Excerpt
THERE'S A WAR GOING ON, AND I'M BLEEDING.
An unfortunate situation, to be sure, but considering it's 2 a.m., fresh snow is
falling and I'm squished in the back of an old army truck with a band of Afghani
freedom fighters who, to avoid being bombed by the Soviet planes circling above,
have decided to drive without headlights through the Hindu Kush Mountains over
unpaved icy roads laced with land mines, it's also one without obvious remedy. I
mean, what am I supposed to do? Ask the driver to pull over for a sec so I can
squat behind the nearest snowbank to change my tampon?
I don't think so.
It's February 1989. I am twenty-two years old. My toes are so cold, they're not
so much mine anymore as they are tiny miscreants inside my hiking boots,
refusing to obey orders. In my lap, hopping atop my thighs as the truck lurches,
as my body shivers, sits a sturdy canvas Domke bag filled with Nikons and
Kodachrome film, which I'm hoping to use to photograph the pullout of the Soviet
troops from Afghanistan.
Actually, I have no idea how to photograph a Soviet pullout. Though this is my
second story as a professional photojournalist, I'm still not clear ... read full excerpt from: Shutterbabe ebook
