Guy Needham has been selected as one of the international jury for the upcoming Chania International Photo Festival. < Back Judging for Crete 15 Apr 2019 Guy Needham has been selected as one of the international jury for the upcoming Chania International Photo Festival. As part of the judging committee he will help select the award winners and highly commended images in the festival that runs in Crete from August 16th until August 24th this year. < Previous Next >

Guy Needham's People of The Balkans solo exhibition opened yesterday at The Photographer's Gallery in Napier. < Back People of the Balkans 14 Apr 2013 Guy Needham's People of The Balkans solo exhibition opened yesterday at The Photographer's Gallery in Napier. The collection documents a two month journey through Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, Bosnia and Slovenia, and the resulting portraits are of a proud people who have gone through much in the last 20 years. < Previous Next >

“Salem has 400 years of history, yet all people want to talk about was the single worst year we ever had”. Our gregarious Witch City Walking Tour guide, Sean, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, introduced us to what put this Massachusetts town on the map – the Salem Witch Trials. < Back A Spell in Salem New Zealand Herald 8 Nov 2023 “Salem has 400 years of history, yet all people want to talk about was the single worst year we ever had”. Our gregarious Witch City Walking Tour guide, Sean, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, introduced us to what put this Massachusetts town on the map – the Salem Witch Trials. The source material for numerous movies, novels and articles, most Kiwis first heard of Salem from the pages of The Crucible. While Arthur Millar’s play was an allegory for the 1950s communist witch-hunt in the United States, the book firmly positioned Puritan New England as a place of division, suspicion, and hysteria. Sean continued as the rain softly started to fall, his booming historian voice describing the paranoia of the times. “From February 1692 to May 1693 the trials took place, as children having fits and contortions accused those around them of doing the Devil’s work.” Leading us by lantern light, he paused outside the Salem Witch Trials Memorial. The memorial, dedicated in 1992 to mark the 300th anniversary of the trials, comprises granite slabs etched with the names, dates, and execution of each of the innocent victims. By the end, 19 people were found guilty and hung, and a further 5 died in prison including the infant daughter of one of the accused. 71-year-old Giles Corey who refused to enter a plea was pressed to death by heavy stones placed on him until his organs could no longer work. Salem has come a long way since the mass hysteria of the 17th century. Where once people lived in fear of spells, today they welcome them: the town is a magnet for modern-day Witches, Warlocks and Wiccans. Leanne Marrama is one of them. Co-owner of Pentagram Shoppe – “offering powerful witchcraft supplies, spell kits, and divination tools” – Leanne was happy to share what it’s like being a witch in Salem. “It all started in the 1970s with the arrival of Laurie Cabot. She was the first witch here, and we’ve been coming ever since!” Leanne’s shop was brimming with everything a good occultist needs: double-edged athame for ritualistic offerings, trithemius table of practice to conjure spirits, and the Fourth Pentacle of Mercury (best dedicated to use on Wednesdays within the first hour after sunrise). 71-year-old Giles Corey who refused to enter a plea was pressed to death by heavy stones placed on him until his organs could no longer work. “People think we’re weird and go home and make sacrifices every night,” Leanne opined. “But we’re not. We’re normal people who have families and kids and drive to work just like anyone else. It’s just that we follow a different religion and magickal (with a ‘k’) traditions.” Witches don’t worship Satan, they don’t do evil, but they do cast spells which are more like manifestations. The queue for Leanne’s shop was now out the door. As a registered psychic – all physics in Salem are required to be licensed – her shop was one of the busier ones in town. “I do up to 30 readings a day, sometimes it can be exhausting, especially in October”. Ahhh October, when Salem becomes more kitschy than witchy. Last year over 1 million people visited in the ‘Haunted Happenings’ month of Halloween alone, posing beside the Bewitched statue, buying t-shirts with dubious slogans, and going on one of the many tours on offer. Travel tip: put your name down as early as you can for a restaurant – the wait times are up to 2 hours long. Beyond the hustle and bustle of Essex Street and the gentle waft of legalised marijuana, another witch-adjacent business is leaving its mark on Salem. Black Veil Shoppe of Drear & Wonder is the town’s most famous tattoo parlour, co-owned by identical twins Ryan and Matt Murray. Hidden within Black Veil’s ivy-covered brick walls and beyond the darkened windows lies a world of thick smoke, dripping candles, and Poe-inspired prints. Macabre t-shirts of cats missing eyes hung under a neon ‘Lose Your Soul’ sign. A figure eerily appeared dressed in black: twin Matt. “Being here in Salem, we describe our style as ‘black & grey for the grim-hearted’”. Matt had been tattooing for over a decade, initially under the tutorship of his brother, and had appeared on the TV show Ink Masters. “You’ll see lots of death and mourning in our designs with a New England Victorian inspiration.” Matt and Ryan do all their image printing in the attic above and were preparing for the Salem Night Faire, an annual event “beyond the darkened pines in the haunting pioneer village.” Not wanting to hold him up any longer we bade farewell and stepped out once more into the light. For a town that dwells in the darkness, Salem’s non-witchy history is often overlooked: it used to be one of America’s wealthiest seaports, the Parker Brothers of Monopoly fame got their start here, and it’s the birthplace of the United States National Guard. But there is only one real reason to visit Salem: the single worst year they ever had. Details Where: 45min north of Boston on the i-93 and i-95 Destination Salem: www.salem.org Witch City Walking Tours: www.witchcitywalkingtours.com Black Veil: www.blackveilstudio.com Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

Nashi Boy, as featured in Metro magazine and the Royal Photographic Society's The Decisive Moment, has been selected for a street photography book and exhibition in Italy. < Back Tales of the Unwritten 21 Apr 2021 Nashi Boy, as featured in Metro magazine and the Royal Photographic Society's The Decisive Moment, has been selected for a street photography book and exhibition in Italy. The 'Tales of the Unwritten' exhibition opens on 10th October, at Stelio Crise State Library in Trieste. The image of young Semi popping out amongst the nashis was part of Shades of Otara - a three-year personal project to pay tribute to the workers of the Otara Markets. < Previous Next >

The feature image of the Shades of Otara series is on show this week at the 2018 London Photo Festival. < Back Resting at London Photo Festival 15 May 2018 The feature image of the Shades of Otara series is on show this week at the 2018 London Photo Festival. Part of an international group exhibition on Street Photography, it is on show at St George the Martyr Church until 19 May. The image balances a young man's physical exhaustion with a girl looking on, licking an ice-cream as if it was her reward for his hard work. < Previous Next >

“When the alarm goes you grab this,” Officer Cadet Dusan said as he pointed to my lifejacket. “And this.” An orange survival suit. “We muster on C Deck, starboard side.” I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that my welcome was bringing up Titanic-like thoughts. < Back Off-grid Ocean Journey New Zealand Herald 5 Feb 2015 “When the alarm goes you grab this,” Officer Cadet Dusan said as he pointed to my lifejacket. “And this.” An orange survival suit. “We muster on C Deck, starboard side.” I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that my welcome was bringing up Titanic-like thoughts. I had just boarded the ANL Bindaree, a Liberian-flagged freighter that was slowly pulling out into the Hauraki Gulf laden with 30,000 tones of freight, 24 crew and 1 other passenger. I was following a little-known tradition of passengers on cargo ships, harking back to the days when cabins were set aside for owners and VIPs. Today they’re taken by people looking for a slow alternative to air travel, who are independent, have time to spare, and who – like me – just want to do something a little different. I’d chosen a rather circuitous route as was pointed out by Adrian, the bemused Chief Engineer. “OK, so you’re leaving here to come back here to go nowhere?” “Uh huh,” I replied. From Auckland around Cape Reinga across the Tasman to Melbourne, up the Australian Coast to Sydney and then into the South Pacific to disembark at Tauranga. The journey would take two weeks. “You are very strange,” he chuckled. Adrian was one of the Bindaree’s band of officers from Croatia, Romania, and Montenegro; the crew were all Filipino. As is maritime tradition there was strict segregation between the officers and the crew including socialising, eating and sleeping. This irked my fellow passenger, Naomi, a Canadian environmental educator, who was telling me so when we were interrupted. “Attention all crew. Attention all crew,” boomed the PA system. “Clocks go back one hour tonight. One hour.” That marked us entering international waters and that meant the Slop Chest was open. The Slop Chest (official name: Bonded Store) was a duty free treasure trove of alcohol, treats and cigarettes. You pick what you want from the checklist, hand a slip to the officer, it gets delivered to your door, and you pay in $US before disembarking. I made the landlubber’s mistake of thinking I was paying US$18 for a dozen Becks beer. 24 bottles turned up. No matter, there was more than enough room in my quarters. Officially the “Owner’s cabin”, I had a dayroom (two couches, table, writing desk and chair, fridge, LG mini-system, DVD player and TV) as well as a bedroom plus shower and toilet. My porthole (ticket note: “View may be restricted by containers”) looked all the way to the bow. As the days went by the low rumble of the engines was occasionally punctuated by the creaking of container lashes. I spent as much time as possible on the Bridge. Being allowed in the Wheelhouse is one of the perks of being a passenger on a merchant ship, but it definitely wasn’t what I expected. Sure, I’d done my research – if watching Captain Phillips counts – but I hadn’t reckoned on was how automated it all was. There is no grand wheel any more; this one was the size of a PlayStation racing control. “Surprised huh?” Third Officer Paul called out with a grin on his face. “Everything is automatic now, see”. He pointed to the navigation console. “Of course, we still do things manually. Every two hours we plot our exact position on the charts behind you. Don’t want anything to go wrong,” he said understatedly, still smiling. As Officer on Watch he wasn’t actually steering the ship; he was checking it was on track. Just to humour me though he opened a small hatch on the bulkhead – out popped a Morse code machine. The following day I joined Chief Officer Aleksandar on the outer Bridge – him with cigarette and coffee in hand, me with sunglasses, both of us looking out to the horizon. “People don’t understand,” he said passionately. “We are the life blood of the world economy!” He jokingly jabbed his finger to his forearm. “No planes, no trains, ever carry as much as economically as us. This is why shipping will never die.” I nodded in agreement. We were heading west at a majestic 14 knots. He opened a small hatch on the bulkhead – out popped a Morse code machine. Seven decks below the powerhouse of the ship thundered on. In the engine room nine turbines pumped out 720RPM of raw power. “140°” said the engineer, “That’s how hot these pipes are. Don’t touch them.” I didn’t need to be told twice. As awesome as all that power was it was a relief to be topside again. My favourite place was at the bow with 250m of container ship behind me, the hypnotic sound of the swell and the gentle rocking of a massive ship. The mornings were fresh and tingly; the afternoon’s hot and tan-worthy. It wasn’t until Day 6 that we saw land again – Australia. The mood on the Bridge noticeably changed and focus replaced humour. It was as if the ship had been given a talking to at half time and came out with guns blazing. In Melbourne I saw first-hand the life-blood of the world economy. Every container was positioned on the deck according to its declared weight, need for power, displacement of cargo and final destination. Massive cranes, hoists and lights worked 24 hours to keep the infrastructure pumping. After ‘shore leave’ I was back up the gangway in time for dinner. Meals were at set times (7-8am, Noon-1pm, 5-6pm) and eating in the Officers’ Mess was a chance to get to know the men onboard. On freighters the meals are dependent on how good a cook you have and ours was good. Chef Leonardo and Messman Rodel invited me into the galley to proudly show off their honey-glazed chicken, Thai-inspired beef and ice-cream sundaes. Evenings were spent chilling. There was time to read, watch DVDs, work out in the gym or just stare out to sea. More than once I caught up with the ship’s Master, Danko Grgurevic, a typically friendly Croatian who was usually dressed in shorts, a company t-shirt and tennis shoes. We arrived in Botany Bay under a full moon. By then I’d learnt that you’re not supposed to take your passport off the vessel when entering another country (oops) and you have to sit at your allocated place at the dining table even when you’re the only person there (oops again). But despite all those idiosyncrasies there was one great benefit: being “off the grid”. No cellphone, no Facebook, no hashtags, no selfies. After another five days we arrived in Tauranga. I left the crew with a few magazines and beers, and descended the gangway one last time. It had been a privileged insight into a rarefied ecosystem, one with rules and norms that could be daunting to the uninitiated. Luckily, I had the best hosts I could have asked for. And I was rather pleased that I never had to put on that orange survival suit. Details Journey: Freighter passenger Ports: Available worldwide (author did Auckland-Melbourne-Sydney-Tauranga) Duration: From 1 week to as long as you like Cost: Budget for $190 per day including transport, accommodation, and meals Require: Passport, Medical Certificate, Indemnity Certificate, Deviation Insurance, Travel Insurance, Ticket Contact: Freighter Travel NZ Ltd, 06 8437702, hamish@freightertravel.co.nz Web: www.freightertravel.co.nz Planning Tip Catching a freighter isn’t like catching a Swiss train. You need to be flexible and have the right temperament. There’s no way to guarantee your departure date because there could be strikes, foul weather, technical problems at ports or diversions at sea (ticket note: “approximate departure date”), so don’t cut your holidays too tight. Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

Images of Guy Needham's exhibitions, presentations and shows in situ. IN SITU IN SITU see exhibitions in situ > see exhibitions in situ >

If you'd like to know what it's really like living with an ancient tribe in the equatorial rainforest check out my latest article in the New Zealand Herald to find out about coping with leeches, rotting wood, poison arrows and medicine men. < Back Living with the Mentawai 24 Oct 2017 If you'd like to know what it's really like living with an ancient tribe in the equatorial rainforest check out my latest article in the New Zealand Herald to find out about coping with leeches, rotting wood, poison arrows and medicine men. < Previous Next >

Published tear sheets of Guy Needham images and articles. TEAR SHEETS see exhibitions in situ > see exhibitions in situ >

Oh my god, he’s going to do it!” screeched the American teenager to my left. Sure enough with a quick wave to the crowd, a furtive glance downwards and a tuck of the pants, over he leapt. One of Mostar’s bridge-jumpers had just taken the plunge into the icy Neretva River below. I’d just witnessed something that wasn’t possible two decades before. < Back Leap of Faith The Press 12 Feb 2013 Oh my god, he’s going to do it!” screeched the American teenager to my left. Sure enough with a quick wave to the crowd, a furtive glance downwards and a tuck of the pants, over he leapt. One of Mostar’s bridge-jumpers had just taken the plunge into the icy Neretva River below. I’d just witnessed something that wasn’t possible two decades before. In 1992 the Bosnian town of Mostar, until then a peaceful mix of Muslims, Serbs and Croats, self-imploded; a microcosm of all that went wrong in the former Yugoslavia. Neighbours who had fought a common enemy turned on each other. The pointlessness was summed up by one act: the destruction of Stari Most – Mostar’s old bridge which had stood for over 500 years was destroyed by Bosnian Croat shells. I was in BiH (Bosnia & Herzegovina) to see how the country had progressed since the Bosnian War. What I found was a vibrant, friendly culture and people that only respected, but also remembered, the past. “Never Forget ‘93” is painted on a rock. Bombed out buildings house trees where once windows were. Cemeteries have the same year on the headstones. And yet, the country is warily finding its own way in the world and once again attracting visitors. While Mostar itself is a relatively small town it is one of the most visited in the Balkans. Known for its alley of coppersmiths, where the sons and daughters of coppersmiths before them have toiled, the ‘clang clang clang’ nearly drowns out the Europop wafting like the smell of burnt coffee. “I have been here with my brother for 17 years,” said one proud artisan. “We started after we stopped fighting. These are the tools of my father”. Showing me his family symbol on the bottom of a plate, he demonstrated how each tool creates a different indent while explaining that “imported stuff in other stores could never be pretty”. I walked away with a copper bowl, a shiny, hand-crafted, story-infused memory of Bosnia. The memory most of us have of Bosnia of course is the nightly news 20 years ago, dominated by Sarajevo. For nearly four years the city was under siege, surrounded by Bosnian Serbs who wanted it as part of a Greater Serbia. Today in The Hague sit those being tried for war crimes for the shelling and snipers that made Sarajevo unliveable. Zig-zagging across the street for fear of being shot. Queues for water and bread. Every tree cut down for firewood. And football fields converted to graveyards. When the 1993 Ms Sarajevo contestants held up a banner saying “Don’t let them kill us”, they were crying out to the world. When the 1993 Ms Sarajevo contestants held up a banner saying “Don’t let them kill us”, they were crying out to the world. The city had one way in and one way out, a tunnel to the UN-protected airport. We decided to tour it.It wasn’t long before our tour guide was on the verge of tears. She apologised for her emotion and had to stop at the tunnel entrance. “We found out our friends had died because they didn’t come to school. I had many friends… die. It was very sad to be 8 and lose friends”. Her English was broken but not because she didn’t speak fluently. 11,541 civilians were killed in the siege. Today’s Sarajevo is a symbol of resilience, buzzing with tourists-a-plenty. Its pedestrianised areas are filled with chain stores. Old men play chess, young couples kiss passionately and kids cry over spilt gelato. The charm of the old town is still there with restaurants serving up shots of rakia (40% distilled alcohol) and hot plates of cevapi, a moreish grilled lamb dish in open kebab bread. < Previous Next >

As I left the room, I respectfully bowed my head and thanked my host, Tanjkeara. His wife, Francisca, who I had met at a cock fight had invited me into their home, impressing upon me that her husband spoke English, Dutch and Bahasa. As it was Tanjkeara didn’t say much - he hadn’t since he had died three years ago. < Back The Land of the Toraja Otago Daily Times 1 Nov 2023 As I left the room, I respectfully bowed my head and thanked my host, Tanjkeara. His wife, Francisca, who I had met at a cock fight had invited me into their home, impressing upon me that her husband spoke English, Dutch and Bahasa. As it was Tanjkeara didn’t say much - he hadn’t since he had died three years ago. For the Toraja of southern Sulawesi, death is very much a part of life and their elaborate funeral rites are renowned throughout Indonesia. As per custom, Tanjkeara was being kept in the southern end of the house until he could be buried. For now, he was considered ‘ill’ and was still talked to, brought water and tobacco, and received visitors like me. Ithos, my local guide, explained more. “For us, it is important to honour those who will pass to puja , the afterlife, and to connect between the living and the dead. And here that is very expensive.” Although the Toraja are predominantly Christian – a highlands enclave in the most populous Islamic country in the world – they blend this with Alukta , the ‘old religion’. It is believed that without a traditional tomate funeral ceremony misfortune will come to the family of the deceased. For the high caste that means constructing temporary seating and housing for hundreds of expected guests, feeding and watering the helpers in the months leading up to the funeral, and then the bloody sacrifice of at least 24 buffalo to accompany the deceased to puja . Until then, like Tanjkeara, they rest at home in a coffin. Ithos continued. “After burial, once every three years we remove them to change their clothes, and polish their necklaces, and clean their glasses. This is ma’nene , this is how we look after them.” The exhumed are then returned to their graves which may be in the form of crypts carved into solid rock, coffins hanging from cliffs, or natural ledges in caves. He nodded upward. Sitting quietly in the rock balconies above us, tau tau effigies of the dead reached out with chipped wooden hands. “It is OK, I know it is different for you, but think of it as a celebration not a sad time.” I must have been silent for a while, as Ithos sensed my wonder (or unease) and offered to take me to see his family’s tongkonan for a change of scenery. The drive from the town of Rantepao into the countryside was a pretty one, full of rice paddies and giant bamboo, punctuated only by swerving to avoid dogs sleeping on the road. As we approached his family’s traditional tongkonan my jaw dropped. Intricately carved, elaborately painted, saddleback-roofed houses stood before me, reaching to the sky. That is, until I was corrected. “No no, not those,” smiled Ithos, “They are only alang , rice barns. There are our tongkonan ”. Facing north stood three giant houses, their distinctive shape representing the prows of ships that brought the original Toraja across the Java Sea and up the Sa'dan river. The architectural beauty was only surpassed by the extraordinary number of buffalo horns adorning the front of the house. When it comes to tongkonan size does matter, with social status measured by evidence of sacrificial ceremonies. As luck would have it I was about to find out where all these buffalo came from as the Bolu market was being held in town. The market, held unhelpfully ’every six days’, is a raucous affair of yelling and haggling on top of crowing and grunting. The giant buffalo pen smelt like, well you know, as close inspections started on the most prized white-faced buffalo. The cost? I could pick up a small buffalo to take home for about 14,500,000 Indonesia Rupiah ($1000 US dollars). Something bigger? I'd be dropping a cool 50mil at least. When it comes to tongkonan size does matter, with social status measured by evidence of sacrificial ceremonies. Bolu market is also where a canny Torajan can pick up a winning investment – in the form of a rooster. Although betting on cock fighting is not officially allowed, a blind eye is turned in the case of celebrations or funerals. Before me, men crouched, holding their prized roosters before challenging others to a mock fight (no blades). By proving their rooster’s prowess, through speed and ‘efficiency’, the men get to put more Rupiah in their pocket. Knowing I was keen to explore the countryside, the next morning Ithos took me further into the hills. The name Toraja comes from “People of the uplands” and the geology of region naturally irrigates the numerous rice terraces. As we navigated between paddies the retreating mist gave way to early morning workers, passing slowly under Salamat Datang signs that welcomed visitors to each village. “You like rice?” Ithos asked half-jokingly. “Tonight, I take you to a favourite restaurant for bamboo in chicken.” Not quite knowing where to expect the bamboo to be but always keen to try local delicacies, you can imagine my relief when pa’piong ayam arrived - grilled chicken minced with vegetables and extra hearty Toraja spices, all sitting in a hollowed-out bamboo shoot. As we sat there discussing the price of buffalo, the roar of engines and horns got louder. We looked outside to see a procession of bikes, revved up motors and cheering passengers, slowly making their way up the street. Behind them in a cloud of fumes followed an ambulance. The motorcade was the Torajan way of paying respects to someone who had just died and was being returned to their village. They were now on the first part of their journey to puja , but would first rest in their home, receiving visitors and guests. Details Where: Toraja land, South Sulawesi, Indonesia When: July and August are the drier months when the ma’nene cleaning is held How: Fly into the new Toraja Airport (TRT), one hour’s drive from Rantepao Stay: Toraja Misiliana Hotel, including options to stay in a Toraja Tongkonan Suite Original publication: Otago Daily Times < Previous Next >

Deep in the Baliem Valley of Indonesia’s Papua region, size really does matter. The Dani tribe, first discovered by air in 1938 and still isolated in the mountains today, are known for a particular appendage: the horim. < Back A Horim The Travel Almanac 15 Dec 2023 Deep in the Baliem Valley of Indonesia’s Papua region, size really does matter. The Dani tribe, first discovered by air in 1938 and still isolated in the mountains today, are known for a particular appendage: the horim. Made from a dried-out elongated gourd, this penis protector is much more than a simple sheath. Whether a long cylindrical peaking pipe or spectacularly curved seahorse shape, this uniquely Papuan add-on is a sign of prestige, respect, and seniority within the tribe. In fact, the Dani’s male members (pun intended) have two horim – one for show and one for work . Their traditional existence on the land means that their more elaborate, longer phallocrypt s get in the way when working closely with others. No one likes to cross horim . It is no surprise that such an accessory exists in this patriarchal, polygamous society. Manhood in all its forms carries the responsibilit y of traditional authority within the tribe, and displaying such is expected. Smooth and mid-brown in tone, horim are carved out and gifted from father to son, a sign of respect for a growing boy. Many are customised as the years pass by; the more ornate ones carry small cowrie shells and decorative feathers. Manhood in all its forms carries the responsibilit y of traditional authority within the tribe, and displaying such is expected. Fastening a horim is not for the uninitiated: a short loop at the base sits very tightly around the scrotum, while the tip is held in place with a loop halfway up the chest. Carefully wiggled into place with a little adjustment here and a slight tuck there, the men are then off walking. The days of the horim appear to be numbered, though. Generational change is succeeding where the Indonesian Government’s Operasi Koteka (Operation Penis Gourd) failed , replacing traditional attire with W estern clothes. For the younger men, it’s cargos over calabash, garments over gourds. The exception is festivities where pride is as evident as the tribe they belong to. Original Publication: The Travel Almanac < Previous Next >