Photo Journalism of Cameron Casliner 1977-2001
This is an exerpt of the upcoming book being published by Falsehood Bookhouse.
12th March 1985. Beirut.
"It is with a sense of optimism after the recent car bombings that took eighty lives including Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah that I am reporting on the Lebanese national basket dancing competition, a non secular event that had been temporarily halted under the Israeli occupation. I stand in a square room that is no smaller than a full basket ball court that I watch with some interest the pre competition preparations that go into this unknown event. For a nation that has for a decade that has been known for its occupations, war and bombings, it is uplifting and a sign that these determined peoples are willing to get by and press forward despite the horrific realities of scared buildings, cratered roads and the the ever present threat of violence.
A young woman in her twenties, a striking beauty with lustry black hair and freckled cheeks weaves her uniform, next to her sits another maronite woman as each prepares their baskets for the competition, her eyes smile while her face is a determined painting that best symbolises the stoic nature of these people. Across from the pair sits a hijab wearing woman, her features disguised by here islamic veil, but it is hard not to see a striking similarity in the eyes of the woman. The contrast of faiths and upbringings that separate these two is in no way that great, that one can not help to notice with greater appreciation the similarities of the two. I sit by the maronite women and ask them about their baskets, both are shy at first, as only one is able to speak English with a broken tongue, though it is better than my Arabic. I find some common fluidity in French with the young beauty, her face now glowing with her smile.
"We prefer to use a cross weave that allows more contents and power." She informs me in near perfect French. I notice the Islamic woman, her competitor is observing us with greater interest now.
"The Moslems prefer to use a more open stitch, this allows them more baskets that are of a lesser quality though."
It is then that I notice the young islamic woman is shaking her head from within her veil. Her splendidly green eyes smiling as she did so.
"No, it is because the basket is more flexible." She tells us both in heavily accented English.
"And this flexibility allows greater movement for the dance." I ask. She nods and goes back to her weaving.
The young Maronite pair also continue their weaving. I stand up again the awkward outsider as I watch the competitors prepare for the upcoming competition. Who will win is truely anyone's guess, but unifying in its entertainment and cultural significance it certainly is."
20th November 1986. Dakar, Senegal.
"And it is with the upcoming 'Domestix' concert that I find myself wandering the streets of down town Dakar with the bands lead singer and guitarist, Neil Sampson. Sampson an intriguing fellow has always been fond of the developing world and has on two other occasions held concerts in such nations, offering a free nights performance for the local peoples. Even if the music that he is most famous for has no real meaning or relevance to the daily plights of such peoples. And here we are bartering with vendors in a market place as though we are regular tourists with nothing better to do.
"I feel a linking bond with all of these people, black faces or yellow its all red blood under that coloured skin." Sampson tells me as he bites into a strange roasted insect as though it was a piece of chocolate.
I watch with interest to see how his face reacts to the insect, he shows no distaste for it.
"The other guys do not want to do any more concerts like this, but I like them. It makes me realise that I am more than, you know, a rock and roller. It lets me be an ambassador to the world and the peoples in it." Sampson continues to inform me of his global philosophy as he throws a hand ful of dried ants into the same mouth that in a few nights time will be singing chart topping lyrics.
Sampson decides to take me down a narrow alley way that seems screams to me, stay out Westerner. Sampson however leads me almost by the hand as he navigates ahead like an excited boy in a toy store determined to find the latest action figure. We near the end of the alley as several tired eyes stare at us suspiciously, one elderly man running a machete against a wet stone who looks deep into my eyes with a look of sheer hate. Sampson is however oblivious to these men, I notice his jewlery and custom made swiss watch, items almost as pricey as this small nations GDP let alone the annual earnings of these tired souls. Though almost naively Sampson takes me into a small building, in place of a door is a shredded canvas curtain, as we enter my nostrils are assaulted by a disgusting odour that only the nearly dead can produce.
Inside of this putrid building, if one could call such a structure that, Sampson introduced me to an old man, he was a witch doctor of sorts, whose name was 'Bert', perhaps a simply westernisation of a more complicated indigenous name, but then again I thought as I noticed Bert was sipping a can of Tab as he watched an episode of Scooby Do on a small black and white TV.
Sampson offered Bert a large wad of american bills for something I shall never truely know what it was, but later I would find it was the secret to Sampson's sexual prowse, or so Sampson believed. The brown clump wrapped in plastic looked more like cow manure or fudge at best than anything of such properties so as to ensure, peak sexual performance. Like most rock stars, Sampson was proud of the numbers that he had 'bagged', though he feels each woman that he has slept with is a piece of a greater puzzle so as to complete his physical and spiritual being.
Sampson lead me through the maze that was downtown Dakar back to our hotel and all the while he explained to me further the philosophies of his life, I could not help to feel annoyance at his ego centric selfish rantings as I passed several starving faces and below poor Senegalese, who for the most part were nothing more than an addition to a scrap book that would some day be the life of Neil Sampson."
That Guy Info Sourcing Company 2010
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