There are two things I like in life: a good challenge, and the chance to trade my talents for services or things. Call me odd, but sometimes I feel more obligated to give it "my all" when I exchange my own skills for something other than money. After years of working in production, I will refuse jobs that pay anything less than my stated daily rate. But if someone offers me something like... well... a round-trip ride from Bali to Gili Trawangan on the fastest commercial speed-boat to cross the channel in exchange for a 30-second promo, how could I refuse! On paper, my good friends at Gili Cat may have caught the better side of the deal. But I insist that I was the top dog in a win-win situation. After all, I was given free reign to conceive and execute a 30-second spot, had the opportunity to choreograph shots between two boats, got beautiful footage of Gili Trawangan and Lombok from the water that wound up getting used in the documentary, and exercised my creative skills to make a "slick" commercial with a very limited tool-set (me, a camera and an editing station).
Of course, there are lots of things I wished I had - like a crew, lighting, real actors, and more camera gear. I would love to shoot the kids in the sand and the dinner scene over again, since I only had a scant few minutes to get each shot - a huge limitation. But in spite of the challenges, I think I accomplished my goal. In the end, though, its the people at Gili Cat who ultimately decide how successful I was at meeting or exceeding expectations.
What do you think? You can see the video by clicking on this entry's title, or in the video bar below.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Early Summer Progress Update
Time is running short right now. I have less than a week to finish a "screener" edit for submission to the Bali Film Festival. To realistically insure they have a copy in hand by July 15, the cutoff, I need to mail two or three copies by the last day of June. Although it’s a goal that's within reach, there are still a few large challenges that need to be overcome.
In spite of all my efforts, I still need some footage. There are a few things I can shoot myself. For instance, I need lab footage – just a half-minute of generic “marine biology lab at work” shots strung into a montage to make you think there is some important scientific process at work. Think of it like a CSI episode where an investigator is working on a bloodstained piece of cloth; except this time the lighting is laboratory fluorescents, it’s a sponge instead of the cloth, and there is no blazin' cool soundtrack. But to do this requires a location, which has been very difficult to find. I’m currently in touch with a few colleges, hoping to film in a real bio lab.
Another example is coastline and seawall footage. There is a rather large seawall just two blocks from me, but it is part of a heavily patrolled park that runs under two bridges -- which means the police have a keen eye for people taking video without permits. So I have been waiting for the optimum tide (full), time of day and weather. And so far, I haven’t been able to get all three to fall into place at once. I have also been meaning to hit Coney Island or Far Rockaway for a few hours to shoot some more “developed coastline” shots. Although I taped plenty on a quick visit to two friends’ houses in CT, that area is so homogeneous that I need another, altogether different location to mix up the look a bit.
Some of my video needs are so specialized that, to do the overall show justice, I need to purchase stock footage. When you purchase the footage, you are also buying a set of rights to use it. Different stock video companies (called “houses”) charge different amounts depending on a few factors. First is the type of rights purchased. For instance, the same footage would cost a different amount depending on whether it was used in a theatrical film or a documentary. Some houses offer universal licenses for all media uses, while others give extremely narrow terms of use, down to the number of exhibitions. Secondly, the advent of digital video technology has given rise to a flock of companies selling video. There are some large brand-names in the business, such as Getty and National Geographic, that will charge a pretty penny per second of use. Then there are lots of niche specialty houses, such as those that specialize in marine footage, that can charge a decent sum simply because they have extensive high-quality libraries on narrow subjects. There are also clearinghouses where anyone with a decent camera rig can shoot footage and sell it through a web page. Those are hit and miss, but are usually the cheapest outlet. And the final factor is video format – and high-def footage is much more expensive than outdated standard-def video.
So while I research and gather these last shots as inexpensively as possible, I keep going over the edits to date. Sometimes, I am looking for footage to replace shots I threw into the edit because they were relevant enough while being convenient. Sometimes, I am trying other ways to improve the narrative or visual flow. But most often, I’m doing things with edits I’ve already made, like fine-tuning cuts so they are as smooth as possible, correcting the color on the footage so the video looks good and matches the shots around it, and basically “noodling around” with what’s already in place.
This whole process might not seem like a lot of work at first glance. After all, the casual viewer will probably not notice the forty or fifty changes I make in a 2-hour edit session like that. Most of them are really rather subtle, such as trimming a few frames or changing the time it takes for a dissolve. But the truth of the matter is that the entire fine-tuning process is really complex.
In the early days of video editing, the different parameters for each clip – things like color, effects, titles, dissolves, wipes, graphics, fade-to-blacks etc. - were done in a large room called an online edit suite. Here, the raw tape footage was played back from a number of video decks, and then manipulated by banks of different electronic systems to change the video as needed as its edited to a master tape. Non-linear editing (or desktop editing, as its sometimes called) revolutionized the process by doing away with tape in favor of computer drives that held digitized video clips. This allowed editors to manipulate clips at will, and was infinitely faster than the linear, online edit suites.
At first, computer-based editing was called “offline”. It was just a way to cut video quickly and efficiently, but not necessarily output a high-quality image. At the end of the day, the computer would create an “edit decision list” (EDL). The EDL would then be taken to an online room with the master tapes, where the video would be assembled in an environment where all the parameters could be finely controlled.
As computers became more powerful, editors demanded more and more of the non-linear systems. They wanted to have more creative tools at their control – the kind of tools that were found in online rooms. Editing programs evolved to where they could handle and output uncompressed video, so the editor had control of a myriad of settings to use that can be manipulated to suit any technical or creative need. This included everything from engineering controls to graphic and effect programs. There are also quite a few digital formats, each with different technical specifications of their own. Add to that all the manipulations that are involved in building and adding effects, and you can have potentially hundreds of settings for a single clip.
That’s right - a two-second shot may have hundreds of different settings that can be tweaked every which way. Add audio tracks, and you have increased the number of available settings even more. Sometimes, the exact setting for the video, audio or effect can be buried and tough to find, requiring research or tests to sort out which setting affects what.
And at this point in the editing process, I find myself doing more fine-tuning than actual editing. But this can be extremely frustrating -- when I play a segment I have been working on for an hour or two, the changes are not that apparent. Often, it just makes it “look better” without actually moving the process of editing along. So when I finish an edit session, it doesn’t feel like I have been doing much because the results are much less dramatic than when I was rough-cutting a segment – moving shots around, reworking the audio narrative, adding new clips, etc.
And I haven’t even started the audio editing in earnest yet. Thankfully, I know a truly gifted sound designer who will be working with me to make the audio as tasty as the video clips have become.
But at the end of the day, when I play back an entire 5 to 7 minute segment, I still find myself getting lost in the show - enjoying it to the point that I forget to watch for the changes I made. This still goes on, even after hundreds of viewings. And I am confident that after all this work is finally finished, all those who get to see it will enjoy it just as much.
In spite of all my efforts, I still need some footage. There are a few things I can shoot myself. For instance, I need lab footage – just a half-minute of generic “marine biology lab at work” shots strung into a montage to make you think there is some important scientific process at work. Think of it like a CSI episode where an investigator is working on a bloodstained piece of cloth; except this time the lighting is laboratory fluorescents, it’s a sponge instead of the cloth, and there is no blazin' cool soundtrack. But to do this requires a location, which has been very difficult to find. I’m currently in touch with a few colleges, hoping to film in a real bio lab.
Another example is coastline and seawall footage. There is a rather large seawall just two blocks from me, but it is part of a heavily patrolled park that runs under two bridges -- which means the police have a keen eye for people taking video without permits. So I have been waiting for the optimum tide (full), time of day and weather. And so far, I haven’t been able to get all three to fall into place at once. I have also been meaning to hit Coney Island or Far Rockaway for a few hours to shoot some more “developed coastline” shots. Although I taped plenty on a quick visit to two friends’ houses in CT, that area is so homogeneous that I need another, altogether different location to mix up the look a bit.
Some of my video needs are so specialized that, to do the overall show justice, I need to purchase stock footage. When you purchase the footage, you are also buying a set of rights to use it. Different stock video companies (called “houses”) charge different amounts depending on a few factors. First is the type of rights purchased. For instance, the same footage would cost a different amount depending on whether it was used in a theatrical film or a documentary. Some houses offer universal licenses for all media uses, while others give extremely narrow terms of use, down to the number of exhibitions. Secondly, the advent of digital video technology has given rise to a flock of companies selling video. There are some large brand-names in the business, such as Getty and National Geographic, that will charge a pretty penny per second of use. Then there are lots of niche specialty houses, such as those that specialize in marine footage, that can charge a decent sum simply because they have extensive high-quality libraries on narrow subjects. There are also clearinghouses where anyone with a decent camera rig can shoot footage and sell it through a web page. Those are hit and miss, but are usually the cheapest outlet. And the final factor is video format – and high-def footage is much more expensive than outdated standard-def video.
So while I research and gather these last shots as inexpensively as possible, I keep going over the edits to date. Sometimes, I am looking for footage to replace shots I threw into the edit because they were relevant enough while being convenient. Sometimes, I am trying other ways to improve the narrative or visual flow. But most often, I’m doing things with edits I’ve already made, like fine-tuning cuts so they are as smooth as possible, correcting the color on the footage so the video looks good and matches the shots around it, and basically “noodling around” with what’s already in place.
This whole process might not seem like a lot of work at first glance. After all, the casual viewer will probably not notice the forty or fifty changes I make in a 2-hour edit session like that. Most of them are really rather subtle, such as trimming a few frames or changing the time it takes for a dissolve. But the truth of the matter is that the entire fine-tuning process is really complex.
In the early days of video editing, the different parameters for each clip – things like color, effects, titles, dissolves, wipes, graphics, fade-to-blacks etc. - were done in a large room called an online edit suite. Here, the raw tape footage was played back from a number of video decks, and then manipulated by banks of different electronic systems to change the video as needed as its edited to a master tape. Non-linear editing (or desktop editing, as its sometimes called) revolutionized the process by doing away with tape in favor of computer drives that held digitized video clips. This allowed editors to manipulate clips at will, and was infinitely faster than the linear, online edit suites.
At first, computer-based editing was called “offline”. It was just a way to cut video quickly and efficiently, but not necessarily output a high-quality image. At the end of the day, the computer would create an “edit decision list” (EDL). The EDL would then be taken to an online room with the master tapes, where the video would be assembled in an environment where all the parameters could be finely controlled.
As computers became more powerful, editors demanded more and more of the non-linear systems. They wanted to have more creative tools at their control – the kind of tools that were found in online rooms. Editing programs evolved to where they could handle and output uncompressed video, so the editor had control of a myriad of settings to use that can be manipulated to suit any technical or creative need. This included everything from engineering controls to graphic and effect programs. There are also quite a few digital formats, each with different technical specifications of their own. Add to that all the manipulations that are involved in building and adding effects, and you can have potentially hundreds of settings for a single clip.
That’s right - a two-second shot may have hundreds of different settings that can be tweaked every which way. Add audio tracks, and you have increased the number of available settings even more. Sometimes, the exact setting for the video, audio or effect can be buried and tough to find, requiring research or tests to sort out which setting affects what.
And at this point in the editing process, I find myself doing more fine-tuning than actual editing. But this can be extremely frustrating -- when I play a segment I have been working on for an hour or two, the changes are not that apparent. Often, it just makes it “look better” without actually moving the process of editing along. So when I finish an edit session, it doesn’t feel like I have been doing much because the results are much less dramatic than when I was rough-cutting a segment – moving shots around, reworking the audio narrative, adding new clips, etc.
And I haven’t even started the audio editing in earnest yet. Thankfully, I know a truly gifted sound designer who will be working with me to make the audio as tasty as the video clips have become.
But at the end of the day, when I play back an entire 5 to 7 minute segment, I still find myself getting lost in the show - enjoying it to the point that I forget to watch for the changes I made. This still goes on, even after hundreds of viewings. And I am confident that after all this work is finally finished, all those who get to see it will enjoy it just as much.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Getting There 2008: Part 5
CONTINUED...
Manta was the name on the piece of paper. Delphine had arranged a week of accommodations there for me. The workshop was only six days long, and that’s all Tom promised me - but this also gave me some freedom. If I didn’t think my time shadowing the workshop was bearing documentary-worthy fruit, I could always cut out and explore other parts of Indonesia without feeling obligated to stay and continue my videotaping (they were staying on a few more weeks to build additional reefs beyond the end of the workshop). If I felt I was getting a good story, I could always stay and find another place on my own.
The sand was courser than I expected under my feet. You could see pebble-sized pieces of dead coral mixed in with the heavier sands along the surf lines . It wasn’t like the soft, white sands I remembered from Thailand. It didn’t occur to me until writing this part of my blog that in my very first steps on Gili Trawangan, I was already experiencing the only sign of the rampant coral destruction visible above the waterline. I think it was still very young sand, probably the remnants of the dynamite fishing that plagued the area until recently. Or maybe a reminder of the failed effort to grow sea grass for export, which required clearing a large swath of old corals. It might even be pieces from the mass coral bleaching a few years ago. I knew about these from my marathon discussions with Tom when I was gathering background information.
But it only occurred to me that there must be quite a bit of coral under the water, since I was only consciously noticing all the larger, pure white chunks that rolled around in the surf and lined up across the high tide marks and berms. But even when you scoop up a handful of sand, it’s a rough grit filled with grains that, under inspection, are small pieces of coral around 1 mm wide. It definitely didn’t have the silky feel of the Thai beaches I lived on. Even the beaches here in New York City feel nicer for barefoot walking.
But I had to find Manta. The local touts had made their way down from the pier to convince us new arrivals that we should stay at their bungalows or dive with their shops. The main street was lined with pony-drawn covered carts. Combustion-based transportation was prohibited on the island, so these were the taxis. I brushed aside the multiple offers of help with my bags as I threw on my backpack and frontpack/camerabag, grabbed by rucksack and headed straight for a taxi.
“Can you take me to my hotel?” I ask. I learned years ago that at backpacker destinations in Asia, most Europeans and locals speak in English.
He jumped down and started to take my pack off my back. “Where you going sir?”
“Manta?”
I felt my backpack pushed back on my shoulders. Confused, I turn around to the driver, who has his best “you dumb tourist” face on. He nods across the road.
I deserved it. Its really tough to miss the big-ass sign reading “Manta” or the huge letters on the wall across the pool. Dumb tourist indeed.
By the time I turned around to apologize, he had wrangled another fare. So I crossed my street to my new home.
The bungalow, #5, was a lovely little place, essentially a raised cabana with a wide porch and panoramic windows. The room was nice, by local standards. Spacious, with a king-sized bed dominating the room and a high vaulted ceiling, its only amenities were a mini-fridge and coffee service. The wall across from the bed had a wall unit with lots of little cubbyholes and cabinets that were perfect for quickly sorting my gear. Out the back door and down the stairs was the outside bathroom, built like a separate room made of high stone walls, but open to the skies. The sink, towel rack and Western toilet were all against the building and safely under the eaves, giving ample shelter from all but the worst storms. Directly across from the stairs and built into the stone wall was the shower. A free-standing privacy wall, also of stone, blocked the view from the cabana to the shower from the neck down. It was marvelously airy, natural, yet the little appointments gave it more of a luxurious feel than it deserved.
I never seemed to get hot water when I was at Manta. No matter how long I let it run through my stay, the hot water would never seem to get more than room temperature. – but I discovered the reason why several months later. The water is brackish, and leaves a slight salty film no matter how much soap you use. But right then, I needed a quick shower to refresh myself before heading off in search of Tom, Thomas and the rest of the gang.
Refreshed, I put on clean clothes and sought out some information from the people at the Manta dive shop. I correctly assumed that, since it was a very small island and the workshop put me up at the place, they would know where I could find the group. I headed south, towards Villa Ombak, where I was I was told the workshop was based.
It was a hot five-minute walk at my New York pace to reach the resort. I didn’t have much time to take in the sights along the coastal main street since I was speed-walking in a very un-island-like way. All of 15 feet wide, the crowded lane turned from dirt to unsteady cobblestones as I marched south past restaurants, hotels, dive shops, general stores and tourist markets. It was overcast and threatened rain, with heavy clouds gathering over Lombok and obscuring its towering Mount Rinjani.
Signs and banners led me up a flight of stairs at the impressive Villa Ombek. It looked as close to a world-class resort as you could find, with gardens of purple flowers around a festive, sprawling pool fed by a man-made waterfall. At the top of the stairs was a check-in table stacked with forms and booklets and paperwork of all kinds. Behind the table was a slightly flustered yet businesslike Frenchwoman whom I would get to know through my two visits. Delphine was the local organizer and head of the Gili Eco Trust, the non-government/non-profit organization that sponsors and organizes the event.
Delphine looked a little like she’d been hit by a truck. But if any truck were to dare try, she would have grabbed onto it, swung it over her head and smashed it to the ground, throwing the driver out the window and into the afterlife. Such was Delphine. But this was worse than a truck. It was the entirety of morning check-in that had wiped her out before lunch. She was flying solo for most of it, it seemed.
She apologized for taking some time to check me in to the workshop, but I told her it was understandable. After filling out all the forms and getting the official T-shirt, I noticed the armed guards standing outside the conference room door. Delphine explained the governor of Lombok was attending the morning’s kick-off. I asked if Thomas was in there. She told me he was on the beach across from the resort, putting together some materials for the construction.
I decided to pass on the formal ceremonies and photo ops. Instead, I felt the sand crunch beneath my feet as I walked up to the most interesting dark-featured Swiss American to ever run away to Asia. He was squatting next to an archaic welding transformer, wearing a local Belkin Beer shirt and trying to get the machine to work. I couldn’t contain the smile in my voice as I exclaimed, “well, look at what American scum they actually allowed into the country.”
Thomas didn’t even need to look around. “Well, they let you in didn’t they?”
He stood up and we gave each other a long hug. “I was talking about you, shmuck!”
“I live in Thailand, you jackass. But you made it. You’re here.”
Indeed I was. Now what?
END OF "GETTING THERE 2008"
Manta was the name on the piece of paper. Delphine had arranged a week of accommodations there for me. The workshop was only six days long, and that’s all Tom promised me - but this also gave me some freedom. If I didn’t think my time shadowing the workshop was bearing documentary-worthy fruit, I could always cut out and explore other parts of Indonesia without feeling obligated to stay and continue my videotaping (they were staying on a few more weeks to build additional reefs beyond the end of the workshop). If I felt I was getting a good story, I could always stay and find another place on my own.
The sand was courser than I expected under my feet. You could see pebble-sized pieces of dead coral mixed in with the heavier sands along the surf lines . It wasn’t like the soft, white sands I remembered from Thailand. It didn’t occur to me until writing this part of my blog that in my very first steps on Gili Trawangan, I was already experiencing the only sign of the rampant coral destruction visible above the waterline. I think it was still very young sand, probably the remnants of the dynamite fishing that plagued the area until recently. Or maybe a reminder of the failed effort to grow sea grass for export, which required clearing a large swath of old corals. It might even be pieces from the mass coral bleaching a few years ago. I knew about these from my marathon discussions with Tom when I was gathering background information.
But it only occurred to me that there must be quite a bit of coral under the water, since I was only consciously noticing all the larger, pure white chunks that rolled around in the surf and lined up across the high tide marks and berms. But even when you scoop up a handful of sand, it’s a rough grit filled with grains that, under inspection, are small pieces of coral around 1 mm wide. It definitely didn’t have the silky feel of the Thai beaches I lived on. Even the beaches here in New York City feel nicer for barefoot walking.
But I had to find Manta. The local touts had made their way down from the pier to convince us new arrivals that we should stay at their bungalows or dive with their shops. The main street was lined with pony-drawn covered carts. Combustion-based transportation was prohibited on the island, so these were the taxis. I brushed aside the multiple offers of help with my bags as I threw on my backpack and frontpack/camerabag, grabbed by rucksack and headed straight for a taxi.
“Can you take me to my hotel?” I ask. I learned years ago that at backpacker destinations in Asia, most Europeans and locals speak in English.
He jumped down and started to take my pack off my back. “Where you going sir?”
“Manta?”
I felt my backpack pushed back on my shoulders. Confused, I turn around to the driver, who has his best “you dumb tourist” face on. He nods across the road.
I deserved it. Its really tough to miss the big-ass sign reading “Manta” or the huge letters on the wall across the pool. Dumb tourist indeed.
By the time I turned around to apologize, he had wrangled another fare. So I crossed my street to my new home.
The bungalow, #5, was a lovely little place, essentially a raised cabana with a wide porch and panoramic windows. The room was nice, by local standards. Spacious, with a king-sized bed dominating the room and a high vaulted ceiling, its only amenities were a mini-fridge and coffee service. The wall across from the bed had a wall unit with lots of little cubbyholes and cabinets that were perfect for quickly sorting my gear. Out the back door and down the stairs was the outside bathroom, built like a separate room made of high stone walls, but open to the skies. The sink, towel rack and Western toilet were all against the building and safely under the eaves, giving ample shelter from all but the worst storms. Directly across from the stairs and built into the stone wall was the shower. A free-standing privacy wall, also of stone, blocked the view from the cabana to the shower from the neck down. It was marvelously airy, natural, yet the little appointments gave it more of a luxurious feel than it deserved.
I never seemed to get hot water when I was at Manta. No matter how long I let it run through my stay, the hot water would never seem to get more than room temperature. – but I discovered the reason why several months later. The water is brackish, and leaves a slight salty film no matter how much soap you use. But right then, I needed a quick shower to refresh myself before heading off in search of Tom, Thomas and the rest of the gang.
Refreshed, I put on clean clothes and sought out some information from the people at the Manta dive shop. I correctly assumed that, since it was a very small island and the workshop put me up at the place, they would know where I could find the group. I headed south, towards Villa Ombak, where I was I was told the workshop was based.
It was a hot five-minute walk at my New York pace to reach the resort. I didn’t have much time to take in the sights along the coastal main street since I was speed-walking in a very un-island-like way. All of 15 feet wide, the crowded lane turned from dirt to unsteady cobblestones as I marched south past restaurants, hotels, dive shops, general stores and tourist markets. It was overcast and threatened rain, with heavy clouds gathering over Lombok and obscuring its towering Mount Rinjani.
Signs and banners led me up a flight of stairs at the impressive Villa Ombek. It looked as close to a world-class resort as you could find, with gardens of purple flowers around a festive, sprawling pool fed by a man-made waterfall. At the top of the stairs was a check-in table stacked with forms and booklets and paperwork of all kinds. Behind the table was a slightly flustered yet businesslike Frenchwoman whom I would get to know through my two visits. Delphine was the local organizer and head of the Gili Eco Trust, the non-government/non-profit organization that sponsors and organizes the event.
Delphine looked a little like she’d been hit by a truck. But if any truck were to dare try, she would have grabbed onto it, swung it over her head and smashed it to the ground, throwing the driver out the window and into the afterlife. Such was Delphine. But this was worse than a truck. It was the entirety of morning check-in that had wiped her out before lunch. She was flying solo for most of it, it seemed.
She apologized for taking some time to check me in to the workshop, but I told her it was understandable. After filling out all the forms and getting the official T-shirt, I noticed the armed guards standing outside the conference room door. Delphine explained the governor of Lombok was attending the morning’s kick-off. I asked if Thomas was in there. She told me he was on the beach across from the resort, putting together some materials for the construction.
I decided to pass on the formal ceremonies and photo ops. Instead, I felt the sand crunch beneath my feet as I walked up to the most interesting dark-featured Swiss American to ever run away to Asia. He was squatting next to an archaic welding transformer, wearing a local Belkin Beer shirt and trying to get the machine to work. I couldn’t contain the smile in my voice as I exclaimed, “well, look at what American scum they actually allowed into the country.”
Thomas didn’t even need to look around. “Well, they let you in didn’t they?”
He stood up and we gave each other a long hug. “I was talking about you, shmuck!”
“I live in Thailand, you jackass. But you made it. You’re here.”
Indeed I was. Now what?
END OF "GETTING THERE 2008"
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Getting There, 2008. Part 4
CONTINUED FROM PART 3
I was as restless as the Kuda streets, where I found myself wandering in search of a snack. This was the “tourist area” once visited by a nightclub suicide bombing several years ago. It wasn’t big news in the States, because few Americans could even pick out Indonesia on a globe. But whenever I introduced myself as an American to a drunk Aussie that night, he would insist on telling me all about it, and how a friend of a friend was on holiday in Bali at the time at a hotel on the other side of the Island… Never bothered to tell them I watched the towers fall before me. Why try to trump someone else’s terrorist attack?
There were sports pubs and discotheques lining the main drag for several blocks, featuring loud music and Western themes. Indonesia is very popular amongst the Australians and New Zealanders. It’s a cheaper flight than Thailand, its filled with amazing natural beauty, and the Australian dollar goes pretty far. So the dominant accent in the night was the drunk twang from down under; but you could hear cheers from Scotts, German and Dutch gathered around the football games.
Scooter taxis were everywhere, their drivers offering more than transportation; drugs and girls were offered to me every time I passed a huddle of them waiting for a fare. Even though the night was beginning to wind down, there was that sense of drunken undulation tinged with danger that rippled through the jumpy street. I felt safe on my walk, but East Village safe. The safe that teeters on the brink.
After taking in a kilometer of sights, I stopped in to the Indonesian equivalency of a 7-11 (The "OK Mart") and picked up a bottle of water, a real Red Bull (that comes uncarbonated in small glass bottles with ingredients that aren't legal in the states), some iced coffees and electrolyte drinks. I also grabbed a lighter so I could enjoy another cigar on the walk back to Fat Yogis.
After 2, the tourist shops that plied the late-night crowd for a buck shuttered their booths behind metal doors. The crowds were thinner on my return, which meant more hassling from the taxi drivers. At one point, I thought some knew my name. I swore they were asking if I was Seth… until I realized they were offering me ‘meth.’ The occasional woman would ask if I “was interested” as I walked by.
Fat Yogis was actually down a side street a little ways. When I turned the corner, a motorbike made the turn with me. For the next five minutes, I was relentlessly pursued by this one prostitute. The hooker would drive away each time I refused, make a u-turn, and come back with a lower price laced and more innuendo. When I looked the street-driver in the eye and said, “I don’t like ladyboys,” its Adams apple wiggled a goodbye and it finally shot off into the night for more gullible pursuits. I finished my cigar and went into my room to grab what was essentially a nap before the morning pick-up for the Gili Cat.
The first morning of a busy trip in a forgeign land is something I never grow accustomed to. I awoke from my three-hour sleep with a start when my wristwatch beeped. My first thought – why am I so sweaty? My second thought – why is my heart racing? My third thought – just where the heck am I right now? I always have to remember to place my glasses in an obvious place within reach before falling asleep, so I can find them in the disorienting fog of waking. Without my glasses, I cannot see past the tip of my nose with clarity. I feel around for them, put them on and remember I am in a room at Fat Yogis, somewhere in Bali. I do a spot check on my luggage and the door before I struggle with my watch to silence the alarm.
I had turned the air conditioning off before I went to bed, finding the room too cool to be comfortable. But the morning air was hot with the sun peeking through the blinds, and I was dripping with the sweat of heavy sleep. I looked at the time and realized the wake-up call never happened. I was surprised the alarm woke me so suddenly, but grateful I had the presence of mind to set it.
In quick succession, I downed a no-longer iced coffee, a warm electrolyte drink and a Red Bull that was downright toasty from sitting in a maverick shaft of light on the windowsill. The cool water in the shower did the trick, waking me up with 10 minutes until the Gili Cat van arrived.
Alone, I managed to wrangle all three of luggage pieces to the front, where the van was just pulling up. I settled my tab and jumped in the front passenger seat, ready for the next part of the journey.
The first stop was the Gili Cat office, which was a drive from Kuda – perhaps 30 minutes. Being an early weekend morning, the traffic was light as we zipped through the tourist neighborhoods and onto a series of main roads.
There seem to be four types of vehicles that occupy the Balinese roads. The first are common motorbikes, whether they are scooters, dirt bikes or sport bikes, and seem to be the favored means of transportation. The second is the passenger van, which ferries both tourists and locals around. The third is the motor car – whether SUV, sedan or sports car, which are the rarest on the roads we traveled. Finally, there were “trucks.” A truck is easily distinguishable as being any object that looks too big to be driving on the narrow windy roads, and is too slow to keep up with traffic when there is a hill. With Bali a volcanic island, its tough to avoid steep hills.
On our jaunt to the office I saw mostly motorbikes, often with two people sharing the seat. Sometimes the passenger even sat sidesaddle. We passed a small family balancing on their scooter seat with Dad driving, Mom and two older kids behind, and a baby held in Mom’s arms. When we turned on a major thoroughfare, there were bikes everywhere and only a handful of vans and cars. The drivers would weave through the traffic as if there were no rules, with each vehicle following its own path through the thick clouds road machines.
The office as a few minutes off the main road. The driver invited me in and offered to make coffee. We were a few minutes early to meet the other passengers, who arrived as I was finishing my cup. A quick stop at the local mini-mart to gather breakfast provisions, and we were all off to catch a Gili Cat.
As we left the city behind, a familiar smell tickled my nostrils and charged my memory. I was suddenly transported back to Thailand, where the incense from burning coconut husks painted the air with a distinctive aroma. The road here in Bali was lined with shops that fabricated and sold ornamental, religious and garden monuments that are popular in traditional Hindu homes. Judging from the quantity and consistency, I figured they weren’t carved but likely cast and fired like some kind of pottery. You need a very hot fire to make a kiln, and coconut husks burn very hot. Although I have never confirmed it, I still suspect that’s why the smell was so strong as we drove through that district.
The wide 4-lane road eventually narrowed to a serpent of a street that slithered down the volcanic hills to the ocean, where a few old piers serve as a launch for several ferries. You can pick up a national ferry boat from one pier that will get you to Lombok in 5-6 hours. (Lombok is considered the “Mother Island” of the extremely small Gili Islands, with its still active volcano, Mount Rinjani, towering more than 15,000 feet high in the Eastern sky. Trawangan, the furthest of the Gilis, is only four kilometers off Lombok’s shore). It will also cost lwith the Workshop kicking off the morning of my arrival, I did not have the luxury of a day to travel with my schedule.
The Gili Cat is a sleek powerboat that makes the crossing from Bali to Lombok in about 90 minutes. The cabin only fits 20 people or so, but the speed and comfort of transit is worth every penny. Especially considering the first morning workshop was well underway.
As a side note, later in the week I met the owner of Gili Cat - Cody, who has since become one of the largest supporters of my documentary efforts. If I am fortunate enough to have my program shown at the Bali Film Festival this year, its thanks to his efforts to connect me with the people who put the event together. He is a huge part of helping me get to the end of this show.
The route from the Gili Cat pier to Lombok gives exceptional views of both islands. Bali's towering geography of volcanic fury stood in reverence to the melted rock that created it, as the deep valleys seemed to still be running into the sea. The clouds had moved in over Mount Agoon, the nearly perfect cone volcano that towers over the island. I didn’t get to see its shape or compare it to my glimpse of Fuji from the air over Tokyo. But I felt its strength in the steep, forest-coated hills that rose up to meet the clouds.
Of course, it wasn’t enough for me to watch the Balinese shore flying by. It was a perfect chance for me to start testing the camera out. There are two uncovered doorways on either side of the cabin, midship. I asked the manager on board if I could look out the doorways. Seconds after he said it wasn’t a problem, I had my camera out and pointed at the statuesque coastline. The lighting was flat thanks to the heavy overcast, but at least I had time to learn the camera, and interesting scenery for practice.
Bali faded in the distance and I put the camera away. Agoon finally peeked out from behind the clouds for a minute, and I could see the top of the cone. I didn’t bother with the camera because it was behind us, and I had no clear shot.
Lombok has a different feeling to its coastline. Rather than steep walls raining down to the sea like Bali, Lombok had mini mountain ranges, which formed deep valleys that travel far inland before rising up to meet Mount Rinjani on the opposite side of the island. Unlike the steep walls of Bali, you could see into the heart of Lombok through these craggy old old valleys.
Before pulling up to Gili Trawangan, the Gili Cat has to stop in Lombok to get clearance. It’s a formality that took only ten minutes, but in the tropical heat I opted for the sun and breeze on the pier instead of the stifling shade in the cabin. Once underway, we were at the Gili Trawangan in five minutes.
The tides were against us that day. Indonesia is known for having some of the most peculiar tides, since it’s the pneumatic border where two ocean systems meet and swap water. When we arrived, the tide was too low for the Cat to dock on the pier. Instead, a local longtail boat of sorts tied up alongside. The luggage was transferred and brought to shore before the longtail returned for us passengers.
I was still wearing my sneakers and jeans, since I worried that simply unzipping my backpack would cause an explosion of clothes and gear that would take hours to fit back together. An unfortunate circumstance, since this unusual tide meant we had to hop off the boat in two feet of water and then walk to the beach. It wasn’t convenient to say the least, but I already had the feeling that convenience was not going to be the hallmark of this trip. Then again, if I wanted convenience, I wouldn’t have trekked all this way to begin with.
Shoes in hand with cuffs rolled up to my knees, I splashed through the warm, caressing, welcoming surf. In the last seven years, I had forgotten how wonderful the tropical water felt against bare skin. It felt like coming home.
Now I just had to figure out where I was supposed to live for the next two weeks.
TO BE CONTINUED
I was as restless as the Kuda streets, where I found myself wandering in search of a snack. This was the “tourist area” once visited by a nightclub suicide bombing several years ago. It wasn’t big news in the States, because few Americans could even pick out Indonesia on a globe. But whenever I introduced myself as an American to a drunk Aussie that night, he would insist on telling me all about it, and how a friend of a friend was on holiday in Bali at the time at a hotel on the other side of the Island… Never bothered to tell them I watched the towers fall before me. Why try to trump someone else’s terrorist attack?
There were sports pubs and discotheques lining the main drag for several blocks, featuring loud music and Western themes. Indonesia is very popular amongst the Australians and New Zealanders. It’s a cheaper flight than Thailand, its filled with amazing natural beauty, and the Australian dollar goes pretty far. So the dominant accent in the night was the drunk twang from down under; but you could hear cheers from Scotts, German and Dutch gathered around the football games.
Scooter taxis were everywhere, their drivers offering more than transportation; drugs and girls were offered to me every time I passed a huddle of them waiting for a fare. Even though the night was beginning to wind down, there was that sense of drunken undulation tinged with danger that rippled through the jumpy street. I felt safe on my walk, but East Village safe. The safe that teeters on the brink.
After taking in a kilometer of sights, I stopped in to the Indonesian equivalency of a 7-11 (The "OK Mart") and picked up a bottle of water, a real Red Bull (that comes uncarbonated in small glass bottles with ingredients that aren't legal in the states), some iced coffees and electrolyte drinks. I also grabbed a lighter so I could enjoy another cigar on the walk back to Fat Yogis.
After 2, the tourist shops that plied the late-night crowd for a buck shuttered their booths behind metal doors. The crowds were thinner on my return, which meant more hassling from the taxi drivers. At one point, I thought some knew my name. I swore they were asking if I was Seth… until I realized they were offering me ‘meth.’ The occasional woman would ask if I “was interested” as I walked by.
Fat Yogis was actually down a side street a little ways. When I turned the corner, a motorbike made the turn with me. For the next five minutes, I was relentlessly pursued by this one prostitute. The hooker would drive away each time I refused, make a u-turn, and come back with a lower price laced and more innuendo. When I looked the street-driver in the eye and said, “I don’t like ladyboys,” its Adams apple wiggled a goodbye and it finally shot off into the night for more gullible pursuits. I finished my cigar and went into my room to grab what was essentially a nap before the morning pick-up for the Gili Cat.
The first morning of a busy trip in a forgeign land is something I never grow accustomed to. I awoke from my three-hour sleep with a start when my wristwatch beeped. My first thought – why am I so sweaty? My second thought – why is my heart racing? My third thought – just where the heck am I right now? I always have to remember to place my glasses in an obvious place within reach before falling asleep, so I can find them in the disorienting fog of waking. Without my glasses, I cannot see past the tip of my nose with clarity. I feel around for them, put them on and remember I am in a room at Fat Yogis, somewhere in Bali. I do a spot check on my luggage and the door before I struggle with my watch to silence the alarm.
I had turned the air conditioning off before I went to bed, finding the room too cool to be comfortable. But the morning air was hot with the sun peeking through the blinds, and I was dripping with the sweat of heavy sleep. I looked at the time and realized the wake-up call never happened. I was surprised the alarm woke me so suddenly, but grateful I had the presence of mind to set it.
In quick succession, I downed a no-longer iced coffee, a warm electrolyte drink and a Red Bull that was downright toasty from sitting in a maverick shaft of light on the windowsill. The cool water in the shower did the trick, waking me up with 10 minutes until the Gili Cat van arrived.
Alone, I managed to wrangle all three of luggage pieces to the front, where the van was just pulling up. I settled my tab and jumped in the front passenger seat, ready for the next part of the journey.
The first stop was the Gili Cat office, which was a drive from Kuda – perhaps 30 minutes. Being an early weekend morning, the traffic was light as we zipped through the tourist neighborhoods and onto a series of main roads.
There seem to be four types of vehicles that occupy the Balinese roads. The first are common motorbikes, whether they are scooters, dirt bikes or sport bikes, and seem to be the favored means of transportation. The second is the passenger van, which ferries both tourists and locals around. The third is the motor car – whether SUV, sedan or sports car, which are the rarest on the roads we traveled. Finally, there were “trucks.” A truck is easily distinguishable as being any object that looks too big to be driving on the narrow windy roads, and is too slow to keep up with traffic when there is a hill. With Bali a volcanic island, its tough to avoid steep hills.
On our jaunt to the office I saw mostly motorbikes, often with two people sharing the seat. Sometimes the passenger even sat sidesaddle. We passed a small family balancing on their scooter seat with Dad driving, Mom and two older kids behind, and a baby held in Mom’s arms. When we turned on a major thoroughfare, there were bikes everywhere and only a handful of vans and cars. The drivers would weave through the traffic as if there were no rules, with each vehicle following its own path through the thick clouds road machines.
The office as a few minutes off the main road. The driver invited me in and offered to make coffee. We were a few minutes early to meet the other passengers, who arrived as I was finishing my cup. A quick stop at the local mini-mart to gather breakfast provisions, and we were all off to catch a Gili Cat.
As we left the city behind, a familiar smell tickled my nostrils and charged my memory. I was suddenly transported back to Thailand, where the incense from burning coconut husks painted the air with a distinctive aroma. The road here in Bali was lined with shops that fabricated and sold ornamental, religious and garden monuments that are popular in traditional Hindu homes. Judging from the quantity and consistency, I figured they weren’t carved but likely cast and fired like some kind of pottery. You need a very hot fire to make a kiln, and coconut husks burn very hot. Although I have never confirmed it, I still suspect that’s why the smell was so strong as we drove through that district.
The wide 4-lane road eventually narrowed to a serpent of a street that slithered down the volcanic hills to the ocean, where a few old piers serve as a launch for several ferries. You can pick up a national ferry boat from one pier that will get you to Lombok in 5-6 hours. (Lombok is considered the “Mother Island” of the extremely small Gili Islands, with its still active volcano, Mount Rinjani, towering more than 15,000 feet high in the Eastern sky. Trawangan, the furthest of the Gilis, is only four kilometers off Lombok’s shore). It will also cost lwith the Workshop kicking off the morning of my arrival, I did not have the luxury of a day to travel with my schedule.
The Gili Cat is a sleek powerboat that makes the crossing from Bali to Lombok in about 90 minutes. The cabin only fits 20 people or so, but the speed and comfort of transit is worth every penny. Especially considering the first morning workshop was well underway.
As a side note, later in the week I met the owner of Gili Cat - Cody, who has since become one of the largest supporters of my documentary efforts. If I am fortunate enough to have my program shown at the Bali Film Festival this year, its thanks to his efforts to connect me with the people who put the event together. He is a huge part of helping me get to the end of this show.
The route from the Gili Cat pier to Lombok gives exceptional views of both islands. Bali's towering geography of volcanic fury stood in reverence to the melted rock that created it, as the deep valleys seemed to still be running into the sea. The clouds had moved in over Mount Agoon, the nearly perfect cone volcano that towers over the island. I didn’t get to see its shape or compare it to my glimpse of Fuji from the air over Tokyo. But I felt its strength in the steep, forest-coated hills that rose up to meet the clouds.
Of course, it wasn’t enough for me to watch the Balinese shore flying by. It was a perfect chance for me to start testing the camera out. There are two uncovered doorways on either side of the cabin, midship. I asked the manager on board if I could look out the doorways. Seconds after he said it wasn’t a problem, I had my camera out and pointed at the statuesque coastline. The lighting was flat thanks to the heavy overcast, but at least I had time to learn the camera, and interesting scenery for practice.
Bali faded in the distance and I put the camera away. Agoon finally peeked out from behind the clouds for a minute, and I could see the top of the cone. I didn’t bother with the camera because it was behind us, and I had no clear shot.
Lombok has a different feeling to its coastline. Rather than steep walls raining down to the sea like Bali, Lombok had mini mountain ranges, which formed deep valleys that travel far inland before rising up to meet Mount Rinjani on the opposite side of the island. Unlike the steep walls of Bali, you could see into the heart of Lombok through these craggy old old valleys.
Before pulling up to Gili Trawangan, the Gili Cat has to stop in Lombok to get clearance. It’s a formality that took only ten minutes, but in the tropical heat I opted for the sun and breeze on the pier instead of the stifling shade in the cabin. Once underway, we were at the Gili Trawangan in five minutes.
The tides were against us that day. Indonesia is known for having some of the most peculiar tides, since it’s the pneumatic border where two ocean systems meet and swap water. When we arrived, the tide was too low for the Cat to dock on the pier. Instead, a local longtail boat of sorts tied up alongside. The luggage was transferred and brought to shore before the longtail returned for us passengers.
I was still wearing my sneakers and jeans, since I worried that simply unzipping my backpack would cause an explosion of clothes and gear that would take hours to fit back together. An unfortunate circumstance, since this unusual tide meant we had to hop off the boat in two feet of water and then walk to the beach. It wasn’t convenient to say the least, but I already had the feeling that convenience was not going to be the hallmark of this trip. Then again, if I wanted convenience, I wouldn’t have trekked all this way to begin with.
Shoes in hand with cuffs rolled up to my knees, I splashed through the warm, caressing, welcoming surf. In the last seven years, I had forgotten how wonderful the tropical water felt against bare skin. It felt like coming home.
Now I just had to figure out where I was supposed to live for the next two weeks.
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, June 15, 2009
Getting there, 2008: Part 3
CONTINUED FROM PART 2
“Yes, Mr. Greenspan. All the permitting comes from Jakarta. And if you applied for a permit tomorrow it would still take two to three weeks.”
“So where does that leave me?” I asked, squarely.
“Honestly, so much of the permitting process is to make sure that all of the equipment you bring in is accounted for, and that it all leaves when you do. Of course, we are also concerned that the image that you present about Indonesia is positive. But there is also a high demand for black and gray market cameras in Indonesia, especially the very good high def ones. There are high taxes on these imports. So do you see what I am saying?"
I spent another five minutes explaining to Officer Lucky that the only story my camera would tell was of a country was where coral reefs were in dire need of help, and where they are taking positive steps to bring them back. The focus of my work was Biorock, with Indonesia simply the location. I even talked about the dazzling beauty I had seen in photos from the area and how I was excited to help show off their ecological stewardship and make Indonesia an example of positive marine conservation. I laid it on thick and flowery.
Lucky had reclined in his chair, resting two fingers against his right cheek. He stared at me for a moment. “I believe you, Mr. Greenspan. I do. I don’t think you are coming here to cause problems or make us look bad. I believe everything that you are telling me, and I think there might be another way to solve this.”
After a deliberately long pause, he continued. “You see, the other part of the permitting process is there to make sure you don’t sell equipment. Since there is no formal way to register the equipment in Jakarta in time to make your workshop, you can leave a money guarantee along with a list of the equipment here in Bali, and we issue you a receipt. When you return to Denpasar, you present the receipt, we look over the equipment list and if everything is there, you get your money back.”
This option had potential - even though I expected that, when I returned to the airport, they would find an “official” reason to give back only half of the cash guarantee. I mentally calculated how much money I was willing to lose.
“So how much would I have to leave?”
“I think its 20% of the retail value. We can always look the costs up on the web if you do not have receipts.”
I certainly didn’t have the $2000 in cash to pull this off, nor the desire to potentially lose half that. I looked straight at the officer, and told him there was no way I could pay that.
“I’ll tell you what, I like the idea of what you are trying to do. Make it ten percent. If you need, there is an ATM out in the arrivals area you can use. We’ll just need to make a list of everything with its serial number and you are free to go.”
His last statement was a chessboard check - and a painful one because the solution he offered might raise more questions and cause more problems. I purchased my camera from a respectable electronics dealership that sold as “used” several gray market imports that were new and unopened. They came with an unusual warranty deal, and they did not have serial numbers printed anywhere on the bodies. After the lecture about Indonesia’s problems with gray market camera sales, the last thing I wanted was to open that can of worms.
I had been in the office for nearly two hours. I had one final gambit to play.
“Officer Lucky, I need your help here. Look.” I take out my wallet and open it up. “I have around $250 in US dollars with me and that’s it. Other than transportation and lunches, all my other expenses will be provided for in exchange for my services. So I brought a hundred for the high-speed ferry and a taxi to the hotel, fifty for my cab back home in New York City, fifty for food and drinks and fifty for emergency. I have all of another hundred in the bank as my only backup until I get home to deposit a paycheck. This deal was the only way I could get a vacation that would give me two weeks of diving and tropical paradise, and I am going to be working my butt off for that privilege. I don’t have the money to pay you what you want, but I wish I did. Without my gear, I don’t get the vacation. And its not like I make all that much at my job. That’s why I have to buy equipment like this and do the weddings circuit on the weekends, so I can make a little more bread.”
I think I stopped for a breath before continuing, “So can you help me Officer Lucky? If I can’t get to Gili Trawangan with my camera, there is no reason for me to be here. If you can’t help me out, please explain to me the steps I need to take to arrange a return flight on the grounds I am refused entry into the country.”
I’m sure the pause was only a for few heartbeats, but it felt longer than the journey from my apartment to this Customs office. “Mr. Greenspan, you made one important error.” Officer Lucky looked at me for several seconds more before leaning forward slightly and continuing. “It will cost you a $15 US exit tax to leave this country in two weeks. I suggest you work this into your math so you don’t spend it early.”
His face broke back into the easygoing Island smile again. “I believe you, and I wish you luck with the corals. It does sound like a very interesting project.”
I wasn’t sure that I had successfully passed the Lucky gauntlet until he stood and pointed me to the door. As we left the office, I kept talking about Biorock. It was a safe topic, and hopefully one that was beginning to bore him. The duty officer was still watching my luggage, and at Lucky’s word he let me by. I donned my packs and grabbed my bag, then shook Officer Lucky’s hand.
“Mr. Greenspan, do you plan to come back again to Indonesia in the future?” He asked.
“If I like it as much as I think, I hope so. But just for touring next time,” I replied.
“Well, if you decide to come back with your camera, please take the time and obtain the proper permits? It would be best, and would keep this kind of meeting from happening again. If I see you again without them, next time I will turn you back.” Only then did I notice how well he spoke English.
I really wasn’t sure what I had just been through, but it took two hours and I was mentally drained. It was after midnight and in a row of a dozen money-changing booths, only a single one was still open. I needed local currency to pay for the taxi, the hotel and the Gili Cat speedboat. Fortunately, I was their only customer.
The Indonesian Rupiat is skewed in a way to make you feel unnecessarily rich. As an American tourist, my dollar goes pretty far in Indonesia, even in the more expensive tourist islands like Gili Trawangan. Thomas told me that “local” food (as opposed to tourist-oriented restaurants) can cost as little as $1 for a plate of Nasi Champor (steamed rice served with a stewed chicken or meat, vegetable concoctions, soy crackers, and a bunch of other little odds and ends), while dinner entrees such as grilled local fish run $5-$8 on average in the nicer restaurants. Alcohol was another matter. The local beer, Bintang, was about $1.25 a bottle, while most other spirits were extremely expensive – if you could find them at all. Unlike the Bali government, which is predominantly Hindu, Gili Trawangan was subject to the laws of the mostly Muslim island of Lombok, which made booze expensive and tough to find. So you could eat like a king on the cheap as long as you didn’t drink.
That, and the 11,000 Rp = $1 US exchange rate meant that the $100 I handed to the cashier made me an instant millionaire in Indonesia, and I actually felt a little richer.
Walking to the taxi stand, I realized I packed that one important piece of paper in my camera bag, which was now strapped like a nylon pregnancy to my belly. But when the driver asked my destination, I was able to remember the name: Fat Yogi. The driver looked at me and asked “Kuda?”
That sounded like part of the address. In broken English, I ask, “is near beach?”
In just as broken English, he replied, ”Kuda beach. Fat Yogi a block.” And then he mentioned a street name that also seemed familiar. Fate and fortune had delivered me unscathed from Lucky, so I might as well just put my trust in the driver. He put my bags in the back and we left the airport behind.
And so I arrived at Fat Yogis, just after one AM local time, drained, totally jacked on adrenaline, and not yet tired. But my reservation was there and the room, although spartan, was reasonably clean by backpacker standards. A tepid shower helped rinse the traveler’s grime from my arms and the evening’s drama from my brow. But it was still PM time in my body, in spite of a week of odd sleeping hours to try and move my clock forward. There was no way I could close my eyes just yet.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
“Yes, Mr. Greenspan. All the permitting comes from Jakarta. And if you applied for a permit tomorrow it would still take two to three weeks.”
“So where does that leave me?” I asked, squarely.
“Honestly, so much of the permitting process is to make sure that all of the equipment you bring in is accounted for, and that it all leaves when you do. Of course, we are also concerned that the image that you present about Indonesia is positive. But there is also a high demand for black and gray market cameras in Indonesia, especially the very good high def ones. There are high taxes on these imports. So do you see what I am saying?"
I spent another five minutes explaining to Officer Lucky that the only story my camera would tell was of a country was where coral reefs were in dire need of help, and where they are taking positive steps to bring them back. The focus of my work was Biorock, with Indonesia simply the location. I even talked about the dazzling beauty I had seen in photos from the area and how I was excited to help show off their ecological stewardship and make Indonesia an example of positive marine conservation. I laid it on thick and flowery.
Lucky had reclined in his chair, resting two fingers against his right cheek. He stared at me for a moment. “I believe you, Mr. Greenspan. I do. I don’t think you are coming here to cause problems or make us look bad. I believe everything that you are telling me, and I think there might be another way to solve this.”
After a deliberately long pause, he continued. “You see, the other part of the permitting process is there to make sure you don’t sell equipment. Since there is no formal way to register the equipment in Jakarta in time to make your workshop, you can leave a money guarantee along with a list of the equipment here in Bali, and we issue you a receipt. When you return to Denpasar, you present the receipt, we look over the equipment list and if everything is there, you get your money back.”
This option had potential - even though I expected that, when I returned to the airport, they would find an “official” reason to give back only half of the cash guarantee. I mentally calculated how much money I was willing to lose.
“So how much would I have to leave?”
“I think its 20% of the retail value. We can always look the costs up on the web if you do not have receipts.”
I certainly didn’t have the $2000 in cash to pull this off, nor the desire to potentially lose half that. I looked straight at the officer, and told him there was no way I could pay that.
“I’ll tell you what, I like the idea of what you are trying to do. Make it ten percent. If you need, there is an ATM out in the arrivals area you can use. We’ll just need to make a list of everything with its serial number and you are free to go.”
His last statement was a chessboard check - and a painful one because the solution he offered might raise more questions and cause more problems. I purchased my camera from a respectable electronics dealership that sold as “used” several gray market imports that were new and unopened. They came with an unusual warranty deal, and they did not have serial numbers printed anywhere on the bodies. After the lecture about Indonesia’s problems with gray market camera sales, the last thing I wanted was to open that can of worms.
I had been in the office for nearly two hours. I had one final gambit to play.
“Officer Lucky, I need your help here. Look.” I take out my wallet and open it up. “I have around $250 in US dollars with me and that’s it. Other than transportation and lunches, all my other expenses will be provided for in exchange for my services. So I brought a hundred for the high-speed ferry and a taxi to the hotel, fifty for my cab back home in New York City, fifty for food and drinks and fifty for emergency. I have all of another hundred in the bank as my only backup until I get home to deposit a paycheck. This deal was the only way I could get a vacation that would give me two weeks of diving and tropical paradise, and I am going to be working my butt off for that privilege. I don’t have the money to pay you what you want, but I wish I did. Without my gear, I don’t get the vacation. And its not like I make all that much at my job. That’s why I have to buy equipment like this and do the weddings circuit on the weekends, so I can make a little more bread.”
I think I stopped for a breath before continuing, “So can you help me Officer Lucky? If I can’t get to Gili Trawangan with my camera, there is no reason for me to be here. If you can’t help me out, please explain to me the steps I need to take to arrange a return flight on the grounds I am refused entry into the country.”
I’m sure the pause was only a for few heartbeats, but it felt longer than the journey from my apartment to this Customs office. “Mr. Greenspan, you made one important error.” Officer Lucky looked at me for several seconds more before leaning forward slightly and continuing. “It will cost you a $15 US exit tax to leave this country in two weeks. I suggest you work this into your math so you don’t spend it early.”
His face broke back into the easygoing Island smile again. “I believe you, and I wish you luck with the corals. It does sound like a very interesting project.”
I wasn’t sure that I had successfully passed the Lucky gauntlet until he stood and pointed me to the door. As we left the office, I kept talking about Biorock. It was a safe topic, and hopefully one that was beginning to bore him. The duty officer was still watching my luggage, and at Lucky’s word he let me by. I donned my packs and grabbed my bag, then shook Officer Lucky’s hand.
“Mr. Greenspan, do you plan to come back again to Indonesia in the future?” He asked.
“If I like it as much as I think, I hope so. But just for touring next time,” I replied.
“Well, if you decide to come back with your camera, please take the time and obtain the proper permits? It would be best, and would keep this kind of meeting from happening again. If I see you again without them, next time I will turn you back.” Only then did I notice how well he spoke English.
I really wasn’t sure what I had just been through, but it took two hours and I was mentally drained. It was after midnight and in a row of a dozen money-changing booths, only a single one was still open. I needed local currency to pay for the taxi, the hotel and the Gili Cat speedboat. Fortunately, I was their only customer.
The Indonesian Rupiat is skewed in a way to make you feel unnecessarily rich. As an American tourist, my dollar goes pretty far in Indonesia, even in the more expensive tourist islands like Gili Trawangan. Thomas told me that “local” food (as opposed to tourist-oriented restaurants) can cost as little as $1 for a plate of Nasi Champor (steamed rice served with a stewed chicken or meat, vegetable concoctions, soy crackers, and a bunch of other little odds and ends), while dinner entrees such as grilled local fish run $5-$8 on average in the nicer restaurants. Alcohol was another matter. The local beer, Bintang, was about $1.25 a bottle, while most other spirits were extremely expensive – if you could find them at all. Unlike the Bali government, which is predominantly Hindu, Gili Trawangan was subject to the laws of the mostly Muslim island of Lombok, which made booze expensive and tough to find. So you could eat like a king on the cheap as long as you didn’t drink.
That, and the 11,000 Rp = $1 US exchange rate meant that the $100 I handed to the cashier made me an instant millionaire in Indonesia, and I actually felt a little richer.
Walking to the taxi stand, I realized I packed that one important piece of paper in my camera bag, which was now strapped like a nylon pregnancy to my belly. But when the driver asked my destination, I was able to remember the name: Fat Yogi. The driver looked at me and asked “Kuda?”
That sounded like part of the address. In broken English, I ask, “is near beach?”
In just as broken English, he replied, ”Kuda beach. Fat Yogi a block.” And then he mentioned a street name that also seemed familiar. Fate and fortune had delivered me unscathed from Lucky, so I might as well just put my trust in the driver. He put my bags in the back and we left the airport behind.
And so I arrived at Fat Yogis, just after one AM local time, drained, totally jacked on adrenaline, and not yet tired. But my reservation was there and the room, although spartan, was reasonably clean by backpacker standards. A tepid shower helped rinse the traveler’s grime from my arms and the evening’s drama from my brow. But it was still PM time in my body, in spite of a week of odd sleeping hours to try and move my clock forward. There was no way I could close my eyes just yet.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Friday, June 12, 2009
Getting There, 2008: Part 2
CONTINUED FROM PART ONE
“Mr. Greenspan, in order to make a movie or TV program in Indonesia, you must have the correct paperwork. Surely you have this with you?”
In all my preparations, I never once thought about any permitting process. I was truly shortsighted. Considering New York City requires permitting for film and television production, it’s really no surprise that a country like Indonesia would too. I’m sure that had I sought advice on filming internationally, someone would have brought this to my attention. But even if they had, it would not have been in time. As I later found out, it takes more than a month for permits to be issued.
But my intention was to come in under the radar to begin with. Look like a tourist, walk around like I was a part of the workshop, and play to the side of discretion when shooting anything other than the workshop. That was one of the deciding factors – the ability to use a broadcast quality HD system that looks in size and shape like a clunky old mini-DV machine. But the words “DVCPROHD” on the side of the camera, or the external disk recorder with similar markings, or the high-end wireless microphones must have spoiled that image. I wasn’t prepared for this level of scrutiny.
I yammered that I didn’t have any knowledge about permitting, and while my brain tried to work itself around this brand new snag, I went on to explain how I was invited by the Gili Eco Trust to document the workshop. It was my volunteer work.
“Do you have any letters from this organization, Mr. Greenspan?”
“Not with me, but information about the workshop is on their website.”
Officer Lucky spoke to the other two officers who had joined him before returning to me. “Please, come to my office so we can work this out. Just leave your bags here. They will be looked after.” With that, Lucky led me to the offices.
When I sat down in the cubicle-sized room at the desk across from Lucky, I noticed a well used ash tray sitting next to the computer. I knew it could be seen as a sign of weakness, but I didn’t care. I just came off nearly 24 hours of air travel.
“Mind if I smoke a cigar? I always pick up a pack of these at the airports since I can’t get them in the states, and I’ve been waiting to light one up since we took off.” I offer him a real Cuban cigar, which he politely refuses. But he allowed me to light one up, which gave me a few needed seconds to mentally regroup for this new speed bump.
Although the talk was polite, the two hours I spent with Officer Lucky felt more like a chess game of defenses and gambits, and I was down a queen and playing black from the start.
Cordially, I was asked to explain my purpose again. Since, at this point, my only achievable goal was to make promotional material for a non-profit organization in Indonesia, I forwarded that. I explained how people from all over the world – marine biologists, scientists, divers – were coming together on Gili Trawangan to help restore the reefs that had been destroyed by dynamite fishing and global warming; and how we were helping to restore the natural ecosystems so fish return and the tourist economy is maintained. He was politely unimpressed, even after looking at the website.
“If all you are doing is taking video to show what they do, why do you have such professional equipment? That is not an everyday tourist camera or microphones.” His questions, phrased through a warm smile, felt less like an interrogation and more like a relaxed bar conversation with a stranger over a few beers. That kind of bar conversation where you regain consciousness on an abandoned side street the next morning - without your wallet. I had to speak carefully.
So I lied. A carefully crafted history of my weekend gig shooting high-end weddings was made up on the spot. I worked on a reality show about wedding planners, so I had become familiar with the tricks of the wedding videographer’s trade. I freely used anecdotes that I had overheard during that show as if they were my own, weaving a yarn from other’s stories that seemed to entertain the officer. Especially the stories about making the bride’s mother happy. After all, I noticed the ring on his finger.
After finishing up one particularly amusing story about a mother-in-law who insisted her lap dog be in all the formal photos, Officer Lucky stopped me. “On your entry papers, you give an employer that is an international news agency, and list yourself as a cameraman for them. Are you doing a story for them?”
Okay, a fair question and one that I should have seen coming. But there was a fair answer, half-true. “Officer Lucky, I work in a studio for them. They would never use these cameras. Everything there is Sony. And even though it’s a decent paycheck by some standards, I don’t see any reason for not making some side money using my skills to shoot weddings. Besides, there is no story here that would interest them. My clientele expect a TV cameraman to have top-rate HD equipment - its how I market myself. So when I volunteered my time to document the Biorock workshop, of course I was going to bring my own gear. All of this is my own volunteer effort for the Gili Eco Trust.”
He seemed mostly satisfied with the response, but suddenly the smile dropped as he leaned forward on his desk. My cigar had been stubbed out in the ashtray for some time.
“Mr. Greenspan, there is a matter of the permit we require for all filming in Indonesia.”
I needed another cigar very badly all of a sudden.
“You do realize that you are making a film, regardless of whether it is for a non-profit group or not. You need to have a permit from Jakarta to use your equipment.” The beginning moves had been laid out and developed into the mid-game, as evidenced by the smaller, thinner smiles we both wore. Agent Lucky flipped through my passport, waiting for my next move.
First I plead ignorance to the permitting, which was true. But I added the caveat that this was my vacation and a hobby pursuit (at that point, making a full length documentary for commercial consumption was still a pipe dream). This had little effect on my Lucky officer, who parried back that I was a professional cameraman who used this gear to make money.
The back and forth continued over the desk, building on the groundwork of my partial truths and fabrications. And each time, Lucky brought it back to the permitting. He never continued past that statement, instead waiting while I deflected his comment with various rationales and explanations before he restated it. After the fourth or fifth go around, I finally answered him. “So what am I supposed to do now?”
Lucky smiled, and went on to explain that there might be other arrangements that could be made. His first suggestion was to leave the camera and gear with customs for the duration of my visit.
“Officer Lucky, do you realize that if I go to Gili Trawangan without my camera, I will be unable to fulfill my obligations to the Biorock workshop? They are the ones who are providing me with a place to stay, food, and diving so I can document their efforts to rebuild the Indonesian coral reef. If I can’t film, I won’t be getting any of those in return. I didn’t bring all that much cash with me, since everything was to be provided. I have to have my camera with me, otherwise there will be no reason for me to be here and no ability to afford it.”
Lucky looked me over. “You know the permit itself is several hundred dollars U.S.?” He let that statement linger.
“But I would have to get that in Jakarta, wouldn’t I.” I shot back, not taking the perceived bait.
I started making mental calculations on my money situation since the scent of graft was growing ever more distinct in the small room. I had two hundred and fifty in my wallet – enough to hopefully cover my expenses for the week of my visit that the Gili Eco Trust was not covering. As backup, I had another four hundred in a money belt, along with my credit card. But I would be damned if I was going to pay off a bored Customs officer if I didn’t have to. And there was no way I was leaving my gear behind.
TO BE CONTINUED...
“Mr. Greenspan, in order to make a movie or TV program in Indonesia, you must have the correct paperwork. Surely you have this with you?”
In all my preparations, I never once thought about any permitting process. I was truly shortsighted. Considering New York City requires permitting for film and television production, it’s really no surprise that a country like Indonesia would too. I’m sure that had I sought advice on filming internationally, someone would have brought this to my attention. But even if they had, it would not have been in time. As I later found out, it takes more than a month for permits to be issued.
But my intention was to come in under the radar to begin with. Look like a tourist, walk around like I was a part of the workshop, and play to the side of discretion when shooting anything other than the workshop. That was one of the deciding factors – the ability to use a broadcast quality HD system that looks in size and shape like a clunky old mini-DV machine. But the words “DVCPROHD” on the side of the camera, or the external disk recorder with similar markings, or the high-end wireless microphones must have spoiled that image. I wasn’t prepared for this level of scrutiny.
I yammered that I didn’t have any knowledge about permitting, and while my brain tried to work itself around this brand new snag, I went on to explain how I was invited by the Gili Eco Trust to document the workshop. It was my volunteer work.
“Do you have any letters from this organization, Mr. Greenspan?”
“Not with me, but information about the workshop is on their website.”
Officer Lucky spoke to the other two officers who had joined him before returning to me. “Please, come to my office so we can work this out. Just leave your bags here. They will be looked after.” With that, Lucky led me to the offices.
When I sat down in the cubicle-sized room at the desk across from Lucky, I noticed a well used ash tray sitting next to the computer. I knew it could be seen as a sign of weakness, but I didn’t care. I just came off nearly 24 hours of air travel.
“Mind if I smoke a cigar? I always pick up a pack of these at the airports since I can’t get them in the states, and I’ve been waiting to light one up since we took off.” I offer him a real Cuban cigar, which he politely refuses. But he allowed me to light one up, which gave me a few needed seconds to mentally regroup for this new speed bump.
Although the talk was polite, the two hours I spent with Officer Lucky felt more like a chess game of defenses and gambits, and I was down a queen and playing black from the start.
Cordially, I was asked to explain my purpose again. Since, at this point, my only achievable goal was to make promotional material for a non-profit organization in Indonesia, I forwarded that. I explained how people from all over the world – marine biologists, scientists, divers – were coming together on Gili Trawangan to help restore the reefs that had been destroyed by dynamite fishing and global warming; and how we were helping to restore the natural ecosystems so fish return and the tourist economy is maintained. He was politely unimpressed, even after looking at the website.
“If all you are doing is taking video to show what they do, why do you have such professional equipment? That is not an everyday tourist camera or microphones.” His questions, phrased through a warm smile, felt less like an interrogation and more like a relaxed bar conversation with a stranger over a few beers. That kind of bar conversation where you regain consciousness on an abandoned side street the next morning - without your wallet. I had to speak carefully.
So I lied. A carefully crafted history of my weekend gig shooting high-end weddings was made up on the spot. I worked on a reality show about wedding planners, so I had become familiar with the tricks of the wedding videographer’s trade. I freely used anecdotes that I had overheard during that show as if they were my own, weaving a yarn from other’s stories that seemed to entertain the officer. Especially the stories about making the bride’s mother happy. After all, I noticed the ring on his finger.
After finishing up one particularly amusing story about a mother-in-law who insisted her lap dog be in all the formal photos, Officer Lucky stopped me. “On your entry papers, you give an employer that is an international news agency, and list yourself as a cameraman for them. Are you doing a story for them?”
Okay, a fair question and one that I should have seen coming. But there was a fair answer, half-true. “Officer Lucky, I work in a studio for them. They would never use these cameras. Everything there is Sony. And even though it’s a decent paycheck by some standards, I don’t see any reason for not making some side money using my skills to shoot weddings. Besides, there is no story here that would interest them. My clientele expect a TV cameraman to have top-rate HD equipment - its how I market myself. So when I volunteered my time to document the Biorock workshop, of course I was going to bring my own gear. All of this is my own volunteer effort for the Gili Eco Trust.”
He seemed mostly satisfied with the response, but suddenly the smile dropped as he leaned forward on his desk. My cigar had been stubbed out in the ashtray for some time.
“Mr. Greenspan, there is a matter of the permit we require for all filming in Indonesia.”
I needed another cigar very badly all of a sudden.
“You do realize that you are making a film, regardless of whether it is for a non-profit group or not. You need to have a permit from Jakarta to use your equipment.” The beginning moves had been laid out and developed into the mid-game, as evidenced by the smaller, thinner smiles we both wore. Agent Lucky flipped through my passport, waiting for my next move.
First I plead ignorance to the permitting, which was true. But I added the caveat that this was my vacation and a hobby pursuit (at that point, making a full length documentary for commercial consumption was still a pipe dream). This had little effect on my Lucky officer, who parried back that I was a professional cameraman who used this gear to make money.
The back and forth continued over the desk, building on the groundwork of my partial truths and fabrications. And each time, Lucky brought it back to the permitting. He never continued past that statement, instead waiting while I deflected his comment with various rationales and explanations before he restated it. After the fourth or fifth go around, I finally answered him. “So what am I supposed to do now?”
Lucky smiled, and went on to explain that there might be other arrangements that could be made. His first suggestion was to leave the camera and gear with customs for the duration of my visit.
“Officer Lucky, do you realize that if I go to Gili Trawangan without my camera, I will be unable to fulfill my obligations to the Biorock workshop? They are the ones who are providing me with a place to stay, food, and diving so I can document their efforts to rebuild the Indonesian coral reef. If I can’t film, I won’t be getting any of those in return. I didn’t bring all that much cash with me, since everything was to be provided. I have to have my camera with me, otherwise there will be no reason for me to be here and no ability to afford it.”
Lucky looked me over. “You know the permit itself is several hundred dollars U.S.?” He let that statement linger.
“But I would have to get that in Jakarta, wouldn’t I.” I shot back, not taking the perceived bait.
I started making mental calculations on my money situation since the scent of graft was growing ever more distinct in the small room. I had two hundred and fifty in my wallet – enough to hopefully cover my expenses for the week of my visit that the Gili Eco Trust was not covering. As backup, I had another four hundred in a money belt, along with my credit card. But I would be damned if I was going to pay off a bored Customs officer if I didn’t have to. And there was no way I was leaving my gear behind.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Getting There, 2008: Part 1
There are many stories that tell the making of "Biorock: Putting the Pieces Together." And I don’t necessarily mean tales about the production itself, although there are quite a few. The entire process has been a journey for me, one with plenty of experiences and lessons that not only transcend the production, but became an integral part of it. So let me start with the first excursion to Gili Trawangan in 2008, and the trials of just getting to the workshop. I apologize if it seems long, but I like to leave in details that lend texture and color to the narrative. I have divided it up over a few days of posting.
Leading up to my first flight was several weeks of intense correspondence between myself, my friend Thomas, and Dr. Tom Goreau. The original arrangement I brokered with my friend Thomas was that I would make some form of promotional video for the Global Coral Alliance and Gili Eco Trust's use, as well as document some of the workshop for archival purposes, in exchange for admission plus room, board and diving during the workshop. I felt that my contribution in this way would give a purpose to my vacation beyond the casual participant.
Yes, I had to remind myself that this was a vacation. I have a “9-to-5” job that I enjoy, so it took quite a bit of planning to arrange eleven days off from work, make the arrangements to have my apartment and bird looked after for two weeks, and get a travel itinerary together. Thankfully, Tom asked Delphine Robbe, the manager of Big Bubble Dive shop and the Gili Eco Trust, to make the arrangements.
When I went to Thailand in 2002, I studied the tour books and Internet newsgroups to learn the land before I arrived. This time, I brought only a thin notebook with a single page of information thanks to Delphine.
But once I decided to expand my video goals and tell the bigger story of Biorock in high-definition, the emails flew even faster. I had created a whole new set of issues – from getting underwater footage in HD to powering a battery charger that took US voltage only, with a myriad of small details in between. All my new gear was ordered in the week before I left, and the last packages arrived the morning before my flight. Fortunately, most of my issues were worked out by the time I stepped foot on the plane.
I also had to earn Dr. Goreau’s trust that my goal was to tell the story in relationship to the science, and not simply use his workshop as an excuse to create a travelogue with pretty coral video. European companies had produced several documentaries about Biorock, but none ever explored the subject to Tom’s satisfaction. It took time and a few heated exchanges, but I would eventually earn that trust and received carte blanche to tell the story as I saw fit. I think that in the months since, and especially after seeing early edits of the show, Tom knew he had made the right choice in extending me the invitation.
The day before my 6 am flight out of JFK was a blur. I know I woke up early, finished testing out gear that arrived by FedEx, ran a half dozen errands, went to work, came home, packed… and repacked… and spent the night figuring out how to fit my new camera gear (including digital disk recorder), laptop, 2 disk drives (I insist on redundancy in digital imagining. More on this later…), diving gear (fins, mask, BCD, 5 mil wetsuit, regulator, and assorted hardware), audio gear, clothes, monopod, and various travel items into a manageable burden.
In the end, I wound up stuffing my dive gear, clothes and other sundries into a reliable North Face backpack that is now twice older than I was on the day I received it. That came to just over 70 pounds of check-in. For carry-on, I had 45 pounds of camera, audio, laptop, and battery packs that went into a backpack-style camera case that barely qualified as carry-on when empty. When I needed to carry all my luggage, I would sling it like a reverse backpack against my chest. A big black army rucksack with a strong handle held my “flight bag” waist pouch (containing my ipod, batteries, passport, handy-wipes and other items I would want for the duration of the flight), a pelican case with two hard drives, and a dozen types of connecting and electrical cables. Weighing in at only 35 pounds, it was the one that got carried by hand.
The jigsaw puzzle solved itself in time for me to catch a half-hour nap before my ride.
Thankfully, the exhaustion meant I slept most of my way to Tokyo on the Japan Air flight. The 747 was uncrowded and I had the row to myself. I woke up on our descent into Tokyo, with the near-perfect volcanic cone of Mount Fuji rising high above the city. The 2-hour layover was mercifully short, giving me just enough time to find duty-free Cuban cigars and a pretty awesome seafood soup. Then it was off to Bali, Indonesia.
Landing at 10 PM in a foreign airport with only a hotel name on a piece of paper is disconcerting enough. But landing in Denpasar at that hour doesn’t really add to the comfort level. It’s a whisp of an airport that feels like a ghost town at night. Uncertain signs lead you around corners and stairs until you find the two sets of immigration windows. At the first, you must pay the visa fee to get in. The second is where you hand the receipt to the immigration official who looks things over very seriously before ink-stamping his approval for entry.
After shelling out my visa fee, I had the fortune to pick a line where the officer was practicing the length of his stern and officious look as he examined each passport. He also seemed to be hell-bent on breaking the record for slowest ink stamp. By the time he arrived at my passport, most of the other lines had cleared – and I was one of the first off the plane.
“Welcome to Indonesia,” he muttered, stamping my passport with world-record slowness.
Just past customs is baggage retrieval. With ours being the only incoming international flight at that hour, they didn’t bother with the baggage formalities as our luggage was unceremoniously carted through a door and placed on the floor by hand. Right next to the unmoving conveyor belt.
It was easy to spot my bags amongst the dozen left. I am instructed, like everyone else, to bring the bags to the x-ray machine. I hefted my camping backpack, camera backpack, and rucksack onto the conveyor and waited until they were spit out the other end. I threw on my backpack, lifted the camera case…
“Excuse me sir, may I see your passport?”
The customs officer smiled at me. I was tired, It was late. I had been flying for a full day and had yet to figure out where my hotel was. I was still going through mental checklists of what I might have forgotten to pack 26 hours ago. I wasn’t really paying attention when I handed him my passport.
“Mr. Greenspan? I am Officer Lucky. Could you bring your bags over to this table?”
I don’t fly that often, maybe three times a year on average. But somewhere around 1999 I figure some Federal agency added a name or face like mine to some list, since I have this uncanny knack at being the random person pulled out of airport security lines. I’ve been asked to strip three times, and given the white latex glove treatment once. My shoes and carry-ons are almost always swabbed for explosives. So I was used to the procedural pat-down at this point. But mind you, that was on flights with a terminus in America.
This was foreign soil. Not America.
Agent Lucky pointed at my camera bag and asked me to open it. He poked around inside, looking at my camera and wireless microphones. “This is a very nice looking camera,” he remarked.
During the week I agonized over investing in high definition video, I was heavy into camera research. After all, I was looking for the best bang for the buck. I needed something that would spec out as a broadcast HD camera in spite of being a camcorder; and for the price, the HVX-200 put out an amazing picture. And I made sure to explain it all to Officer Lucky, down to its film-like gamma control.
He interrupted my droning to ask about the boxy device that was packed alongside the camera. I went on to explain that the camera’s HD quality is so good, you either need a special encoding hard drive or P2 cards to capture the video. And the Firestore hard drive was a more economical choice considering the volume of video I expected to bring back.
“How much are you planning to shoot?” Lucky laughed.
“The workshop is 6 days, so figure at least 20 hours,” I replied. And I even went on to explain how it was my personal camera, but that I work for a world-recognized television news agency as a cameraman.
Like I said, I wasn’t thinking. This wasn’t America. They weren’t looking for a terrorist.
“Mr. Greenspan, do you have the permits to film in Indonesia from Jakarta?”
I’m not sure what he saw in my stunned face. I can only imagine it was the shade of money as I likely blanched and turned a little green. And suddenly, I had to start thinking. Fast.
***TO BE CONTINUED
Leading up to my first flight was several weeks of intense correspondence between myself, my friend Thomas, and Dr. Tom Goreau. The original arrangement I brokered with my friend Thomas was that I would make some form of promotional video for the Global Coral Alliance and Gili Eco Trust's use, as well as document some of the workshop for archival purposes, in exchange for admission plus room, board and diving during the workshop. I felt that my contribution in this way would give a purpose to my vacation beyond the casual participant.
Yes, I had to remind myself that this was a vacation. I have a “9-to-5” job that I enjoy, so it took quite a bit of planning to arrange eleven days off from work, make the arrangements to have my apartment and bird looked after for two weeks, and get a travel itinerary together. Thankfully, Tom asked Delphine Robbe, the manager of Big Bubble Dive shop and the Gili Eco Trust, to make the arrangements.
When I went to Thailand in 2002, I studied the tour books and Internet newsgroups to learn the land before I arrived. This time, I brought only a thin notebook with a single page of information thanks to Delphine.
But once I decided to expand my video goals and tell the bigger story of Biorock in high-definition, the emails flew even faster. I had created a whole new set of issues – from getting underwater footage in HD to powering a battery charger that took US voltage only, with a myriad of small details in between. All my new gear was ordered in the week before I left, and the last packages arrived the morning before my flight. Fortunately, most of my issues were worked out by the time I stepped foot on the plane.
I also had to earn Dr. Goreau’s trust that my goal was to tell the story in relationship to the science, and not simply use his workshop as an excuse to create a travelogue with pretty coral video. European companies had produced several documentaries about Biorock, but none ever explored the subject to Tom’s satisfaction. It took time and a few heated exchanges, but I would eventually earn that trust and received carte blanche to tell the story as I saw fit. I think that in the months since, and especially after seeing early edits of the show, Tom knew he had made the right choice in extending me the invitation.
The day before my 6 am flight out of JFK was a blur. I know I woke up early, finished testing out gear that arrived by FedEx, ran a half dozen errands, went to work, came home, packed… and repacked… and spent the night figuring out how to fit my new camera gear (including digital disk recorder), laptop, 2 disk drives (I insist on redundancy in digital imagining. More on this later…), diving gear (fins, mask, BCD, 5 mil wetsuit, regulator, and assorted hardware), audio gear, clothes, monopod, and various travel items into a manageable burden.
In the end, I wound up stuffing my dive gear, clothes and other sundries into a reliable North Face backpack that is now twice older than I was on the day I received it. That came to just over 70 pounds of check-in. For carry-on, I had 45 pounds of camera, audio, laptop, and battery packs that went into a backpack-style camera case that barely qualified as carry-on when empty. When I needed to carry all my luggage, I would sling it like a reverse backpack against my chest. A big black army rucksack with a strong handle held my “flight bag” waist pouch (containing my ipod, batteries, passport, handy-wipes and other items I would want for the duration of the flight), a pelican case with two hard drives, and a dozen types of connecting and electrical cables. Weighing in at only 35 pounds, it was the one that got carried by hand.
The jigsaw puzzle solved itself in time for me to catch a half-hour nap before my ride.
Thankfully, the exhaustion meant I slept most of my way to Tokyo on the Japan Air flight. The 747 was uncrowded and I had the row to myself. I woke up on our descent into Tokyo, with the near-perfect volcanic cone of Mount Fuji rising high above the city. The 2-hour layover was mercifully short, giving me just enough time to find duty-free Cuban cigars and a pretty awesome seafood soup. Then it was off to Bali, Indonesia.
Landing at 10 PM in a foreign airport with only a hotel name on a piece of paper is disconcerting enough. But landing in Denpasar at that hour doesn’t really add to the comfort level. It’s a whisp of an airport that feels like a ghost town at night. Uncertain signs lead you around corners and stairs until you find the two sets of immigration windows. At the first, you must pay the visa fee to get in. The second is where you hand the receipt to the immigration official who looks things over very seriously before ink-stamping his approval for entry.
After shelling out my visa fee, I had the fortune to pick a line where the officer was practicing the length of his stern and officious look as he examined each passport. He also seemed to be hell-bent on breaking the record for slowest ink stamp. By the time he arrived at my passport, most of the other lines had cleared – and I was one of the first off the plane.
“Welcome to Indonesia,” he muttered, stamping my passport with world-record slowness.
Just past customs is baggage retrieval. With ours being the only incoming international flight at that hour, they didn’t bother with the baggage formalities as our luggage was unceremoniously carted through a door and placed on the floor by hand. Right next to the unmoving conveyor belt.
It was easy to spot my bags amongst the dozen left. I am instructed, like everyone else, to bring the bags to the x-ray machine. I hefted my camping backpack, camera backpack, and rucksack onto the conveyor and waited until they were spit out the other end. I threw on my backpack, lifted the camera case…
“Excuse me sir, may I see your passport?”
The customs officer smiled at me. I was tired, It was late. I had been flying for a full day and had yet to figure out where my hotel was. I was still going through mental checklists of what I might have forgotten to pack 26 hours ago. I wasn’t really paying attention when I handed him my passport.
“Mr. Greenspan? I am Officer Lucky. Could you bring your bags over to this table?”
I don’t fly that often, maybe three times a year on average. But somewhere around 1999 I figure some Federal agency added a name or face like mine to some list, since I have this uncanny knack at being the random person pulled out of airport security lines. I’ve been asked to strip three times, and given the white latex glove treatment once. My shoes and carry-ons are almost always swabbed for explosives. So I was used to the procedural pat-down at this point. But mind you, that was on flights with a terminus in America.
This was foreign soil. Not America.
Agent Lucky pointed at my camera bag and asked me to open it. He poked around inside, looking at my camera and wireless microphones. “This is a very nice looking camera,” he remarked.
During the week I agonized over investing in high definition video, I was heavy into camera research. After all, I was looking for the best bang for the buck. I needed something that would spec out as a broadcast HD camera in spite of being a camcorder; and for the price, the HVX-200 put out an amazing picture. And I made sure to explain it all to Officer Lucky, down to its film-like gamma control.
He interrupted my droning to ask about the boxy device that was packed alongside the camera. I went on to explain that the camera’s HD quality is so good, you either need a special encoding hard drive or P2 cards to capture the video. And the Firestore hard drive was a more economical choice considering the volume of video I expected to bring back.
“How much are you planning to shoot?” Lucky laughed.
“The workshop is 6 days, so figure at least 20 hours,” I replied. And I even went on to explain how it was my personal camera, but that I work for a world-recognized television news agency as a cameraman.
Like I said, I wasn’t thinking. This wasn’t America. They weren’t looking for a terrorist.
“Mr. Greenspan, do you have the permits to film in Indonesia from Jakarta?”
I’m not sure what he saw in my stunned face. I can only imagine it was the shade of money as I likely blanched and turned a little green. And suddenly, I had to start thinking. Fast.
***TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, June 8, 2009
Ticked off. The list I mean.
I just want to give a big thank you to Beth, Joyce and my father for bringing me a few steps closer to completion. It was a great feeling to be able to tick a few shots off the "to do" shot list. In fact, the needed footage is already edited in.
Plus, when I visited my friend Wendy, I took some really cool shots of two swan and their cygnets.
My YouTube channel is becoming a wildlife refuge with all the underwater, hawk and swan footage milling about...
Plus, when I visited my friend Wendy, I took some really cool shots of two swan and their cygnets.
My YouTube channel is becoming a wildlife refuge with all the underwater, hawk and swan footage milling about...
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Current Status
As of today, the beginning of June, where do I stand? Well, I seem to be in a positive place with the video as a whole. I know its a bit of a spoiler to jump six months ahead in a narrative just begun, but rather than wait through the next weeks of occassional writing and present what is happening today in the past tense, I figured I would give a present persepective.
My first trip was a bit of a lark by all reasonable reckoning. Even though I planned to visit Thomas and participate in the workshop months earlier, it wasn't until the week before my flight that I decided in earnest to try making a documentary. Two months after my return, I had created a narrative framework that filled out the full 44-minutes of a normal broadcast "hour," and then some. I could easily make a true 1-hour show from the interviews, but I did not have enough of underwater video of natural coral reefs, or enough video of the Gili community to really do the video justice. One thing that always disturbs me in documentaries is when the producers and editors have to repeat the same shots because they don't have enough footage. That was one trap that I really wanted to avoid - so I had to plan a second trip.
Several things fell into place - most notably airfare prices - that allowed me to return to Gili Trawangan at the very end of April. My first trip corresponded with the beginning of the rainy season, and it showed as gray skies and monochromatic days gave the footage a flatter look and the wide scenic shots never hit with the vibrance and majesty I hoped. This time, the monsoon season was waning, leaving crystaline mornings and chromatic sunsets. The afternoons were still plagued with gray clouds that gathered over Lombok's semi-active Rinjani volcano and dulled the stellar blue to gunmetal for a few hours a day.
My focus was on underwater footage, so I took advantage of the brilliant mornings to collect as much wet video as I could. In all, I surfaced with nearly 6 hours of video during almost a dozen dives, with another five hours from the surface.
During my time on Trawangan, a newfound friend took a strong interest in my project. His support went so far that he went out of his way to introduce me people who ran the Bali International Film Festival. After connecting with them and learning that the festival runs in late October, I decided to make that the first goal for the documentary. Although selling the show would be the ultimate goal, it would be a truly wonderful experience to premier the documentary in the place where the story unfolds.
I arrived in New York completely exhausted, wired, and just a little salty. After my first hot, fresh-water shower in more than two weeks (which lasted a glorious half hour! Ahhh, fresh water!), I powered on my editing system and began loading all the new footage.
It turns out I shot more video than I had space for on my computer.
One new hard drive, three weeks and a few dozen hours of editing later, I feel pretty good about the current status. After roughing in the new footage, I have a program that is nearly 85% finished. Granted, I am still tweaking the placed video here and there - looking for "better" or "prettier" footage, changing edits to more strongly reflect the narrative, and finding little nuances that add to the quality of the end product.
But there are still a handful of holes left... holes that will take me a few weeks to fill. Holes that will hopefully disappear before I need to send a screener copy to the film festival administrator. They include:
Footage from a biology lab of scientists "working' on a sponge sample
Footage of seawalls
Footage of the US coastline from different regions
Footage of sunken subway "reefs"
Footage of storms on the coast
Footage of infrastructure erosion
Footage of the Pyramids
Footage (macroscopic) of coral polyps, algae, and plankton
And finally, 3 different animations that are being put together by my friend Paul.
Once that is all done, I will have a complete video, ready for screening. But after that, there is still days of work to accomplish - audio editing and sweetening, color correction, titles, and making a soundtrack (yes, I am even trying to do that myself!). In other words, every single piece of video I place will still need visual and audio manipulation. And that means hundreds of clips will need attention, one at a time.
My work is cut out for me. Or, should I say, cutting is my work - for now.
My first trip was a bit of a lark by all reasonable reckoning. Even though I planned to visit Thomas and participate in the workshop months earlier, it wasn't until the week before my flight that I decided in earnest to try making a documentary. Two months after my return, I had created a narrative framework that filled out the full 44-minutes of a normal broadcast "hour," and then some. I could easily make a true 1-hour show from the interviews, but I did not have enough of underwater video of natural coral reefs, or enough video of the Gili community to really do the video justice. One thing that always disturbs me in documentaries is when the producers and editors have to repeat the same shots because they don't have enough footage. That was one trap that I really wanted to avoid - so I had to plan a second trip.
Several things fell into place - most notably airfare prices - that allowed me to return to Gili Trawangan at the very end of April. My first trip corresponded with the beginning of the rainy season, and it showed as gray skies and monochromatic days gave the footage a flatter look and the wide scenic shots never hit with the vibrance and majesty I hoped. This time, the monsoon season was waning, leaving crystaline mornings and chromatic sunsets. The afternoons were still plagued with gray clouds that gathered over Lombok's semi-active Rinjani volcano and dulled the stellar blue to gunmetal for a few hours a day.
My focus was on underwater footage, so I took advantage of the brilliant mornings to collect as much wet video as I could. In all, I surfaced with nearly 6 hours of video during almost a dozen dives, with another five hours from the surface.
During my time on Trawangan, a newfound friend took a strong interest in my project. His support went so far that he went out of his way to introduce me people who ran the Bali International Film Festival. After connecting with them and learning that the festival runs in late October, I decided to make that the first goal for the documentary. Although selling the show would be the ultimate goal, it would be a truly wonderful experience to premier the documentary in the place where the story unfolds.
I arrived in New York completely exhausted, wired, and just a little salty. After my first hot, fresh-water shower in more than two weeks (which lasted a glorious half hour! Ahhh, fresh water!), I powered on my editing system and began loading all the new footage.
It turns out I shot more video than I had space for on my computer.
One new hard drive, three weeks and a few dozen hours of editing later, I feel pretty good about the current status. After roughing in the new footage, I have a program that is nearly 85% finished. Granted, I am still tweaking the placed video here and there - looking for "better" or "prettier" footage, changing edits to more strongly reflect the narrative, and finding little nuances that add to the quality of the end product.
But there are still a handful of holes left... holes that will take me a few weeks to fill. Holes that will hopefully disappear before I need to send a screener copy to the film festival administrator. They include:
Footage from a biology lab of scientists "working' on a sponge sample
Footage of seawalls
Footage of the US coastline from different regions
Footage of sunken subway "reefs"
Footage of storms on the coast
Footage of infrastructure erosion
Footage of the Pyramids
Footage (macroscopic) of coral polyps, algae, and plankton
And finally, 3 different animations that are being put together by my friend Paul.
Once that is all done, I will have a complete video, ready for screening. But after that, there is still days of work to accomplish - audio editing and sweetening, color correction, titles, and making a soundtrack (yes, I am even trying to do that myself!). In other words, every single piece of video I place will still need visual and audio manipulation. And that means hundreds of clips will need attention, one at a time.
My work is cut out for me. Or, should I say, cutting is my work - for now.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
How it started - my history with Biorock
The first time I explored Asia was in 2002. I left on an 8 week trip to Korea, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos and Thailand. At least, that was the plan. After spending almost 4 weeks in Korea, I decided to hit Thailand and do some SCUBA diving for two weeks before wrapping up my holiday with quick excursions through the remaining countries. I found Koh Tao, an undeveloped rock in the middle of the Gulf of Siam, and began diving. The diving finished up 5 months later with a slew of professional certifications that left me a Divemaster (assistant instructor), but without ever reaching the rest of Asia's Golden Triangle.
Koh Tao attracted few, if any Americans. I only learned of it from an Australian I met when I was diving in Belize the year before. When I arrived, I quickly learned that anyone who spoke North American English was Canadian, with one exception. His name was Thomas, and in spite of being American, we became fast friends. Thomas was an early PC magazine publisher/editor who left the States to become a true ex-pat. He set up shop in Koh Tao where he spent days diving and making underwater videos for tourists who wanted to show friends back home their beautiful Thailand dives.
After my coursework was completed and I was Divemastering for a local shop called Scuba Junction, Thomas began teaching me the basics of underwater videography. In time, I too started making tourist videos - but then my natural interest in storytelling took over, and I began to shoot promos for local shops and attractions. Thomas and I developed a close friendship and mutual respect for each other's creative and diving skills. I moved briefly to another island, Koh Samui, to continue working with Thomas. Of all my friends in Thailand, his presenec was the one I missed most when I returned to my war-minded country in the waning summer.
Thomas and I kept in touch through the years. He married, had a son, moved to the Thai mainland, and wound up getting a divorce. Then, disaster struck.
It was Christmas in the States when a deep oceanic earthquake generated one of the worst natural disasters in recent history, as 35-50 foot waves uprooted and destroyed the lives of millions of people who inhabited the coasts of Asia and India. It hit the southern part of Thailand with almost unstoppable force. In the town of Ko Leuk on the mainland, the Tsunami penetrated nearly a mile inland before it retreated back to the ocean. The high water mark ended a few hundred yards from Thomas' house.
With his son and ex-wife on the beach, Thomas grabbed his video camera and ran across the retreating water in a desperate search for the two people who meant the most to him. But it was in vain. It took weeks for authorities to identify the bodies of his family. And the videotape of his nearly mile-long journey back to the waters edge shows the heartbreak and fury than the ocean can bring unexpectedly.
Thomas was, to say the least, emotionally ripped apart . For several months, he sought methods to work his anger and pain out in positive ways. I worked with Thomas on an effort to start a Non-Profit charity in his son's name, dedicate to helping rebuild the devastated Thai communities. But the effort, however valiant, was difficult to overcome on many levels.
Back in Thailand, Thomas met a scientist who came to the devastated region to assess the damage to the local coral reefs and develop a restoration plan. His name was Dr. Thomas (Tom) Goreau, PhD, a United Nations consultant and co-developer of the Biorock Reef restoration system. Being an avid diver, underwater photographer, and lover of all marine life, Thomas was naturally attracted to the Biorock mission. He ended his pursuit of an NPO, and instead decided to team up with Dr. Goreau in his mission to preserve coral reefs around the globe.
Over the next several years, whenever I had the chance to talk to Thomas, I was assaulted with tales of Biorock projects and this brilliant scientist out to save coral reefs. With each workshop they held, Thomas invited me to come and document the process and the results. Although I was intrigued and thought the chance to do some diving and videotaping would be keen, the combination of schedule and money never worked out. But each year the stories of their successes grew, and I became increasingly impressed by what I saw and heard.
Last year, Thomas again invited me to a Biorock workshop - this time in Indonesia off the island of Lombok. And for the first time, all the elements seemed to come together - I had the time, the money, and the strong desire to baptize myself again in tropical waters. So I checked on my frequent flier miles and booked a flight.
At first, I was planning to simply document the activities that went on at the workshop for Dr. Goreau and Thomas' use in promoting Biorock. But in the ensuing months before I left, my conversations with Thomas and Tom brought me to the realization that there was a real story here. A story of ecological stewardship that might actually affect a positive change in the world. A story worth telling in a beautiful environment both above and below water.
So I decided to take a plunge myself and see if I could tease the story out in video, and make a full one-hour documentary on the Sixth Indonesian Biorock conference. It was a hair-brained idea, but I am of the opinion that life will throw you interesting opportunities if you look carefully enough. And this was an opportunity I decided to take.
So thanks to Thomas' beckoning and my own mental inertia, I found myself at JFK airport at 4 am on a Sunday morning, carrying a full-sized backpack packed full with diving gear and clothes, a camera case containing a brand new HD camcorder capable of true 24P HD film-like pictures that I only had time to test once, and another pack holding two disk drives for the video data and a beat up 8-year old laptop to make the transfers. The entire package was put together in the 72 hours before my flight, which gave me just enough time to figure out how to get video off the camera, into the hard drives and then successfully transferred to my Final Cut Pro editing system at home. It worked once, and I prayed it would keep working when I came back with hours of video data.
On a wing and a prayer, I set off for Indonesia...
Koh Tao attracted few, if any Americans. I only learned of it from an Australian I met when I was diving in Belize the year before. When I arrived, I quickly learned that anyone who spoke North American English was Canadian, with one exception. His name was Thomas, and in spite of being American, we became fast friends. Thomas was an early PC magazine publisher/editor who left the States to become a true ex-pat. He set up shop in Koh Tao where he spent days diving and making underwater videos for tourists who wanted to show friends back home their beautiful Thailand dives.
After my coursework was completed and I was Divemastering for a local shop called Scuba Junction, Thomas began teaching me the basics of underwater videography. In time, I too started making tourist videos - but then my natural interest in storytelling took over, and I began to shoot promos for local shops and attractions. Thomas and I developed a close friendship and mutual respect for each other's creative and diving skills. I moved briefly to another island, Koh Samui, to continue working with Thomas. Of all my friends in Thailand, his presenec was the one I missed most when I returned to my war-minded country in the waning summer.
Thomas and I kept in touch through the years. He married, had a son, moved to the Thai mainland, and wound up getting a divorce. Then, disaster struck.
It was Christmas in the States when a deep oceanic earthquake generated one of the worst natural disasters in recent history, as 35-50 foot waves uprooted and destroyed the lives of millions of people who inhabited the coasts of Asia and India. It hit the southern part of Thailand with almost unstoppable force. In the town of Ko Leuk on the mainland, the Tsunami penetrated nearly a mile inland before it retreated back to the ocean. The high water mark ended a few hundred yards from Thomas' house.
With his son and ex-wife on the beach, Thomas grabbed his video camera and ran across the retreating water in a desperate search for the two people who meant the most to him. But it was in vain. It took weeks for authorities to identify the bodies of his family. And the videotape of his nearly mile-long journey back to the waters edge shows the heartbreak and fury than the ocean can bring unexpectedly.
Thomas was, to say the least, emotionally ripped apart . For several months, he sought methods to work his anger and pain out in positive ways. I worked with Thomas on an effort to start a Non-Profit charity in his son's name, dedicate to helping rebuild the devastated Thai communities. But the effort, however valiant, was difficult to overcome on many levels.
Back in Thailand, Thomas met a scientist who came to the devastated region to assess the damage to the local coral reefs and develop a restoration plan. His name was Dr. Thomas (Tom) Goreau, PhD, a United Nations consultant and co-developer of the Biorock Reef restoration system. Being an avid diver, underwater photographer, and lover of all marine life, Thomas was naturally attracted to the Biorock mission. He ended his pursuit of an NPO, and instead decided to team up with Dr. Goreau in his mission to preserve coral reefs around the globe.
Over the next several years, whenever I had the chance to talk to Thomas, I was assaulted with tales of Biorock projects and this brilliant scientist out to save coral reefs. With each workshop they held, Thomas invited me to come and document the process and the results. Although I was intrigued and thought the chance to do some diving and videotaping would be keen, the combination of schedule and money never worked out. But each year the stories of their successes grew, and I became increasingly impressed by what I saw and heard.
Last year, Thomas again invited me to a Biorock workshop - this time in Indonesia off the island of Lombok. And for the first time, all the elements seemed to come together - I had the time, the money, and the strong desire to baptize myself again in tropical waters. So I checked on my frequent flier miles and booked a flight.
At first, I was planning to simply document the activities that went on at the workshop for Dr. Goreau and Thomas' use in promoting Biorock. But in the ensuing months before I left, my conversations with Thomas and Tom brought me to the realization that there was a real story here. A story of ecological stewardship that might actually affect a positive change in the world. A story worth telling in a beautiful environment both above and below water.
So I decided to take a plunge myself and see if I could tease the story out in video, and make a full one-hour documentary on the Sixth Indonesian Biorock conference. It was a hair-brained idea, but I am of the opinion that life will throw you interesting opportunities if you look carefully enough. And this was an opportunity I decided to take.
So thanks to Thomas' beckoning and my own mental inertia, I found myself at JFK airport at 4 am on a Sunday morning, carrying a full-sized backpack packed full with diving gear and clothes, a camera case containing a brand new HD camcorder capable of true 24P HD film-like pictures that I only had time to test once, and another pack holding two disk drives for the video data and a beat up 8-year old laptop to make the transfers. The entire package was put together in the 72 hours before my flight, which gave me just enough time to figure out how to get video off the camera, into the hard drives and then successfully transferred to my Final Cut Pro editing system at home. It worked once, and I prayed it would keep working when I came back with hours of video data.
On a wing and a prayer, I set off for Indonesia...
Why am I doing this?
Thanksgiving dinner was probably still being digested as I dragged more than 150 pounds of gear divided between 4 bags into the Korean Air terminal of JFK. Instead of sleeping the night before, I opted to spend the six hours I had going over my new High-Def Panasonic camera (an AGHVX-205, for those who are curious), the external hard drive recorder that allowed me to shoot in true HD, an ancient and well-beaten Macintosh G4 laptop, a selection of hard drives, my desktop and a few dozen different connectors just to make sure my anticipated video workflow would actually work. It was almost time for my late-night ride when I knew I had a system that would let me shoot broadcast HD, save it, and then edit it on my home-brewed Final Cut Pro system. I think I napped a half hour before I was picked up; but at least I felt a little secure that the system I worked out in the last six days should work for my first full-length documentary.
A little over six months and a second trip later, I find myself nearing the end of this journey that started on a whim. I watch the footage flash by me on the HD monitor; the faces, the landscapes, the fish and the corals. Workshop participants flashing smiles and sweat as they join in a unified cause, eels and cuttlefish that pose briefly for the camera before shooting off into the blue, all images that fill nearly a hundred hours of video taken during two two-week trips.
Most of the video is where it belongs now, in a logical order that tells a story. A story that I wasn't sure I would find when I left the States on this latest little adventure. But one that I am happy found me. In a way, the story of my own journey in putting this together mimics the name I decided upon for the documentary, a name suggested by one participant - Zak Kulburg. So welcome to the Blog for "Putting the Pieces Together: Biorock."
As I sat and reflected on all the pieces, the 800 clips of video from land and ocean, I realized that so many of them had a story as well. Even if the clip never makes it to the video, the story behind it might well be worth telling. So here I find a venue where I can share the experience of putting this documentary together, tell some of those stories from far-away places, and give the banal updates on the status of the documentary and the latest "news" therein.
Hope you enjoy it.
A little over six months and a second trip later, I find myself nearing the end of this journey that started on a whim. I watch the footage flash by me on the HD monitor; the faces, the landscapes, the fish and the corals. Workshop participants flashing smiles and sweat as they join in a unified cause, eels and cuttlefish that pose briefly for the camera before shooting off into the blue, all images that fill nearly a hundred hours of video taken during two two-week trips.
Most of the video is where it belongs now, in a logical order that tells a story. A story that I wasn't sure I would find when I left the States on this latest little adventure. But one that I am happy found me. In a way, the story of my own journey in putting this together mimics the name I decided upon for the documentary, a name suggested by one participant - Zak Kulburg. So welcome to the Blog for "Putting the Pieces Together: Biorock."
As I sat and reflected on all the pieces, the 800 clips of video from land and ocean, I realized that so many of them had a story as well. Even if the clip never makes it to the video, the story behind it might well be worth telling. So here I find a venue where I can share the experience of putting this documentary together, tell some of those stories from far-away places, and give the banal updates on the status of the documentary and the latest "news" therein.
Hope you enjoy it.
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