With the Olympics now only a month away the search for scene-setting images to tempt the visual palate has begun in earnest. From the Beijing file Henry Lee gives us this to kick start the week - Wei Shengchu, 58, a supporter of traditional Chinese medicine, poses for photos in front of Beijing Railway Station with his head covered with acupuncture needles depicting 205 national flags and an Olympic torch, 7, 2008. Local media reported that Wei wanted to express his good wishes for the upcoming Beijing Olympic Games as well as to promote traditional Chinese medicine. 

And it is all his own work, all 205 and something more substantial representing the Olympic flame, painstakingly inserted into his head to the obvious entertainment of passersby. 

Even in this low resolution the Stars and Stripes, the Swiss, French, Canadian, Brazilian and a host of other national flags, are fairly easily spotted but not the Union Jack. 

Maybe he just forgot it, or perhaps it occupies a place in the shade where the sun has finally set on the British Empire.

The rescue of French-Colombian politician Ingrid Betancourt from FARC guerrillas after years in jungle captivity dominated headlines around the world this week. Accompanying these headlines were pictures of her arrival in Bogota. Despite the tough competition from many of the world's press, You Witness contributor Leonardo Suarez provided up close images of Betancourt that supplemented the existing images on the Reuters wire. Leonardo works as a contractor for Reuters in Colombia where he monitors stock trades and provides data support, a far cry from working out in the field as a photographer. Leonardo describes how he came to document this week's top story.

"I went to the airport to bring camera lenses to our photographers who needed to cover the story. I managed to get past security with their help. I brought my Canon 40D camera and 100:400mm 4.5-5.6 lens. I simply took pictures with the photographers as I saw fit. Once I returned to the office, I reviewed the pictures the photographers submitted and sent whatever pictures I had that were not duplicates to Reuters You Witness service. "

To view this week's You Witness slideshow click here.

“ALWAYS get to the scene as soon as possible”, is a mantra for the Tokyo picture team. It is advice which features prominently in the pocket-sized guide to emergency coverage procedures produced by our boss Michael Caronna - a guide which has also become indispensible in everyday coverage too. 

Japan is one of the world’s most seismically active areas and the Tokyo Pictures team’s emergency earthquake coverage plan is well-developed and paid off recently when we covered a powerful earthquake in Northern Japan. 

The guide suggests a very clear and concise principle: “Have equipment and photographers in place at all times and just go when it happens.”

So we keep long lenses, a Nera sat-phone, a small generator, extra batteries, gasoline container, a portable TV, a radio and survival kits with emergency food, bottled water, wet weather gear and the like, in the Company car. rain gears, etc, in the Pix van and the contents are checked regularly.  We carry laptops and basic camera gear with us day and night. 

Because a strong quake in Tokyo may also tumble our office building, we have a second parking space near where Issei Kato, Toru Hanai and I live, about 10 Km away from Tokyo office. Every night one us takes the van, our mobile office, and parks it near where we live and brings it back to office in the morning. 

From time to time, as an emergency drill, we test filing pictures by sat-phone using the generator from the office or from a local  park.

When the 7.2 magnitude quake struck Iwate, about 500 km north of Tokyo, on that Saturday morning, we followed the guide to the letter.

0930 AM,  about 40 minutes after the earthquake alarm hit local media, Hanai and I were already on the highway to the scene with our mobile office, company car,  because we didn’t have to waste time picking up gear in the office and left before we even knew how many earthquake casualties there were.

While Hanai and I rushed to the scene, Michael was picking-up pictures from local media in the office while Kato looked for alternative transportation to the earthquake site.  All bullet trains had stopped and flights to the nearest airport were fully booked, so he set off in a rental car.

Hanai and I arrived around 2 o’clock and our first pictures hit the wire two or three hours ahead of our competitors, after which everything seemed to go very smoothly.

Kato who has a lot of experience in earthquake coverage found a spot to which evacuated victims were being ferried by helicopter and his picturesquickly followed ours on to the wire.

Hanai and I separated and we all kept shooting and filing pictures of shelters and landslides until midnight.

Around 1 AM, we tried to get some sleep but were back on our feet by 4 AM because our earthquake expert Kato knew rescue workers and civil defense troops start work early. While our competitors still dozed, Hanai and I had moved daylight pictures via mobile and satphone from the scene  of a landslide area, while Kato had negotiated his way on to a civil defence chopper enroute to a spa resort buried under a landslide, the only wire service photographer to do so. 

Hanai located an evacuation centre from which we filed our pictures and as I finished filing we watched our competition arrive at the landslide area, long after the rescue teams had packed-up for the day. It was at that point I realised that we had won this story.

Our efforts were rewarded by two pictures in the IHT including the front page.

In the end the earthquake did relatively little damage and there were few casualties. The scale of the event was far smaller than we feared and anticipated but it did prove that careful contingency planning, following established emergency procedure, clos e teamwork and an early start are an essential combination when disaster strikes. 

Glancing up while sitting in the departure lounge of Grantley Adams Airport in Barbados my heart sank - oh crap! - joining me and a few other passengers in the waiting area was the Australian Cricket team.  Nothing personal, all good guys.   Some passengers, who were clearly supporters, reacted with muted excitement.  But it became painfully obvious to me, the team was joining us on our flight leaving shortly for St Vincent. I smiled an evil grin at the ignorant supporters in the lounge for they were unaware of the fact that the team’s presence on our plane meant only one thing and it wasn’t good… but I will come back to that.

I have been covering cricket in the West Indies for about 15 years now and consider myself a veteran of many a tour through the islands.  When I tell friends and colleagues that I am off to the Caribbean for cricket, I am constantly met comments of the, ”wow nice!!” or “man another tough assignment in paradise”, kind. I admit, it sounds pretty good to me too, but I know better… I have been there, got the T-shirt and worn it out. 

Most people when they travel down to the Windies for a holiday fly on a major airline, unpack, sit in the sun, drink too much, burn their skin the colour of a ripe tomato, pack their bags, get back on that big jet and go home… no fuss no muss. I and my photo colleagues also board that big jet but remain behind to move from island to island for the next four to eight weeks… well read on…

Now, before I give the impression I am about to regale you with nothing but tales of woe, let me say that covering cricket in the Windies is usually a lot of fun.  But I am biased as I love the sport and love covering it. West Indians love their cricket so much that some of the islands often declare a national holiday to allow fans to attend a One-Day International.

The atmosphere can be a carnival-like with loud Caribbean music between overs, especially the catchy favourites like the cricket tune “Rally Round the West Indies” and the various Bob Marley tunes.  The fans are emotional and not shy about shouting advice at the West Indies side encouraging them to “lash” the ball and erupting with joy as a well hit shot drives to the boundary or howls of mocking laughter if the opposing side appeals for LBW or their batsman ducks a bouncer. 

There is always the unexpected too. Years ago when heavy rain interrupted day three of a test match in Antigua a helicopter was dispatched to hover over the wicket for 20 minutes and to help dry the field, as grounds keepers, literally used sponges to soak up the excess water.  During a three-day tour match in St Kitts, play was suspended briefly while a herd of goats slowly grazed their way across the pitch. Unfortunately, nowdays the chances for similar diversions have long gone. All the islands built brand new stadiums prior to hosting the 2007 Cricket World Cup and, therefore, much of the unique character of the old wooden grounds has now faded into the past.  Although this time round during one of the matches, a stray dog somehow wandered through the playing area without much fanfare or notice for that matter. 

Covering a match is relatively easy. Unlike some ovals I have heard, in other parts of the world, you can go just about anywhere you choose around the boundary and getting your preferred shooting position at dawn is not required.  Normally, there are only six or seven photographers at any given match, sometimes fewer, so there is plenty of room.

Of course,  Paradise does have an ugly side too as we experienced during a recent match. when local fans, angered by what they belived was the wrongful dismissal of one of the West Indies players, pelted the field with a 20 minute barrage of plastic bottles containing unfinished sticky liquids.  Fans decided that the three or four foreign photographers sitting in front of the stand were also to blame and zeroed in on our co-ordinates giving us several minutes of West Indian “shock and awe.”  Trying to dodge the incoming plastic carpet bombing while still trying to take pictures  only made it worse.

On another occasion in Jamaica some  years back when the West Indies was on the verge of losing a Test match to Australia, a fan thoughtfully provided me with a couple of rum punches.  Unfortunately his preference was that I should “wear” both drinks as he leaned out of the stand and poured them over me as I concentrated through my lens on the celebrations on the field.  Ohhh and yes, for all you punsters the term “sticky wicket” did come to mind as the hot sun quickly dried the mess to my clothing, skin and equipment. Fortunately, these moments are very few and far between.

One of the more difficult parts of covering cricket in the Windies is the heat. Up to eight
hours a day, many times with no shade, in the blazing equatorial sun can be very uncomfortable.  Now I know the sport is played mostly in hot countries, so nothing new there, but for a lad from the Great White North - Canada - it takes several days at least to adapt to the environment.  A good hat and plenty of sunscreen generously spread over exposed skin, like the basting on a slow-roasting Christmas turkey are obvious musts not to mention what seems like gallons of water consumed hourly.

Another problem under the hot sun is mid-day blahs when the lunch break is long over and tea break is seemingly hours away and play on the pitch is photographically uninspiring, if not outright boring, as batsmen endlessly bat the ball to their feet.  On these occasions, I find dozing off can be a serious threat… now com’on no smug smirks out there, cricket or not, weve all been there. As a result of this, I no longer use camera and lens on a tripod. During a very boring afternoon several years back, I drifted into a sleepy haze in the heat and missed a couple of good pictures as I awoke to celebrations that ended before I could get my eye to the camera.

The good news…. I was the only international photographer there and,  as we all know folks, if nobody else had it, it never happened,  right! Since then, I use a monopod only. It’s funny how a camera and a long heavy lens on a stick beginning to slip from your hands can jolt you back into consciousness if a case of Mad dogs and Englishmen hits again in the mid-day sun.

Now, for all you pina colada drinkers and beach goers out there that think this assignment is all palm trees and umbrella drinks… I say, hah!  When there are breaks, going to the beach and sitting in the hot sun is farthest from my mind.  I just spent several days doing that at the cricket grounds so a little shade or air conditioning indoors is a welcome break and/or change. Another little realized fact is that on three or four of the islands, the beach is nowhere near the hotel where you are staying.  It is vital to stay as close to the cricket grounds as possible. Traffic on some of these islands is horrendously crowded on week days, and, in many cases only one narrow road leads to the grounds. In Grenada, we had to descend a steep and treacherous winding little road with other vehicles seemingly doing Formula One speeds and the road jammed from top to bottom. The other day when we stopped in heavy traffic an inattentive driver ploughed into the back of us with the taxi trunk or rather boot full of camera equipment. Good news…. nothing was damaged.  A week ago, I had to leave the hotel at 6:15am to take a 15-min cab ride to the airport to make a 9:00am flight.  If I left much later, it would have taken at least an hour and probably more to cover the same distance.

And now, flying in the Windies which is the ultimate challenge.  It’s a contest of will and patience.  Last year during the World Cup, I arrived at Kingston airport in Jamaica to take a skedded flight to Barbados and then connect to Guyana.  When I arrived at the counter and handed over my ticket, I was politely told that this flight was now leaving from Montego Bay on the north of the island.  I pointed out that the ticket says it leaves from Kingston and got the answer, “yes sir you are correct, but today it leaves from Montego Bay”….case closed.  Took me three days to get to Guyana. 

There are a couple of airlines that fly jets between the bigger islands but that’s a luxury. Between the cricket islands, there is only one airline and they fly small commuter turboprops that hold about 50 passengers and even less luggage.  Not a pleasant thought for a photographer with 400 or 600mm lenses and all the other assorted stuff we need to carry. You are only allowed 50lbs total and, therefore, you’re constantly paying overweight charges with no guarantee your bags will show up at the other end.  If your bag is over a certain size, it’s the first to be left behind in the event of overweight or lack of room. 

For all you shooters who carry most of your equipment as hand luggage… forget about it. These planes have no room in the overhead lockers so you have to leave it at the foot of the steps to be stored in the hold… which by the way is already full. On a recent flight, a colleague left his carry-on photo gear at the foot of the steps.  As per normal, the baggage handler came over, picked it up and walked back to the terminal as the aircraft door closed and props began to turn… no room mate!! 

Funny enough, when I first began to cover cricket in the Windies, we were still using film and had to carry a portable darkroom along with a big Cabbage Case, with a clunking but at the time, state of the art T1 and oversized Nikon scanner.  I don’t seem to remember having the same problems, but maybe that’s just tendency of people to look back fondly on old times.

And now we are back at the beginning and my opening remarks.  Never be happy when the Australian or any cricket team shows up for the same flight in the West Indies.  Their bags get priority and yours will be neatly stacked on the tarmac waiting for future flights that day, if there are any.  I arrived minus my clothes that time, which I was lucky enough to get six hours later.  Days later, I spoke with some of those same excited supporters and they were still without their bags… ahhhh cricket in the Windies, gotta love it!!
                                                        
 
  
 

Often in our job as photographers we are totally dependent on drivers. Back in 2004, I was on assignment in Kabul, Afghanistan for the first time and came to appreciate just how important a good driver can be, especially in a place like that where your life can depend on it.

The driver in question was Omar Sobhani, one of the Reuters drivers in our Afghanistan operation.

When I first met him, this good, solid, bearded man with lively eyes, was fluent in Russian, Urdu, Hindi, Pashtun but no English whatsoever; as I had no idea of Russian, Urdu, Hindi and Pastun our conversations were limited and hilarious to anyone else listening, but somehow despite this,  right from the very first moment, we understood each other.

On my first trip to Afghanistan when we stopped the car to take pictures Omar was always calm but alert in an almost imperceptible way. The stops would be very short, with minimum interaction with the locals and none of the usual hanging around or loitering photographers like to do in order to get pictures. In Afghanistan this is just not sensible. The opportunity for misunderstanding in such circumstances is considerable. They may never have seen a camera and will be curious, but they may mistrust it and you and be wondering what you and it are doing in their ‘hood’, whatever the motives crowds gather quickly so at the slightest sign of unwanted attention With one flash of Omar’s quick, electric eyes we would be out of there - quickly. All it took was a look.

We had long conversations in our imaginary language and I admired his skills as a driver; how he drove securely to suicide bombing sites without drama, got us past security barriers, dealt with foreign and Afghan forces, always very edgy particularly immediately after an attack; took unimaginable shortcuts and managed to coax all the power out of the vehicle when it was needed; drove through the Hindu Kush mountain range on the worst roads I had seen anywhere in the world, and all in a very calm and professional manner, without a hitch.

Omar was very used to driving text, pictures and TV journalists in his country and was always curious about what we did. Back at the office when his part was done, Omar would usually peer over our shoulders and watch when we were doing as we edited and transmitted our material.

One day in 2005 during the holy month of Ramadan we were driving in the hills surrounding Kabul and as we came round a corner, I noticed a slight decrease in the acceleration of the vehicle and saw him Omar look ahead, then at me, and then at my camera with a 70/200 mounted on it. There, in front of us was a nice picture of a man praying on the roof of a house on the side of a hill. Omar had not only spotted it but also knew which lens to use to shoot it. I looked at him and asked “good pickchaar ?” he said yes, “good pickchaar” so I told him, “you take the pickchaar”. He looked at me in confusion. I passed him the camera with its 70-200mm lens and he made the picture through his open window.

Later on we sat together in the office and sent his first picture to the Reuters wire. He was happy and proud, and so was I.

Omar had the quick eyes, the attitude and approach a photographer needs. While he lacked English and a knowledge  of cameras and computer technology, he had the fundamental attributes and everything else could be learned. And so it has proved. Thanks in no small part to the guidance and tutelage of Reuters senior photographer in Afghanistan, Ahmad Masood, my friend Omar is now a Reuters photographer and a very good one indeed. He speaks a lot more English than just “pickchaar” these days, confidently uses computers and satellite communications and has done amazing top class work in one of the most difficult operating environments any photographer could work in - and he hasn’t forgotten how to drive !!

I was at the airport shooting pictures to illustrate a Singapore Airlines story when the office rang to say there was an opportunity, if we could move quickly enough, to embed with the U.S. Naval relief operation heading to cyclone hit Myanmar.

Early the next morning I was aboard a U.S. Navy supply ship heading up the Malacca Strait. There were 8 journalists on board - writers, a BBC tv reporter and cameramen, and 3 photographers. It was a 2 day trip up to the USS Essex, and with little else to do on board, I photographed the crew preparing supplies which would be transferred when we arrived. With only experience of ferries to go on I’d feared getting horribly seasick - but was holding up okay, and excited about what we’d find when we got to the Navy ships.

We transferred to the Essex by helicopter. I quickly learned to use the word “helo” - pronounced “heelow” - as no one seemed to understand me when I said “chopper”. The supply ship had been crewed by ex-navy “civilian mariners”, but I’d been warned that things would be “different” on the real Navy ship. And they were.

If there’s one thing this experience has given me it is an indelible association between US Navy ships and disinfectant. Where the supply ship had been pretty crusty, the interiors of the Essex were sparkling clean - floors, walls, celings, everything - spotless. Every time I descended a set of stairs or a ladder (of which there were many) and my nose reached the same level as the deck, I’d get a heady whiff of disinfectant. A few days ago I visited the lavatories in a Singapore shopping centre and the smell took me right back to the Essex - I guess they were both using the same floor cleaner!

On the Essex and later on the Harpers Ferry, we were always “escorted” by either Navy or Marine media liasons. Although we were ”free to move about the ship,” the reality was slightly different. This was good in some ways - on occasions when I managed to evade my escorts, I got lost in the labyrinth of corridors and hallways on each deck and it took me forever to find my way. Hunt-for-Red-October lighting at night and a flashlight strapped to my head, I’d wander around in circles.

Then there was the food. The man from the Wall Street Journal got lost and asked a passing Marine for the ”mess hall” to which he got the barked response, ”YOU MEAN THE CHOW HALL!!!” before being politely escorted to the right place on the right deck.

The “chow hall” resembled a high school cafetaria, complete  with cliques of cool and not-so-cool kids (I was later told that majority of the crew of the Essex and some 90% of the crew on the Harpers Ferry were under 21). You had to be quick when you got in line - there were dozens of hungry sailors and marines behind you, and neither they nor the chow hall folks had time for a sense of humour. If you didn’t know what you wanted, you got either dirty looks or something you really didn’t want. I became good at barking out my meal preferences in seconds: “Meatlof! Potatoes! Gravy!” It was true American cooking - and at meal times you could just smell your way to the chow hall.  I had to reset my body clock  to the ship’s meal times - breakfast at 6am, lunch at 11am and dinner at 4.30pm.

My first time in line as I got to the top of the queue, I took a plate from the stack but seeing that the cook already had a plate for me, was about to return mine to the stack when the Marine behind me behind me muttered, “You touch it, You take it!”, so I spent the next 20 minutes pretending it was perfectly normal to be carrying two plates about. 

The bunks were cramped - 4 to a tiny room, shared showers with everyone else staying in “officers county”. Our Marine escorts remarked on how luxurious this was. They were living in “trees” the next deck down, 3-stacks of bunks on either side of a two-foot corridor. I wondered how sailors and marines manage it - at sea for months at a time, no privacy and no space, on a metal hulk rocking in the waves.

Trying to tell the story of the aftermath of the cyclone from the Essex was limiting - there was only so much I could do without making landfall. We photographed the navy preparing drinking water for delivery, helicopters shackled to the decks not going anywhere, and resupply trips between ships. You could feel the frustration among the crew - everyone I talked to spoke of feeling helpless, even angry, that here was a ship loaded with clean water, food and shelter only 50 nautical miles from the disaster area, yet the stubborness of the Myanmar junta was preventing its use. 

The Navy had been prepared to let media on board in the event of an aid mission, but when it became clear that just wasn’t going to happen, we were transferred back to the crusty supply ship for the slow 2 and a half day trip back to Singapore.

On the return journey there was none of the anticipation of the journey out. Most of us felt frustrated being stuck on a ship with nothing to do and no story to tell. We resigned ourselves to the trip and found ways to keep ourselves busy. What do journalists do on a slow boat back to Singapore? They play the American version of Trivial Pursuit against one another, they play ping pong against the crew, they count down the hours until the next chow time, they read books while trying not to look at the clock too often.

The hardest thing of all was once back on terra firma, trying to drop off in a stationary bed, with no rocking of the boat or groan of the engines to lull you asleep.

GOZ-BEIDA, Chad - Harsh light and shifting shadows in the windblown desert of eastern Chad can conjure strange images, but this was no mirage. Lurking in the shade of a thorn tree was the dark outline of a pick-up truck carrying a dozen men brandishing weapons. Ruled by the gun, this lawless corner of Africa borders Sudan and has inherited the violent power struggles from neighbouring Darfur. The shapes under the tree spelled trouble. I quickly ordered the driver of our battered Suzuki Samurai to U-turn, but as we accelerated away, kicking up sand, the sharp “crack-crack-crack” of gunshots split the air

We stopped and seconds later hordes of sweaty gunmen swathed in turbans and “magical” leather amulets swarmed us, shouting and shoving their weapons in our faces, pulling us roughly from the car while banging their fists on the roof. Grabbing our driver’s mobile phone, documents and cigarettes, and a satellite phone belonging to my travelling partner, an American human rights researcher, the gunmen ordered us to follow them back into the desert.

We’d set out from town that morning to interview far-flung civilians displaced by years of conflict stemming from Darfur and now destabilising both Chad and Sudan. The two oil-producing rivals accuse each other of backing rebels trying to topple their respective governments. There are 250,000 Sudanese refugees in a dozen camps in eastern Chad and 180,000 displaced Chadians, the U.N. says.

Rampant banditry plus ethnic and tribal animosity fuelled by competition for scarce water and arable land mean few can return home.

Most depend on aid handouts, but some 80 aid vehicles have been stolen at gunpoint in the area. In May a French aid worker was shot and killed at the roadside by unknown assailants.

Many raids are blamed on “Janjaweed,” Arab militiamen who roam the borderlands on horseback, raping and pillaging.

These gunmen were too many and too heavily armed to be Janjaweed. They rode 100 or so “technicals”, mud-smeared Toyota pick-ups lacking windscreens, their roofs cut off and replaced by heavy machine guns, anti-aircraft weapons and artillery.

Each battle wagon carried up to a dozen rag-tag fighters armed with AK-47s or Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) launchers.

THIRSTY WORK

Fingers on triggers and itching for a fight, this was one of the feared rebel columns that for several days had roamed Chad’s eastern wilds, threatening to ride westward on the capital N’Djamena, 700 km (450 miles) away.

The rebels made such a lighting strike in February. They besieged Chadian President Idriss Deby’s palace during days of heavy street battles, but they failed to topple the government.

Now they were launching a series of destabilising raids before the rains swelled rivers and blocked their movements.

Fearing imprisonment or worse, I said I was a journalist, held up my cameras and gestured I wanted to take their picture.

Even a dust-covered rebel knows the value of good publicity. The hostility evaporated and rebels posed with their weapons.

Then the battle cry went out and the cheering rebels roared off to attack the nearby town where we were based.

Within minutes, we heard explosions and heavy gunfire and black smoke rose above Goz Beida, a sandy town ringed by hills and camps housing tens of thousands of refugees.

Terrified aid workers hid inside their compounds as rebels smashed down doors and stormed over walls.

At Concern, rebels burst in, hijacked several vehicles, looted personal belongings — and raided the fridge.

One wild-eyed rebel burst into a room where aid workers were cowering. He clutched a beer in one hand and a stolen electric iron in the other, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

He handed over the iron, saying it was no use in the desert, apologized for interrupting their game of Scrabble and politely asked for a can of Coke from the table, saying: “I’m thirsty”.

The rebels ransacked the town. Two people, a civilian and a government soldier, were killed and dozens were injured by stray bullets and shrapnel during two hours of fighting. At the Oxfam compound where we were staying an RPG blew a hole through an office wall.

Irish European Union troops deployed to protect a nearby refugee camp, but came under fire and shot back. Four unexploded RPGs landed inside the camp, including one in a school.

After the rebels left town with their loot, we began inching back there through the bush, until EU troops sent word that angry Chadian warplanes were looking for targets to bomb.

We abandoned the car and set off on foot, nervously scanning the sky. Taking shelter in a riverbed, we waited for EU troops to pick us up using GPS coordinates sent by satellite phone.

Fighting shifted for another week from one remote outpost to another before the rebels slipped back across the border.

On my last night in eastern Chad, shooting erupted outside the house and continued for 30 minutes. A stray bullet crashed
through the ceiling and landed a few feet away.

In the morning, a kitchen worker was asked if the shooting had scared her. She just laughed.

“C’est la musique Chadienne” — It’s Chadian music, the local soundtrack by which people too often live their lives.

“Der Ball ist rund und das Spiel dauert 90 Minuten” - the ball is round and the match lasts 90 minutes - words of wisdom from Sepp Herberger, known as the ’Miracle from Berne’, most famous as German national coach of the team which won the 1954 World Cup. 

The other night we had something like a miracle from Vienna - Michael Ballack struck a thunderbolt free kick to send an unconvincing Germany through to the quarter-finals of the European Soccer Championshop 2008 with a 1-0 win over co-hosts Austria. Ballack’s free kick, right-footed into the top corner and clocked at 121 kilometres an hour by a German TV station exactly describes, what acording to another German saying, is the whole point of the game, “das Runde muss ins Eckige - the round thing must go in the rectangular thing.

So that is easy enough - isnt it??

  
1. Germany’s Michael Ballack (4thL) scores from a free kick during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match against Austria at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008.     REUTERS/Kai Pfaffenbach.  2.  Austria’s goal keeper Juergen Macho fails to save a free kick by Germany’s Michael Ballack during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna June 16, 2008.     REUTERS/Christian Charisius

Here a some good examples picturewise as well as from a German fan’s standpoint, taken with a remote camera behind the goal - Germany’s Podolski scores past Poland’s goalkeeper Boruc during Group B Euro 2008 match in Klagenfurt. Well done and well shot! - you remember: das Runde muss ins Eckige

Germany’s Lukas Podolski (top) scores past Poland’s goalkeeper Artur Boruc (bottom) during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match at the Woerthersee Stadium in Klagenfurt June 8, 2008.   REUTERS/Michael Dalder

Same idea, same plan, but this time not what a German soccer fan wants to happen - Croatia’s Srna shoots to score during their Euro 2008 soccer match against Germany in Klagenfurt
    
1. Croatia’s Darijo Srna (L) shoots to score past Germany’s Marcell Jansen (C) and goalkeeper Jens Lehmann during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match at the Woerthersee Stadium in Klagenfurt, June 12, 2008.     REUTERS/Miro Kuzmanovic
2 and 3. Croatia’s Darijo Srna (R) scores past Germany’s goalkeeper Jens Lehmann during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match at the Woerthersee Stadium in Klagenfurt, June 12, 2008.     REUTERS/Michael Dalder

Germany lost 2-1 to Croatia - which leads me to another shaft of wit and wisdom, again from a German. Greece’s head coach Otto Rehagel once said, ”mal verliert man und mal gewinnen die anderen” - believe it or not - sometimes you lose, sometimes the others win… right! Too bad Rehagel’s team was eliminated after consecutive defeats by Russia and Sweden, ending their hopes of defending the title they won four years ago in Portugal. As the man said, ”sometimes you lose…”.

But back to the German match in question. Big hopes, emotions, tabloid headlines created an exciting atmosphere long before the match. German Chancellor Angela Merkel arrived with her Defence Minister Franz Josef Jung to attend the match - it is good to know you are well protected and that “the force is with you” when travelling to Austria.

 
German Defence Minister Franz Josef Jung (L), German Chancellor Angela Merkel (C) and Austrian Chancellor Alfred Gusenbauer wait before the Group B Euro 2008 soccer match between Germany and Austria at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna June 16, 2008.  REUTERS/Kai Pfaffenbach

Later on Merkel may well have had some extra lessons in tactic and strategy, when German coach Joachim Loew (as well as Austrias coach Josef Hickersberger) were sent off the pitch by Spanish referee Manuale Mejuto and had to watch the rest of the game from the stands. The double dismissal, which Loew said was due to a dispute with the fourth official, was greeted by jeers from both sets of fans in the capacity 50,000 crowd at Ernst Happel stadium.

1.Match referee Manuel Mejuto of Spain (L) speaks to Germany’s coach Joachim Loew (R) and Austria’s coach Josef Hickersberger (C) during the Group B Euro 2008 soccer match between Austria and Germany at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008.     REUTERS/Christian Charisius
2. Germany’s coach Joachim Loew (C) speaks with German Chancellor Angela Merkel after he and Austria’s coach Josef Hickersberger (not pictured) were sent to the stands by match referee Manuel Mejuto of Spain during the first half of the Group B Euro 2008 soccer match between Austria and Germany at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008.  REUTERS/Kai Pfaffenbach

But whatever happened on the pitch during the match no one will ever care about the details, what counts is who won, no more and no less. I hope that this time the pictures of Michael Ballack celebrating will last a bit longer. All his power, aggression and relief came out after scoring the crucial goal which put the German team ahead 1 - 0.

Here you can see how Germany’s Ballack celebrates his goal

Germany’s Michael Ballack (2nd L) celebrates his goal with team mates during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match against Austria at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008.     REUTERS/Alex Grimm

  
1. Germany’s Michael Ballack (R) celebrates after scoring against Austria as his team mate Clemens Fritz watches during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008.    REUTERS/Christian Charisius
2. Germany’s Michael Ballack celebrates his goal during their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match against Austria at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008. REUTERS/ Dominic Ebenbichler

The players and the whole teams are not the only ones celebrating victories - there are always fans. They carefully prepare, paint, dress and put all their energy into drive their teams to victory - and sometimes it works…

1. A Germany fan waits before their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match against Austria at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008.     REUTERS/Alex Grimm
2. Germany fans sing before their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match against Austria at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna June 16, 2008. REUTERS/Alex Grimm
3. A Germany fan cheers before their Group B Euro 2008 soccer match against Austria at the Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna June 16, 2008.     REUTERS/Dominic Ebenbichler
4. A Germany fan waits before the Group B Euro 2008 soccer match against Austria at Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, June 16, 2008.  REUTERS/Kai Pfaffenbach  

but for the Austrians not this time.

Austrian soccer fans react after Germany scores a goal while they watch the Group B Euro 2008 match in the centre of Klagenfurt June 16, 2008.   REUTERS/Fabrizio Bensch

Emotions run high. Switzerland’s captain Alex Frei, the Borussua Dortmund striker, was devastated when he ruptured a knee ligament at the start of the tournament, ”My dream is destroyed but the team’s dream goes on,” he said. It was a disappointment shared by the team and supporters of co-hosts Switzerland.

  
Switzerland’s Alex Frei reacts as he is escorted off the pitch after a challenge by Czech Republic’s Zdenek Grygera  during their Group A Euro 2008 soccer match at St Jakob Park stadium in Basel June 7, 2008.     REUTERS/Michael Buholzer

Tonight Germany play Turkey - “mal verliert man und mal gewinnen die anderen”!

It was 9 a.m. in Paraguay when I heard on the radio RIOT IN TACUMBU PRISON. It had started at 8.

The visual impact that a picture can cause is fully validated when it comes from a witness, and even more so when it comes from a danger zone. This is what happened on June 20th when the prisoners of the Esperanza ward of the Tacumbu prison took as hostages warden Mario Pairet and a group of guards.

I headed straight for the prison, thinking about how to describe the horrible spectacle that the protagonists, relatives and friends, and all those involved in some way, were enduring. I thought that when I arrived at the prison entrance the situation might be under control, but to my surprise it wasn’t.

I heard screams from the prisoners saying - they abuse us, they torture us, we need clothing, we need food. I saw police, dogs, weapons and frightened faces all around.

When I passed through the gates I knew it was a danger zone. I also knew that my responsibility, professionalism and rationality were being tested by the uncontrolled riot in front of me.

I noticed to one side of me that several inmates were twisting their bodies to make themselves smaller to pass between broken bars and into another ward.

Moments later I found myself facing a locked cell door with five men, some of them hooded, pressing against it. It occurred to me that this was the ward where the hostages were being held. I stood there face to face with the leaders of the uprising and we looked each other in the eyes. They were angry, and I asked myself if my presence as a photographer helps them or hurts them. They only screamed, “Back! Leave the way clear.”

I backed up and watched as prisoners from another ward handed them cigarettes through the bars. I began to calm down in spite of the fact that I found myself in the middle of the tempest.

One inmate asked me for my cap, the cap I brought from Korea during the World Cup 2002 and that I use constantly. I reflected on whether I could give up something so dear that reminded me of that trip, and I couldn’t. But then he pleaded so persistently and he said to me, “I’m cold,” and I relinquished the cap. I asked him his name but he wouldn’t answer, maybe for his own security.

An hour later district attorneys arrived to negotiate with the prisoners, and by 1:30 they announced that the negotiations had ended successfully.

I took some photos when the hostages walked out, and I stopped to read on the watchtower the words ESPERANZA PRISON WARD.

That was where I had left my cap from Korea.