen. Our lives were in the hands of a wannabe actor and a fry cook.

We spent most of our time in the southern oilfields of Iraq near Basra, shooting the damage caused by the war.

The people of Aton village live in grass huts with no electricity. They are fortunate because they get their water from the village well, rather than stagnate surface pools. Wandering through the village dirt streets, we quickly picked up an entourage of curious folk. It was mostly children who unabashedly laughed and stared at us and tried to get into every shot we took. We passed through areas of open stall shops selling anything and everything from seeds, exotic looking fresh veggies, icky looking fly covered meat, motor oil in coke bottles and lots and lots of packs of cigarettes stacked in intricate, decorative towers.

One stop shopping at village market stall in Chad.

Mom keeps a close watch while strangers (us) are in the village.

Traveling Post 9-11

It’s always been a dangerous world. Americans abroad were potential targets long before last fall. Chris and I regularly use a number of safe travel techniques, which I have listed below. We don’t plan to quit traveling, so like other road warriors we know, we have become more diligent about safety nowadays. But stop traveling? NEVER!

Have a safe travel tip of your own? Chris and I would love to hear it! And if you have any travel safety stories you would like to share, send them as well, they may end up here on our site (proper credit given, of course!).

Salvos of the Sahara

I awake in the predawn hours to the sound of a lonely wind. An ageless, nameless wind - forever doomed to traverse an eternity of trackless desert dunes, endlessly propelling billions and billions of minuet grains of sand along its solemn course.

And each and every one of the tiny sand-suckers head straight for my underpants. Some of the pint-sized perverts miss their mark and come to rest instead between my toes, in the corners of my eyes, deep inside my ears, between my teeth, matted in my hair and in every other niche, fold and cavity I possess.

I HATE sand. Sand is why I don’t like beaches. The Sahara is just one humongous beach sans water (or cute life guards or good seafood restaurants). Sand on my skin gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard to me.

For my last birthday, a dear, well-meaning California friend gave me the hottest new yoga tapes. The wise and all-knowing, serene-Buddhist veg-head G-stringed Asian stud-muffin instructor demonstrated all the pretzel moves from his private stretch of Malibu Beach. With the warm California sun sinking into the west behind him, he rolled and twisted in the grit, not caring whether he landed on his mat or not. I cared, deeply. Halfway through watching the tape I began brushing imaginary sand off of me. Right before my eyes, he became – SANDPAPER MAN. You could have used him to refinished a large dining room set with 6 chairs, including the hutch. The tapes are permanently on loan to my sister, Teresa, who likes the beach.

I guess I’m not cut out for yoga.

Tomorrow we head to the deep desert – 300 kilometers further south, to an even more primitive camp.

Sandstorm this evening as we headed to the mess for dinner – really nasty. We start shooting at dawn tomorrow, sandstorm permitting.

Shalom,

Suzanne and Chris

El Tigre, Venezuela

Hola, Gringos. Como esta?

We love Venezuela – the people, the countryside, the music and especially the FOOD. Each time we travel here we find more things to like.

Right now we are in a hired car heading for the middle of nowhere once again. We flew into Caracas last night, and this morning hopped on a Beechcraft 12-seater bumpy ride into the tiniest airport in the world - San Tome - arriving around 11:00 a.m.

Our driver speaks nada English, (normale, no problemo) but we manage to negotiate a great lunch on the way to the base. We stop at a big open air restaurante and gorge on giant corncakes called cachapas which we pile high with a mountain of queso a mano (homemade, fresh cheese – god help us). This accompanies 2 kilos of brine-soaked and fried pork, which is unbelievably tender and tasty. Since we are on our way to work, we skip our favorite cervaza in this part of the world (Polar, accent on the second syllable) and instead REALLY take our lives in hand by drinking one of the local jugos – a delicious fresh fruit drink served over (here’s the scary part) LOTS of crushed ice. My favorite is the pena (pineapple). Keep your fingers crossed and say a little stomach prayer on our behalf.

We will be staying in the camp at the rig site tonight. Oh boy. This will be a change from the plush Embassy Suites we stayed at last night in Caracas. Oil field camps can be really primitive. Bet your sombrero that I will be the only chica within 100 kilometers, at least the only chica that works by day....

More later as I’m about to puke – not from the food (at least not yet) but from the wild ride in the back of this car.

Pray for us, and hope we via con Dios....

Suzanne and Chris

Ten Essential Things I've Learned on the Road that are Totally Useless at Home
By Suzanne Salvo

1. The USA is the only country in the world that believes in washcloths. I don't know how people bath without one, but small, terry towels designed for use in conjunction with water and soap, do not exist outside the big, expensive American hotels. I carry a man’s cotton handkerchief for that purpose. It works like a washrag and will dry in about 30 minutes so it's ready to pack and go the next morning.

2. When in foreign countries, beware if the local food is described as 'a delicacy'. Chances are you will NOT want to put it anywhere near your mouth. Examples: In Indonesia, Durian is known as 'the king of fruit', even though the smell is SO BAD it is against the law to transport it in a taxi or bring it inside a hotel. Haggis in Scotland is made of sheep entrails stuffed inside a bladder and boiled. Mmmmm.

3. There are over 6 million different ways to build and operate a shower. Each one requires knowledge of the local language, culture and an advanced engineering degree in order to turn it on. Ditto with the commodes.

4. Speaking of that, when you need 'to go', don't ask for the restroom, they'll think you want to lie down. Don’t ask for the bathroom either. They’ll think you want to learn a new shower skill. Universally it's known as 'the toilet'. Get over the fact it sounds a bit indelicate to our American ears, it doesn't to them.

5. On overseas flights, you want the aisle seat so you don't have to climb over a sleeping seat partner to get to the toilet (see above). The emergency row has twice the leg room, but the extra space is likely to be filled with loud, over-excited American vacationers, cranky Italians in desperate need of a cigarette or Muslims spreading out prayer cloths at dawn and 4 other times a day.

6. NEVER EVER eat the airplane food outside the USA and western Europe.

7. Your host will always say the water is safe. Yeah, right.

8. Travel is always an adventure and the best and worst of life, often at the same time. Staying totally safe on the road is boring, and will keep you isolated from the people, culture and flavor of the country you're in. Doesn't that defeat the reason you're there to begin with?

9. Study/research the country before you go. Understanding the history and the symbolism behind the ancient, giant stone phallic structure will greatly increase your appreciation and enjoyment. NOTE: All cultures include an ancient, giant stone phallic structure.

10. If you don't plan it, it won't happen. Just dreaming about travel won't get you there and NEWS FLASH - you're not getting any younger. The world is small, but wide. Get out there and experience it!

Bed and Breakfast Living-Scottish Style
A Ballad by Suzanne Salvo

We trained down from the north to the Firth of Forth
(that’s the Bay of Forth to you Yanks).
The Forth was the fifth and last Firth we crossed
with Edinburgh on its banks.

The church was inspiring, the walking was tiring –
straight up all the way to the castle.
A bagpiper blew, and his kilt did too,
and I spied his bare bum ‘neath his tassle!

Next we drove toward the west, whilst doing our best
to stay on the LEFT of the road.
But the road was so tiny - I got chills up my spiney
when a lorry would pass with a load.

We stopped at a whiskey distillery or two.
Castles and scotch are the things to do.
We got high in the highlands - our fling was quite bonney!
With the scotch in my belly the road got real fonney, eh funny (hic!).

I think B&Bs are the best way to travel.
You converse with the locals, no tour bus rabble.
Like staying with friends, who are real glad you called.
Who cares if the loo is a stroll down the hall?

It’s cozy and quaint (but cheap it ain’t)
in the wee out of way little places,
made homey with quilts and chinzted to the hilt,
and even the dog trimmed with laces.

I’m now on the plane, but I think it’s insane
to head back to the work and the strife.
Don’t make me go home, there’s a whole world to roam,
And give me the B&B life!