Benjamin Von Wong travels the world for six months of the year but he doesn’t really do holidays. His last “family vacation” (spent in Bali at his parents’ behest) morphed into an epic underwater photo shoot. The result was a surreal series of images featuring free-diver models, ethereal white gowns and the haunting backdrop of the USAT Liberty shipwreck.
The shots became an internet sensation (the behind-the-scenes video attracted more than one million views on YouTube) and set a new benchmark for the photographer, who has carved a niche dabbling in all things whimsical, fantastical and reality bending.
When he’s not chasing fish out of the frame 25 metres under the sea in Bali, or shooting zombies in a Game of Thrones fan-fiction in the snow in Quebec, Benjamin, 27, can be found leading photographic workshops around the world and teaming up with like-minded kooky creatives on mind-boggling projects.
The Montreal-based photographer, who prefers the title ‘visual engineer’, has shot extreme stunts on the walls of Jerusalem in Israel, captured capoeira martial artists fighting in the ruins of Villers-la-Ville abbey in Belgium and brought a city square to a standstill with a mammoth 450-person Where is Waldo (Wally) panoramic in Traunstein, Germany.
He’s also hijacked the world’s largest monastic library – the Admont Abbey in Austria – for a magical, Disney-inspired after-hours shoot.
There have been decapitated zombies, elaborate feathered costumes, mediaeval gowns, Slovakian ballerinas, armoured warriors, the odd stinky octopus and fire. Lots of fire. Pyrotechnics are a big part of the Chinese Canadian’s creative repertoire. In one shoot, at an English mansion in Manchester, UK, Benjamin had models posing with AU$5.8 million worth of sports cars while flames licked at their heels. The project is symbolic of his craft: bold, exciting and always pushing the boundaries.
Much of Benjamin’s work is for the love of his art and is more about feeding his creative thirst rather than making money. His is a career built on social media; the exposure brings in client commissions and speaking gigs to supplement his creative escapades.
“The idea behind these shoots is no one’s ever going to pay you to do it, so you may as well go ahead and do what you love and hopefully down the line people notice the shoot and hire you to do what you love,” Benjamin says.
“The purpose is to create amazing work. At the end of the day what I want to do is get paid to create more things. I don’t want to become a desk jockey and manage print sales and manage a storefront and all that bullshit – it’s not really exciting. I’d much rather be out there shooting and getting new challenges and new experiences.”
Behind-the-scenes videos are a signature of the Von Wong brand and a valuable social media tool. Without his online community of supporters (70,000 Facebook followers and counting), Benjamin says he wouldn’t be seeing the world behind the lens. It has enabled him to tap into sponsors and gear, build contacts and showcase his talent. A 2012 month-long photographic tour of Europe was made possible through a crowdfunding campaign, and every shoot relies on an army of ‘Vonwonglings’ rallied on Facebook – from models, hair and make-up artists and costume designers, to production crew and pyrotechnicians. In exchange, Benjamin shares his tricks of the trade with his followers, and some get the chance to work with the wizard himself.
When we speak, Benjamin is at home in Montreal (although he’s loath to call it home because he’s so infrequently there). In a few days he’ll jet off to Cambodia, followed by China and Brisbane. Life is frenetic. He never knows where the next inspiration will come from or who will hit him up with a proposal that is too awesome to refuse (an admirer once succeeded in getting him to Florida on a whim to collaborate on a fantastical fallen angel shoot).
Then there are the projects that touch the heart. Last year Benjamin produced a video that helped raise AU$2.8 million to save a four-year-old girl battling a degenerative brain disease. Earlier in the year, he paid a surprise visit to a young Australian fan in Albury, Victoria, wrapping himself in a box as a 21st birthday surprise for the emerging photographer, who suffers from a medley of chronic illnesses.
Benjamin seeks inspiration in the people he meets and the places he visits. His motto is you should wake up in the morning and “grasp life by the balls” because you never know where an opportunity might lead. And he walks the talk.
It’s a far cry from a few years ago when, as a qualified engineer, Benjamin was working in the goldmines in the Nevada Desert, USA. In the doldrums after a relationship bust-up, he picked up a cheap point-and-shoot camera at Walmart and started experimenting. A few years later he was shooting events, then something snapped… He quit his day job in January 2012 with no plan and no regrets, and has been travelling the world, inspiring followers with his unique brand of photography, ever since.
Benjamin puts his success down to hard work and dedication, not talent. Although his on-camera charisma and daredevil persona sure help.
“Being a photographer is easy, right? You just press a button,” he laughs.
“The camera is a tool, you understand the basic mechanics of it and you’re set to go. If you know what you want to achieve then you just need to figure out which of the buttons to push. It’s like driving a car.”
A wise cab driver by the name of Quantel once told me, “Memphis is made up of three words: Graceland, blues and barbecue.” For the most part, he was absolutely right. Now, someone please hand me a coconut water and a Panadol because Quantel definitely forgot the fourth and most important word: hangover.
Flooding has started in Memphis as a massive rainstorm hits the lively southern city right on schedule for the weekend’s festivities. The consensus, on my United Airlines flight from New York, is that this is by no means an unusual occurrence. For the past four years, a conveniently timed and almost predictable deluge has graced Graceland directly preceding the festival. This has happened so often, the locals now lovingly refer to the Beale Street Music Festival as Memphis’s Music Mud Fest.
The 40-year-old Beale Street Music Festival (BSMF) is the three-day, kick-off event of the annual Memphis in May celebration, a month-long line-up of special events, competitions and shows to honour the city and its rich history. Every year the festival attracts more than 100,000 people from all over the country for a musical smorgasbord of big-name stars and local legends who play side by side at the humble waterfront venue, Tom Lee Park.
Originally a festival exclusively celebrating the blues, BSMF has, over the years, opened its offerings to rock, hip-hop and pop to accommodate the ever-expanding interests of music fans. This time around, a total of 69 performers, of both national and local acclaim, are here to be a part of the fun. Headliners include household names – Beck, Paul Simon, Neil Young, Cypress Hill – alongside a swathe of up-and-comers like Grace Potter, Courtney Barnett and Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats. Regardless of whether your musical druthers span country or rap, there’s guaranteed a little something for you here.
Music rumbles in the distance as I approach the gates to find a long motley queue of loyal festival-goers patiently awaiting entry. Hippie and hillbilly, black and white, young and old – this diverse crowd stands united with their ponchos and gumboots, having travelled from far and wide to fulfill their love of music.
Inside, three gigantic stages run parallel to the majestic Mississippi River, as an envious Arkansas watches all the fun from across the water. As I walk further into the grounds, the footpath transforms from cement to dirt and finally to mud. The heavy, wet air of the Mississippi mixes with the lingering scent of Black & Milds, light weed smokeage and the distinct aroma of fried food. That smell wafts from tents near the stages, where vendors are serving up local delicacies like gator on a stick, bourbon chicken and medieval-sized drumsticks.
The energy is playful and fun. Children chase one another past elderly couples wandering hand in hand. Mothers and daughters bond on blankets at the back, listening to Paul Simon as they clink with cold Bud Lights. Mud is flung through the sky as teenagers jump around the pit while Meghan Trainor belts out their favourite tunes. Everyone seems to be there for their own reasons, and yet somehow they all seem connected. While at one stage you see three generations swaying back and forth to Neil Young, you can walk one stage over to catch Yo Gotti, a hometown hero back for a big performance on his old stomping ground, performing to an eclectic crowd of booty-shakers throwing up their hands to the beat.
Not in the mood for a big crowd? You’re covered. Stop by the Blues Shack, hidden between towering stages, for a more intimate experience. Here you might see local blues veteran Leo Bud Welch sitting alone on a stool with a guitar and harmonica. He’ll destroy you with his painfully brilliant music.
Variety of performances aside, another home run for the organisers of this unique spring festival is its affordability. For seasoned festival-goers, a weekend of music can be upwards of a thousand dollars (sorry, did someone say Coachella?). Yet at BSMF, even music aficionados working hard just to rub two coins together can gather the funds to join friends and family for a truly enjoyable three days of memory making. Food is affordable, beer is comparatively cheap, and sponsors like Rockstar, Fireball and Marlboro hand out free products all weekend. Vices? Check.
Another huge bonus is the fact you can come and go as you wish, a privilege seldom found at other festivals of this size. The boisterous, dangerous (in a good way) bedlam of Beale Street is no more than a short jaunt away.
Speaking of which, it’s time to jump into the fray.
The final act of the night has played its encore, and an ocean of smiling strangers begins its exodus to chapter two of the night’s festivities: the after party. As I trudge up a small hill with my fellow carousers, the dreamlike neon playground of debauchery that is Memphis’s Beale Street shows its seductive face on the not-so-distant horizon.
Armed with my press pass, I embark on the noble mission of exploring all 42 music-filled drinking establishments they’ve managed to cram into these three bacchanalian blocks. I do this for you, and your benefit alone. Yes, I know, you’re welcome.
To give a full rundown of this street would take a lifetime, and three extra kidneys. But here’s the skinny: relatively new but notably fun, the Tin Roof boasts two levels that open up to a main stage. With two separate bars on each level and twerk music videos playing on all screens, it attracts a young crowd there for one thing and one thing only: the inevitable hangover.
The historic, two-storey Jerry Lee Lewis has something for everyone. Veer right at the entrance and visit Keith downstairs for a drink and some history. This bartender has witnessed 20 years of music and drunkenness behind his bar, which serves the stage where stars are born. This is a real local spot where, until 5am, the drinks flow constantly and live music from aspiring artists plays. What is special about this place is its dynamic. Where there’s an unexpected amount of culture in this particular room, I walk across the hall to the other ground-floor bar where I proceed to meet a young man named Neebs, who wastes no time sharing his newly tattooed shoulder bearing a monkey fingering its own arsehole. I take my beer upstairs to where the music thumps faster than my heart rate and from where I can watch the chaos below.
If you’re feeling bluesy, Daisyland is the place to go. Converted from Beale Street’s old movie theatre, it’s here you can see one of the world’s top 100 DJs every month – it’s your one-stop shop for the Dirty South club scene. VIP areas with bottle service and plenty of wiggle room rest in the middle of a gigantic dance floor with a good view of the stage no matter where you stand. The mezzanine is still intact upstairs, and it happens to be the place to go if you want some privacy from prying eyes. Remember though, what has been witnessed cannot be unseen.
You also have to go to Coyote Ugly Saloon, if only to relive your favourite movie of the twenty-first century. This delightfully trashy late-night jam brings a backyard-party feel and blends it with strip-club fanfare. Beer is served by scantily clad waitresses from fully iced eskies resting atop empty whiskey barrels. From here there’s a perfect view of the variety of alcohol-fuelled amateur dance performances on top of the long wooden bar. The signed lingerie of past patrons hangs overhead like trophies of a battle won.
The highlight of the night is Purple Haze. I help light a local’s cigarette on the street, and the next thing I know I’m being guided past wait lines, behind velvet ropes and into the VIP section of Memphis nightlife’s not-so-hidden gem. It’s a block from Beale Street, which tends to deter a majority of wide-eyed tourists, who are drawn toward the energy of the main drag like flies to a bug zapper. Stacked with two huge bars, a pool table, an enormous dance floor and hula-hoopers extraordinaire on stage for your visual distraction, this place has it all. Open till 5am with a great variety of music, it’s the perfect location to find your sixth wind of the night and party till the sun comes up.
Memphis in May knocked it out of the park – Tom Lee Park to be precise – with a unique celebration of American music and culture. If you come prepared with your rain gear, an appetite and a bottle of aspirin, you’ll have an amazing time no matter who you are. Speaking of which, can I borrow one of those aspirin? Remember, I did it all for you.
Noah looks a bit like a fish out of water. He’s wearing dark shades, clutching a beer can, and an unruly merkin is the only scrap of attire covering his, ahem, manhood. If it wasn’t for his staff and robe, which is sporadically lifted to reveal a pair of pale buttocks, I wouldn’t recognise this so-called pillar of Christianity. Around him a menagerie of wildlife is emulating an orgy of biblical proportions. Zebras, tigers, cows, hippos and a dominatrix rhino are writhing about on the floor, shrieking with pleasure and creating a beastly spectacle.
And here I was thinking the Rugby Sevens was all about sport. Maybe elsewhere on the planet, but this is Vegas, baby, and the party trumps play. Men in fluoro tutus and women in eeny-weeny stars-and-stripes bikinis shuffle through the turnstiles. Superheroes rub shoulders with jelly-bean men in full-body Lycra, a Statue of Liberty queues behind an Egyptian sphinx, and a pregnant nun waddles past carrying a tray full of beer.
“It’s like fantasy land, an escape from reality,” says South African Peter Busse, as he stands with a mate outside the entrance to Sam Boyd Stadium in Las Vegas, wearing a bright green mohawk wig and knocking back a can of beer. It doesn’t matter that it’s not quite midday.
Inside, the American national anthem plays to a hushed crowd, an Air Force flyover blasts over the stadium and the field erupts in fireworks. Sixteen nations from around the world have descended on Vegas for three days of brute contest. At stake is a berth at the Olympics in Rio, when rugby will return to the Games for the first time since 1924 (the top four teams at the end of the World Series season automatically qualify).
The Sevens is kind of like the Twenty20 of rugby. Based on rugby union, but with half the number of players (seven instead of 15), the game consists of two seven-minute halves and is lightning fast. In Vegas competition is hot and so is the weather. It’s winter but it is unseasonably steamy and feels like the sun is radiating off the Nevada mountains, which can be glimpsed through the open end of the stadium. No wonder the beer is flowing so freely.
On the concourse, a group of burly Samoan Americans has set up a three-litre keg of beer on a rubbish bin and has clearly had a few refills. One is dressed as a sheikh, another stands out in a high-vis vest adorned with a necklace of Christmas baubles and boobs. “The balls are Samoan, the titties are white,” he says, cracking up, clearly enjoying the gag. “We’re trying to film The Hangover Part 4.”
In the stands, there are many others who, if not nursing hangovers now, soon will be. “It’s unreal, sucking the life out of me,” confides one Aussie, who’s been playing the Vegas scene hard. Surprisingly, the Aussie contingent is quite small and relatively subdued. I find a young bunch of blokes wearing green and gold sitting on the back bleachers behind a man in khaki sporting a Bindi Irwin wig. They’re eating obligatory fried chicken and fries and have used the rugby as an excuse to come to Vegas. “It’s what you’d expect, just loose,” one of the blokes tells me as his “mad rugby mate” jumps to his feet yelling: “Smack him!” It’s the first match of day two – the USA versus South Africa – and the crowd, heavily weighted towards the home-side, is pumped.
Soon the Aussies take to the field, executing a blistering 26-nil lead over Scotland by half time. Brawn and bravado are replaced by bronzer and ballet kicks as the Sweethearts cheerleaders run onto the field, all hot pants, flicking hair and cute-as-pie waves. Play resumes and a lone bagpiper blurts a mournful tune from under a distant light tower, a woman wrapped in an Australian flag watches intently, while nearby a Scot in a kilt gesticulates wildly as a Loch Ness Monster bounces at his groin. There’s also a cow. A cow with a sign that reads “eat more chicken”. Before I have time to contemplate what that’s all about, it’s all over. Australia has annihilated Scotland 40-14 and ‘Down Under’ is blaring from the speakers.
That performance deserves a drink. Back on the concourse I bump into a Canadian–American wearing tight, red maple-leaf jocks paired with a sequined stars-and-stripes jacket with tasselled sleeves. Ardy Farhangdoost is part of an official rugby touring group and hasn’t missed a Vegas tournament since the Rugby Sevens first started playing here five years ago. He’s become something of a mascot for the sport, recognised by fans as ‘Canadian Speedo Man’.
“I have no shame and I just love the game, the atmosphere, the costumes,” he says. “I know with the fans the more obnoxious or ridiculous [my costume], the more it stands out.” Today Noah and his ark of animals are giving him a run for his money. They’ve commandeered an area opposite one of the stadium doors and have formed a human, or rather an animal, pyramid. Nearby, an eagle clutches a golden trophy – symbolising the host nation’s hopes for the tournament.
“One of the greatest parts about rugby fans is that they’re uninhibited, no judgement, it’s a very accepting culture,” says Noah, aka Johnny Warner. Quite profound coming from a man who looks like he’s wearing road kill for underpants.
These fans make the Ashes Barmy Army look coy. This is truly an event that transcends sport. And it’s so quintessentially Vegas – loud, proud and completely gratuitous. In the car park, scores of stretch limousines line up to take the punters home – most of them no doubt staying on the famous Strip. Few will get much sleep, and they’ll be back to do it all over again tomorrow.
On the final day, a crowd of more than 25,000 crams the stadium to watch the final between the Kiwis and Fiji. (For the record Australia came a respectable fifth, taking home the consolation Plate.) Pale blue flags billow over spectators, and the stands throb to a soundtrack of chanting and drumming.
Turns out I’m sitting among the Fijian supporters (who knew there was such a large population of Fijians in the USA?). By halftime Fiji has scored 21 and New Zealand has yet to hit the scoreboard. The crowd has been whipped into a fervour and a commotion of cheers and applause breaks out a few rows in front of me. A woman is sculling beer from her shoe, sufficiently sloshed that she doesn’t mind the foot-funk on her brew.
Two spectators – including a woman in a pink tutu – leap onto the field and a game of cat and mouse ensues as security guards chase them around in a scene reminiscent of a Benny Hill sketch that only serves to further enliven the crowd. A portly guard seizes his moment, throwing himself on the male invader, who is at once flattened and rendered immobile. The tutu woman continues to flounce around the field until two guards take her down. The man is cuffed and the woman is escorted off in a fireman’s lift, all the while the crowd chants: “Let them go! Let them go!”
When the final whistle blows, New Zealand has salvaged some dignity but goes down to the Fijian victors 35-19. A trickle of spectators breaches security, taking to the field. There’s a polite order to keep off the ground, but it’s too late. The floodgates have opened and a tide of fans pours onto the turf. This is Sin City and rules are made for breaking. I spot Ardy among the sea of people, running about in his jocks with a cape rippling behind him, and am reminded of something Noah said the previous day.
“Saturday shall be-eth a rugby day. And we’ll be here for evil Sunday.”
Movie stars, rock stars, celebrities and a gaggle of the truly deluded… That’s West Hollywood. No one was born here or anywhere near here to be honest. People flock here – from Ohio, Minnesota, Australia, Russia – to ‘make it’. They pack their dreams into a suitcase and, with their best smiles on and pretty little faces, are lured towards the glamour. This is Hollywood, after all. But this town will very quickly steal your suitcase and punch you in your pretty little face. If you can handle the initial violent outburst from this fickle city though, you will discover a melting pot of cultures, an obscene amount of talent, and entertainment that will wow the organic green smoothie out of you.
West Hollywood is celebrity central, and you could spend the entire time hanging out in the same places as the TMZ paparazzi – Dan Tana’s, the Viper Room, Soho House and Urth Caffé – but there’s another side as well.
Are you kidding me?! This is Hollywood. There’s no eating. To survive here you must consume a mere kale juice in the morning, maybe some goji berries later in the day and that is it. However, if you’re not a psycho, LA has some of the best food in the world.
For a little known gem of a place go to Elderberries on Sunset. You could be mistaken for thinking you’d walked into someone’s house. The guys here make everything from scratch right in front of you in the open kitchen, and the food is so fresh they don’t even have a refrigerator. There’s an elderberry juice that isn’t always on the menu, but when it is you need to beat a path to the door – the locals come pouring in to get it and it never lasts long. A small glass of this thick, tart berry elixir will cure you of everything, they say, and I have to admit it got rid of my cold in one hit. Magic.
For a real Mexican experience, go to the Gardens of Taxco, just off Santa Monica Boulevard. Now this is a treat. You don’t order, they just bring you what they’re making that night, and there’s always plenty of it. Sit back with a margarita and let the staff make all the decisions for you. While you’re hoeing in, a three-man mariachi band will serenade you. When your mouth isn’t full, sing along – this is a place bursting with atmosphere and you’d be mad not to get involved.
If you want to eat like a true local though, you might have to travel a little bit further (go on, book an Uber) and head to Studio City. That’s where you’ll find SunCafe. This is what LA food is all about: organic, raw, vegan, namaste. If the idea of raw kelp noodles and a macrobiotic bowl seems scary, SunCafe will surprise you. I’ve taken the hardest of carnivores there and they have left the hippiest of tree huggers. The food really is that good.
The thing about Hollywood is that everything and everyone is on show, so to find the behind-the-scenes action you have to be very specific about where you go. To get inside Good Times at Davey Wayne’s, admittedly slightly over the WeHo border in Hollywood proper, you have to walk through a fridge door – and it gets more hilarious from there. Inside it looks as though the entire place has been furnished from a garage sale. For years it’s been a bit of a secret, but people are starting to talk and this quirky, second-hand bar will soon be exploited. Gasp! In Hollywood?! Never.
There are no TVs showing every sport known to (American) mankind here. At The Darkroom, on Melrose, it’s all dim lights and leather jackets. It’s one of those bars that you visit because it makes you feel a lot cooler than you actually are. Order yourself a can of PBR – don’t judge, it’s US$3, huge and a hipster’s delight. I don’t care if you don’t smoke – shut up, get a cigar, sit out the front and pretend you are a gangster. This bar is great.
Because this is Hollywood, a trip to the movies seems somehow essential. They’re the reason this place exists. The Sundance Sunset Cinema plays the sort of indie films you’re not likely to see at a suburban megaplex, but are the types of flicks folks in Hollywood make because they’re still passionate about movies. Bonus: on a Tuesday tickets are only US$5.
Hollywood is home to 90 per cent of the world’s best comedians, so heading out to see some stand-up is something you have to do. An obscene number of underground shows are waiting to be found and, more often than not, someone outrageous (and by that I mean famous) will pop in to perform a surprise set. The NerdMelt is a room behind Meltdown Comics on Sunset. It looks like it could be a barn, but they pack in more than a hundred folding chairs and have secret comedy shows. I’ve seen Aziz Ansari and Louis C.K. pop in here, and all without anyone knowing what’s going on. There’s another hidden show called The Goddamn Comedy Jam, held intermittently at the Lyric Theatre on La Brea (keep an eye on the Facebook page for upcoming dates). Basically it works on the premise that every comedian harbours a yearning to be a rock star. This is their outlet. After a short stand-up set, they perform their favourite song with a live band. This is not karaoke – it’s an actual rock performance. Bill Burr, Jim Jefferies and Rob Schneider have all taken to the stage and lived out their fantasies at this amazing show.
If you’ve trawled the internet and street press and somehow not managed to find anything that takes your fancy, do not panic. This is Hollywood and often the best stuff isn’t advertised. You will just be stumbling past some place and see a line outside a door. Join that line – whatever is at the other end of it is probably going to be great. I’ve seen Prince do a random performance at a tiny club, Snoop Dogg at a karaoke bar and talented people doing all sorts of weird crap at small theatres and venues all over the hood. Trust me: join that line.
Like a lot of places, you could spend a year in West Hollywood and keep on finding new and cool things to do. My suggestion is to just go exploring – walk around and you’ll find awesome stuff, from the old vintage stores on Melrose to the tourist explosion that is Hollywood Boulevard. There’s something new around every corner, but be careful after dark – those corners sometimes get a little shady.
We smash through the glass wall of a skyscraper, clinging to the towline behind a speeding Autobot, who has just pulled us from the clutches of a very angry Decepticon Megatron. We must be travelling at over 100 kilometres an hour as we splinter through the interior and out the other side. For a split second we hang in the air, slowly turning to stare at the street that is thirty-odd floors below. Then, we plummet.
My heart races as fast as my stomach churns; the wind chills my face as we gather speed. Our Autobot saviour hits the afterburners at the very last second and we shoot forward as missiles come at us from the side. We’re so close that I can feel the heat from one explosion. Megatron fires a fusion cannon. It heads straight towards my forehead and if it were not for some extraordinary evasive action from Evac (the Autobot we’re clinging onto for dear life), I’d be scrap metal. This is like some incredible dream, but it isn’t. It is the latest simulator/roller-coaster amusement park thrill – Transformers: The Ride-3D at Universal Studios Hollywood.
My addiction to thrill rides can be traced back to a holiday in California in 1983. I was 13 and we were visiting Six Flags Magic Mountain, an amusement park that was built not on cartoon characters, but simply on thrills. The Colossus was the source of constant screams. At the time, it was the largest wooden roller-coaster in the world with two drops over 30 metres long and old carts that threatened to derail at any second. It had recently gained notoriety as the roller-coaster that featured in Walley World in Chevy Chase’s comedy National Lampoon’s Vacation. Like the Griswold family, the Jamieson family were enjoying a vacation. We continuously dared each other to ride the Colossus, and when it came time, I was the only Jamieson that did. Perhaps it was this coming-of-age moment, where for once I was braver than dad, which has since attracted me to such rides.
When it comes to amusement parks, California is somewhat of a Mecca. Wide-eyed pilgrims flock to Disneyland, Six Flags Magic Mountain, Universal Studios, SeaWorld and Knott’s Berry Farm, which is the oldest park of them all. Knott’s began life as a berry farm back in 1920. This is where founder Walter Knott created the boysenberry, by crossing a red raspberry with a blackberry and loganberry. But it was Walter’s wife Cordelia who cooked up the Californian thrill-ride storm. Customers at the farm loved Cordelia’s chicken dinners so much that demand grew until thousands of customers were lining up waiting, often for hours, to dine. To entertain the crowds, Walter introduced some rides that were based around a Wild West show.
From these auspicious beginnings, things gathered momentum faster than a Colossus carriage. Knott’s launched the Corkscrew – the world’s first 360-degree roller-coaster – in 1975. This was followed by the Sky Jump in 1976, which was the highest ride in the park until it was overtaken 25 years later by its successor – the 30-storey-high Supreme Scream. In 1978, Montezuma’s Revenge was introduced, a coaster that shoots you to speeds of 90 kilometres per hour within five seconds (and is still there today). Knott’s continued to stay at the forefront of hair-raising roller-coaster rides, while it’s world-renowned neighbour continued to focus on entertaining the kids with Mickey and Minnie.
These days, the advancement of technology means that old roller-coasters like the Corkscrew have been replaced by the Boomerang, a ride with six loops – three facing forward then three facing backwards. It is this ride that, today, almost reintroduces me to the chicken dinner I ate the night before.
I continue to feed my addiction at Knott’s on the Silver Bullet, a rollercoaster that has us hanging in the air, feet dangling as we loop, twist and corkscrew. It suddenly stops and I’m not quite sure if I’m upside down or not. Next up is the GhostRider – currently the longest wooden roller-coaster on the USA’s West Coast. I have flashbacks to the Colossus as we rattle up the first climb and then plummet down a 33-metre drop. It is old and rickety and by the end of it I realise so am I. My neck has a crick and I can barely see the top of the next ride, the Xcelerator, which takes willing passengers from zero to 130 kilometres per hour in just three seconds. People say I am very much like my father and today I agree – I decide to sit the Xcelerator out.
On that family trip back in 1983, we spent one day at Universal Studios. It was enough time to get a Polaroid snapped of ET and I jumping a BMX over the moon. We also took the studio tour and screamed as Jaws creaked out of the lake just as we passed by. ET is long gone these days, though my fear of sharks in fresh water is not.
Transformers: The Ride-3D has replaced the old ET Adventure ride. It cost a reported US$100 million and is at the forefront of fairground attractions. It is designed to suspend all sense of reality (unlike the very real screams coming from the people on the nearby roller-coaster rides).
How does it compare to freefalling 30 stories down in an open outdoor carriage though? Both are thrilling, both are chilling and both are definitely fulfilling, but roller-coasters win for the sheer fear factor. With Six Flags Magic Mountain now boasting 18 roller-coasters, more than any other park in the world, I decide to leave it to my next visit, when I think I’ll bring dad.
To round up a herd of wild buffalo you need three things: a horse, a whip and an ability to use both. Hats, spurs, chaps, neck scarves, a familiarity with Johnny Cash? These are all fine and dandy, but when 900 head of buffalo are coming at you, stomping, snorting and quaking the very earth, fashion is not a priority. Buffalo, or American bison as they are properly known, weigh up to 1000 kilograms and can out bolt Usain Bolt. They have necks like quarterbacks, the horns of alpha bulls and injure more careless campers each year than grizzly bears. “The trick,” explains a barrel-chested cowhand in a luminous pink shirt, “is to get the herd to do what they want to do.”
I’m in Custer State Park for the fiftieth anniversary of the Buffalo Roundup. The air is thick with dust and excitement, and rent by “hoo-hars!” and whip cracks. Cowhands work in teams to guide the excited bison down a valley, across a road and onto an enormous grassy prairie. Some 15,000 spectators have assembled on the hillside to watch the final surge into the awaiting corrals. All is going well until suddenly it isn’t. I watch the herd disappear into a thicket of trees. When they reappear they are thundering in the opposite direction. The buffalo have turned! The buffalo are doing what they want to do! The buffalo are outta here!
Twice more a rebel bison force breaks away from the main herd and hightails it over a nearby hill causing much consternation. It’s an unexpected and most welcome development. My big fear about the round-up was that it would be a stagey Disney Does Dakota tourist production, but this is very much the real thing. When the last of the wild beasts is steered into the corral there is much applause and more than a few hallelujahs.
The mighty buffalo are impressive in their own right and are woven into the fabric of the American west. They once roamed the vast interior in the tens of millions and were a crucial part of life for the Plains Indian tribes, providing them with food, clothing and shelter. Then came the European colonisers, with their guns and unshakable ambitions. In 45 years of efficient slaughter they came close to wiping out the buffalo altogether. Conservation efforts saved the species and today one of the biggest wild herds roams free in South Dakota’s Custer State Park. The annual round-up is primarily to maintain the herd size so that they have enough food to last the winter. Tourism is merely an added bonus.
It’s an honour for cowhands to participate. Miss Rodeo South Dakota is here all glammed up in make-up and spurs, holding the state flag atop her gelding Little Man. Horse whisperer and campfire poet Bob Lantis is in the thick of it with all four of his kids. This is the forty-fourth round-up for the 80-year-old. He gets thrown off his horse early and an ambulance is called, but he shrugs off medical assistance and gets back in the saddle. “I’ve been coming here for over 50 years and I’m just so proud that they’ve been able to look after it,” he says. “I keep coming back every year just to make sure they don’t screw it up.” Bob chuckles wryly.
Lantis’s enthusiasm for the Black Hills is widely shared and well founded. Prior to the round-up I spend a week driving around them, climbing up them, spotting wildlife in them and talking to people who revere them as their ancestral land. Pretty in parts, angular and austere in others, the Black Hills are creaky with human drama. They rise modestly from the great plains of central North America but offer disproportionately large insights into America’s pioneering history. While the Wild West has been reduced to myths and bumper-sticker clichés, the real story is nuanced and fascinating. It’s an epic of titanic ambition, monumental achievement, tremendous courage and harrowing tragedy. In its essence it is the story of America.
In the gold-mining town of Deadwood I visit the grave of Wild Bill Hickok. Lawman, coach driver, actor, gambler, outlaw and war scout, Hickok wore many out-sized hats. He helped slaves escape north along the underground railway, fought in the country’s bloody civil war, then again in the Indian wars. Along the way he killed at least 10 men and earned a reputation as the fastest gunslinger in the west. Although Wild Bill stories are told six different ways, it’s established he was shot dead while playing cards in a Deadwood saloon, his six shooters tucked into his belt. He’s buried next to Calamity Jane, another Wild West celeb, on her insistence.
Today you can witness Wild Bill’s murder by the coward Jack McCall three times daily during tourist season. Modern-day Deadwood has been burnt down, rebuilt twice and saved by gambling and tourism. I miss the re-enactment of Wild Bill’s slaying in favour of an excursion into a nearby gold mine. It was gold fever that lured devil-may-care opportunists into the Black Hills to form lawless outposts like Deadwood. The cult TV series of the same name has brought to life a handful of the town’s more lively characters, but there were plenty more of that ilk. I’m raising a glass to you, Madam Bulldog, and your establishment, the Bucket of Blood.
Gold fever and the pioneering push came with a cost paid in full by the American Indians. Tatanka: Story of the Bison on Deadwood’s outskirts is a museum sharing the unflinching account of the great buffalo slaughter of the late nineteenth century and its subsequent effects. Plains Indian tribes based their nomadic existence around hunting the shaggy beasts, which they called tatanka and considered a relative. Europeans slaughtered the buffalo en masse for their hides, but also to drive the remaining Indians on to reservations where the exchange rate was one glass of whiskey per buffalo hide. You can imagine how that ended.
That noted, there remains a great deal of pride in Native American culture. Its art and philosophy, respect for the natural world, eloquent orators and history of resistance are all widely celebrated. During the Black Hills War of 1876, Lakota and Cheyenne Indians defeated a bigger and more heavily armed US army in open combat including, most famously, at the Battle of Little Big Horn. One of the most revered warrior leaders of that campaign was a quietly spoken Lakota thunder-dreamer whose presence today can still be witnessed in the mountains. His name? Crazy Horse.
Crazy Horse literally looms out of the Black Hills, west of Mount Rushmore, in the form of a memorial sculpture taking up an entire mountain face. It has been under construction for 67 years and, on completion, will be the biggest on earth, standing 172 metres tall and 195 metres wide. The completed head of Crazy Horse alone is already bigger than any of the Rushmore presidents. The story of its construction is equally gargantuan. It was started by Polish sculptor Korczak Ziolkowski, who chipped away at it by himself with a chisel and a shed-load of dynamite. When he passed, his 10 children inherited the project. A third generation of Ziolkowskis is now onsite and it’s debatable whether any of them will live to see the sculpture’s completion.
While some Indians support the Crazy Horse Memorial, others consider it a desecration. The Black Hills are sacred for Lakota, nowhere more so than at its tallest point, Harney Peak, which I set out to hike on a clear autumn day. The pine forest is gilded in patches of gold and I spot a whitetail deer and a scurry of chipmunks gathering nuts like acquisitive, more authentically follicled Donald Trumps. A heavy mist cloaking the valley burns off when we reach the summit and the view opens into a stunning panorama stretching to the distant Rocky Mountains. “It’s an easy day to be grateful,” comments a beaming local hiker, capturing the summit mood.
South Dakota is not short of surprises. Best known for the presidential heads carved into the mountain at Mount Rushmore, its other attractions are unfamiliar even to most Americans. It has an ancient inland sea – now a maze of layered, fossil-rich chasms – known as the Badlands. It has the biggest motorcycle rally in the world that incorporates two weeks, each August, of leather, burn-outs and hair metal and doubles the state’s population. There’s fly-fishing in Spearfish Canyon, rock-climbing in the aptly named Needles, Indian history to discover, horse riding at Ghost Canyon Dude Ranch and, of course, the Buffalo Roundup, which rates high among the many highlights of my trip.
I leave invigorated and laden with treasure: Lakota arrow heads, Deadwood playing cards, lucky charms and a hunting hat that proudly proclaims South Dakota as Big Cock Country. My camera’s memory cards are full of big prairie landscapes and wide, open American faces. My notepads overflow and my nose is buried in a Crazy Horse biography. It’s a good sign when an unfamiliar place follows you home. And it’s a nice bonus to have a swaggering sentence to hand when you’re asked what you got up to in the States. Rounding up wild buffalo in South Dakota sounds better than a lost weekend in Vegas, and it’s definitely more memorable.
It’s a balmy summer afternoon in Park City, Utah, and after several summers observing elite aerial skiers practise their acrobatic jumps on water ramps before executing them on the less-forgiving snow, Jessie Mayo has finally mustered the courage to give it a whirl herself. After landing a few straight airs into the pool, she takes a deep breath, points her ski tips down the slope and prepares to attempt her first front ‘sault off the two-metre ramp.
“I chickened out at the last minute,” the 32-year-old tells me from the Australian Aerial Ski Team’s summer training ground. “I gained a new respect for the athletes – who perform multiple flips and twists on every jump – after that.”
Such is a typical day in the office for the team’s dedicated physiotherapist, who is gearing up to travel to the 2018 PyeongChang Winter Olympics with the aerials team when we speak.
“It’s crazy to think that the last time I experienced the Winter Olympics was as a seasonaire,” she says.
She’s referring to Vancouver 2010, when we met as keen skiers who had both put our careers on hold to ‘do a season’ in Whistler, which hosted the Winter Games’ alpine and sliding events. Having long-harboured a dream of becoming a physio for the Australian cricket team, Jessie shifted her focus that winter.
“By the end of the season, finding a way to combine my love for skiing, physio and travel had become my new goal,” she says. “I mean, I don’t even play cricket.”
Back home in Melbourne, a chance conversation with one of her patients who had a contact at the Olympic Winter Institute Australia (OWIA) provided the perfect ‘in’.
“It was one of those right-place-right-time scenarios, as the OWIA was in the early stages of developing a network of physiotherapists back then,” Jessie says. “The institute now offers a range of professional development opportunities for physios interested in winter sport, which is great for people looking to get their foot in the door.”
Following a stint with the snowboard half pipe team, Jessie joined the aerials staff in 2014 and has been travelling with the team for up to nine months each year ever since. Following summers in Park City, Jessie’s ‘aerials family’ hit the winter competition circuit, zipping between venues from Finland to Korea, Belarus to Spain. With the team constantly on the move, Jessie treats athletes wherever she can, “In hotel rooms, airport lounges, or wherever there’s free space!” she laughs.
On top of attending to the team’s physio needs, a typical work day sees Jessie supervise strength sessions in the gym and hang out at the base of ski jumps to provide medical aid as needed during training sessions and competition events. And there’s no slacking off slopeside.
“It’s also my job to film the athletes’ jumps and help out with hill preparation,” Jessie says. Days can be long and they are always spent in the elements, toughing the snow or sun.
“Boot heaters are one of the best investments I’ve ever made. Standing on snow for eight to ten hours on a competition day is just brutal.” The payoff, however, is sweet.
“Seeing the athletes succeed – especially when the odds aren’t in their favour – is always special,” Jessie says. “In the days leading up to the 2015 World Championships, for example, Laura Peel was struck down by food poisoning, and she came out and won the competition. The athletes’ ability to clear their mind and focus on the task ahead never fails to impress me.”
Having grown up in Albury, New South Wales, just 90 minutes’ drive from Falls Creek, Jessie has been skiing herself since she was a toddler, though most people are surprised to learn that she doesn’t get as much hill time as she’d like these days.
“With other snow disciplines, physios need to be able to ski to the site and alongside the course, but aerial jump sites are all walkable from the base of the mountain, so I don’t really get to ski on the job – on snow, at least,” she rues.
However, Jessie admits the long periods away from home is a bigger downside.
“I’ve missed a lot of significant events, including my grandfather’s funeral, which broke my heart,” she says. “Moving around all the time also makes it incredibly difficult to maintain personal relationships.”
Luckily, her next gig – at the Commonwealth Games on the Gold Coast – will allow her to put her skillset to use closer to home.
“I’m going to be working as a volunteer physio at the Athlete’s Village, treating any type of athlete who requires assistance, which will be a nice change of scenery,” she says. “As much as I love the snow, it’ll be great to work near the beach for once.”
You hear whispers of this secret sushi restaurant online and with friends. Someone says they know someone who knows someone who has been, but you think this is just another urban legend, like when Bill Murray spontaneously walked into a random bar and started bartending.
Well, it turns out that like the Bill Murray story, the restaurant actually exists. On the tenth floor of a very random midtown Manhattan hotel you will find one of the rooms has been converted into a full scale, fine dining, four-seat sushi restaurant. Global personality Chef David Bouhadana is the master itame at the helm of this 17-course, 60-minute omakase (dishes selected by the chef).
If you can get in, expect a treat. Chef David will let you know everything about him and his process, and will do so over a flowing river of sake. The food is perfectly prepared and the city views from the balcony are sublime.
This is an experience not to be forgotten. Ever. Even if your friends don’t believe you went.
When it comes to sharks, tigers are one of the most thrilling species to see. At Tiger Beach in the Bahamas you can come face to face with these magnificent creatures, sans cage, for an experience like no other.
Get acquainted with the entire ‘shiver’ of sharks with guru Gregory Sweeney. Greg’s been running shark trips here for over ten years and knows these guys well, ensuring you can relax enough to enjoy the excitement of every encounter, while he’s also a big fan of Australian and Kiwi travellers.
Trips operate from the MV Dolphin Dream, an 26-metre expedition yacht. An intimate group of ten divers plus crew means you’ll get maximum personal time with the sharks as well as fantastic photo opportunities. Greg is an accomplished underwater photographer and expeditions tend to attract photographers from around the world, so if you want to pick up some tips from the experts this is the place to do it.
Tiger Beach trips run in October when tiger sharks gather in large numbers for breeding, but an alternative in March combines both tigers and hammerheads for the ultimate experience. You’ll also see other predators like the lemon shark and graceful Caribbean reef shark.
This is a truly unique opportunity to witness these rare and majestic creatures while also understanding and appreciating their vital role in our oceans.
There’s nothing more rewarding than envisioning a shot, planning it and then – usually after multiple attempts – nailing it. That’s why I love shooting landscapes.
Obviously on a short holiday you don’t always have the time to revisit a location on multiple occasions, so here are a few tips to help you get a better shot. Because it’s happened to all of us. That moment when we’ve stood in front of an epic view, looking out at it with a sense of awe, and finding when we get back that our photos don’t do it justice.
The Golden Hour
Nothing beats the light of the rising or setting sun. Every landscape looks better during the golden hour – that time when the sun casts a beautiful yellow-orange light on the earth. If you can, and you should, get up early and get to your photo location an hour before sunrise. Why pick sunrise over sunset? Because the best landscape shots often happen at places – lookouts, waterfalls, beaches – popular with lots of tourists. If you can beat the crowds, do it!
You won’t just get an amazing location to yourself, you’ll actually be able to enjoy the place much more knowing you’re seeing it as few other people do and, by the time the unknowing crowds arrive, you can leave with a big smile on your face.
Obviously this requires a bit of research and some planning. A good landscape shot reflects this. At what time and where does the sun rise? How can you use that to come up with the best composition? Think about your location, do some research and work out what image you want to get before you get there, so you don’t waste precious shooting time phaffing around trying to work out the best angle to avoid the inconveniently located car park.
All About Scale
Landscapes are all about showing the big picture. By using an ultra-wide lens, like the Olympus M.Zuiko 7–14mm f/2.8 Pro, you’ll capture the widest possible angle of your scene. The additional advantage of a wide lens is that it usually stretches the edges of your image and creates leading lines – the ones that pull the viewer’s attention toward the centre of an image – into the scene.
If, for example, you’re shooting a big valley or mountain, try framing your shot with familiar-sized objects in the foreground to create depth. This will give the viewer an idea of how vast the forest, tall the mountain or deep the valley actually is when they see it off in the distance.
To create an even stronger sense of depth and scale get down low or point your camera down a little and add a foreground into your image.
Polarising benefits
Although not a big fan of adding too many extras to my camera, I find a polarising filter can make the magic happen. These filters screw onto the front of your lens and cut out the glare and reflections of the sunlight bouncing off anything shiny. They also add saturation to blue and green tones, making those turquoise waters and juicy green fields look exactly the way you remember them. This essential accessory will make those landscape shots pop.
Rule Of Thirds
There’s nothing wrong with placing the horizon in the middle of the frame, but every time I see a shot like that I feel like I’m missing out on something. Is that straight horizon really what made this location so special? Were there beautiful clouds? Try pointing your camera up a little and place the horizon in the lower third of the frame. Got great texture in front of your feet? Move your lens towards the ground so the horizon is in the upper third of the frame. In either case you’ll immediately capture a much more dynamic shot and the viewer won’t feel like they’re missing out.
Take A Friend
Remember how I mentioned getting there before the crowds? That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t bring someone along with you. Placing a person into a landscape shot can really emphasise scale, add a focal point and also make the location much more attainable. People see the image and immediately think, That could be me! Bonus tip: bring along a brightly coloured jacket to make the mate you’ve thrown in front of the camera stand out even more.
Be Patient
Once I sat and waited for more than five hours to get the right photo. Why? Because it took me six hours to drive to this location then two hours to scramble down a thorny cliff to the ocean’s edge and I knew I wasn’t going to be returning anytime soon. With a promising sunset on its way I sat and waited, did a few test shots and compositions and waited until I got what I wanted. It paid off. Not only did I get a very unusual shot of a well-known location, but I also had a fun story to tell. Sometimes it’s worth waiting that extra minute for the things to align. It’s not over until it’s over.
Use Your Feet
Go beyond the car park. Anyone can drive to a viewing platform, hop out of the car and take a photo. The person who gets the better images will be the one who leaves their vehicle behind, hikes up a mountain and brings an added layer of story to the shot. It always makes for a more rewarding photograph. And, as always, have fun.
Chris Eyre-Walker is a member of the Olympus Visionary Program, a team of award-winning photographers supported by Olympus.
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