A showcase of David’s Gray images of the aftermath of the Sichuan earthquake are set to music in this audio slideshow.

David Gray recounts his experience covering the earthquake that devastated Sichuan province, China.

David Gray presents an audio slideshow on China’s southwest region.

Day 8 - After travelling 4 days from Lhasa Airport, and spending 4 days at 5200 metres, we are all feeling the effects of altitude but mostly suffering from frustration at the lack of information about the Olympic torch. Mark Chisolm, Reuters Cameraman and Producer, Nick Mulvenney, Reuters Correspondent and myself travelled from Beijing on April 25 to Tibet to cover the Olympic torch’s ascent of Mount Everest.       We are currently at a make-shift press centre located near Everest Base Camp. Facilities consist of an extremely good media centre, with amazingly fast internet, a press conference room, that doesn’t provide the media with any information (but I will get onto that later), small basic cabins that offer fairly comfortable beds but are just plain freezing, a dining room with excellent food, and last but certainly not least, the toilet block. Oh wow!! I cannot even begin the try and find the words… so I will leave it at that.

Mountainmen Chisholm, Gray and Mulvenney.

The altitude is a major factor in everything we do. It affects each person differently. Some have a very low percentage of oxygen in their bloodstream, some have a very high heart-rate, some get high blood pressure, many get severe headaches, others stomach problems. But all get breathless after walking just 20 metres and all are very tired. But the effects of altitude are not consistent, and even somebody who has travelled frequently to and from high altitude react differently each time. So the fact that the three of us have managed to feel ok after our schedule of travelling from Beijing, situated at a height of just 50 metres above sea level, to Everest Base Camp at a height of 5200 metres in just 4 days, does make us feel like we have achieved something, even before we have produced any stories. But this is not to say we are in the clear. Acute altitude sickness can hit anytime, even once you are back at normal levels, so we are extremely wary of this achievement.

The days consist of walking around the 500 metre cordon we seem to have been restricted to. Chinese Border Police keep a watch on our moves from several vantage points along the road and surrounding hills. I like to watch the changing weather patterns on the peak of Everest, but you cannot keep photographing it every hour - the weather might change but its shape doesn’t.

The nights are the toughest. The three of us share a small hut made of what looks like recycled paper shavings. Temperatures drop to around minus five degrees, down to maybe minus 15 with the wind factor, and the paper walls are just not thick enough to keep this cold out. But while I am freezing in my bed, all I can think about is how the teams on Everest must be feeling, camped on what some have called a ‘death zone’.

But the biggest frustration is the lack of information regarding the Olympic torch’s whereabouts. The most basic questions like ‘where is it now’ and even ‘how many people are in the team taking it to the top’ are simply not being answered. The real shame is that all the good work that has been done regarding media facilities, especially the mobile phone coverage and internet, is being undermined by the lack of information.

The lack of information combined with the rigours of the altitude, freezing temperatures, absence of washing facilities and the lack of a confirmed depature date means that frustrations are high.. almost as high as the summit of Everest itself.
     
     

     Well……..I don’t believe it!!! It’s happened. If you’ve read my last blog, ‘The Road West of Kangding’ you know that I called that particular road ‘the worst road in the world’. Well….guess what….there is much worse.

     Travelling with Chris Buckley, Reuters Beijing-base correspondent, we flew to Chengdu in Sichuan Province in China’s south-west to try and get into areas where we had heard that violent demonstrations regarding Tibet had occurred. The reports stated that buildings had been damaged, thousands of riot police and soliders had been deployed, hundreds of local Tibetans had been arrested and Buddhist temples were surrounded. So with Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao telling the world that such troubles were over less than a week after these reports, and there were no independent witnesses to verify this, we wanted to find out.

     We decided to travel on a local bus north-east from Chengdu to the city of Mianyang, from where we would decide what to do next. Looking back, we should have realised that the number of police roadblocks we saw, just going that far, was an indication of what we would encounter over the next few days.

     We found a local driver, and after staying just a few hours at a hotel (in case the local police became aware of our presence), we headed north. The roads out of town were wonderful. Slowly winding their way through the valley floors and then up into the mountains.

      We needed to speak to some local farmers and chose to stop for the night at a small rural township known as Baima, located around 250 kilometres north of Mianyang. Life was continuing pretty much normally for these lovely, very hospitable people. They showed us proudly around their homes, and told us we were expected for dinner at 7pm. I very quickly got our driver to take me 30 kilometres down the road to get a CDMA signal to file some pictures to the Singapore desk, but thankfully managed to make it back on time.

     The array of local dishes was spectacular. But it did come at a cost - the cost of consuming of 3 cups of local wine in less than one minute, and the singing of a song that both Chris and I knew after we were honoured with a local Tibetan welcoming song. The only song we both really knew was the Australian national anthem, (just a note, Chris has spent 10 years in China and sadly, I had to help him a little, tut tut Chris) but hopefully no recordings were made and that rendition will never be heard again.

     The next morning we got up, and it had been snowing. Around one foot of pristine, white snow blanketed the trees. Beautiful perhaps, buy not a good start when you have to travel on mountain roads that day. We had gone barely five kilometre when we had to get out and remove rocks from our path. The steep banks above the road could barely hold together at the best of times, and with the slowly melting snow adding weight to the soil, this was not exactly safe. The further we went, the more the road seemed to take on a menacing look, with places that just 24 hours earlier had seemed quite safe, now looking like they would give way and result in us tumbling into the valley some 400 metres below. But again, in hindsight, this was nothing.

     To get where we needed to go, we had to start going up into the mountains. And with a foot of snow in the valleys, what could we expect up there. Well, our questions were soon answered - two foot of snow and lots and lots of ice. Our inexperienced driver had to go back and get chains after we started sliding backwards - not enjoyable when u look over the edge of the road which now had a drop of some 600 metres.

      Slowly but surely we continued, through a harsh but extremely beautiful landscape of snow-covered trees and mountains. The treacherous conditions had taken their toll on numerous cars and buses, their engines and I suspect their brakes overheating, and a truck which had fallen on it’s side and lost it’s load over the edge (see picture).

    After 5 tedious hours, we had made it to the next town.

    We met up with our new driver, a man who proved himself irreplaceable time and time again, and started heading further north into Gansu Province. And this is where my new ‘world’s worst road’ (I will call it the WWR from now on for comparisons)  comes into the story. In order for us to get through the countless police and military roadblocks, we would have to travel on back-roads. This provided us with views of the most amazing rural landscapes, but these views came at a cost - our heads, our kidneys, the muscles in our arms and legs from holding on so tightly, but most of all, our sanity. The pot-holes this time were triple the size and a much much more often than the previous WWR. The police presence was at least ten times that of the previous WWR, meaning our ‘ducking down’ skills had to be repeated more and more often the further we got into the troubled areas. But to top it all off, the whole experience lasted four times longer than the previous WWR trip. Total time in the car was nearly 36 hours, and when your driver snores for 4 of those hours barely 3 feet from your head, its not very enjoyable.

       Eventually, after much agonising and wondering if we would ever get to where we needed to be, we made it to the township of Zhuoni. Here we managed to talk to monks in a temple and I managed to take a few frames without disrupting their prayer session. The feeling was tense, as the military had only in the last day stopped surrounding the temple grounds. We hurridly left after we suspected that we were being watched, and made it into the car. I quickly sent 6 pictures so that in the event that we were caught, we would have something to show for our efforts.

      We drove further on down the road, and the roadblocks became more and more numerous. I counted at least 20, and on six occasions, the police stopped the car and asked the driver to step out. At one, a riot policeman even tapped on the window and put his face to the glass to see in. All Chris and I could do was lie down on the back seat and wait. As I said earlier, our driver proved to be amazing.

       We managed to go further into the troubled spots and I managed to photograph a burned-down school, riot police and soldiers on township streets, and another Buddhist monastery located near the township of Xiahe, where the most violent protests had occurred just a week earlier. We even very quickly stopped at a very small Tibetan village where the whole trip for me became worthwhile. Chris finally managed to find a villager that spoke Chinese, everyone spoke Tibetan, and after a few broad questions about the riots in Lhasa and surrounding areas and what he thought about them, Chris asked him what he thought of the Dalai Lama. This ordinary, hard-working farmer who toiled in the fields 12 hours-a-day, every day, said ‘The Dalai Lama is like a member of the family that can’t come home’.

        So our trip down my new WWR was finally completed, after we went through yet another 5 or 6 roadblocks of course,  we checked into our hotel in Lanzhou and I laid out flat for what seemed like the first time in ages.

        Hopefully, this dusty, pot-hold riddled ‘track’ in south-western China will be the final winner of my little WWR award otherwise I will have to broaden the parameters a little to perhaps the ‘Worst Road in the Universe’…….?? To do that, I would definitely have to check with Douglas Adams first I think………

                                                                     
       PICTURE CAPTIONS:

 Pic1 -An elderly Tibetan woman dressed in traditional Qiang minority dress sits in her home in Baima Township

 Pic2 -  The township of Baima in the early morning after snowfall

 Pic3 - A truck that lost it’s load on the treacherous icy road over the mountains

 Pic4 - Farming land near the Tibetan village on the outskirts of the township of Hezuo

 Pic5 - A young boy sits in a cart in a Tibetan village on the outskirts of the township of Hezuo

 Pic6 - Standing with friendly Monks in the Deer Long Temple on the outskirts of the township of Xiahe
        
  

If someone had asked me just a few days ago what the worst road I could imagine in the world would be like, I would have told them probably a mountain road with lots and lots of rocks and pot-holes. Well, little did I imagine that these elements would combine with two mountain passes of around 4000 metres, vertical drops off the sides of around 500 metres, snow, ice and to top it all off, local police telling you that you cannot get to where you want to go.
The area is Sichuan Province in south-western China. The town is Kangding, located around 400 kilometres west of the capital Chengdu. The road leads west, towards Tibet. I am trying to cover the story about the violence that has spread into the province following the rioting in the Tibetan capital Lhasa on March 14. In order to find out what is going on, myself and text journalist John Ruwitch needed to get to another town called Litang, some 400 kilometres west of Kangding, where there were reports of trouble last week.

John Ruwitch and I in front of the local bus we got taken off by police.

So we got on a local bus at 6.30am, ready for an 8 hour trip. Well, before we even leave the terminal, we were asked to get off by two local policemen. ‘Where are you going?’. Well, since the bus had the name of the town written on the windscreen directly behind where John and I were standing, we pointed to it. ‘Why are you going?’. John explained very simply in his excellent Chinese ‘Because we hear it is very beautiful’. That seemed to be a good answer, and we were allowed to get back on.
The bus started off some three minutes after the scheduled departure time of 7a.m. due to our little chat with the local constabulary, and no more than one kilometre down the road, the bus was stopped again. Another two policeman got on the bus, and again we were asked to get off. ‘Where are u going?’ was the question once more. Same answer. ‘Why are you going?’ Same answer again. And to our surprise after a 20 minute delay this time, which the locals on the bus were not at all pleased about, we got back on the bus and once more started our journey.
The road started off just fine. Winding up the first mountain pass (this one was only 3800 metres-high) the snow from the previous night gave everything the look of being wrapped in a beautiful white blanket. And when the sun rose, the gorgeous morning light added a warm glow to an already pristine scene.
We got 100 kilometres from Kangding. All good.
150 kilometres, all good.
At 200 kilometres, a local official was at a toilet stop. He looked at the bus, but did not get onboard. On we went.
250 kilometres, we continued west.

The water closet along the road, and trust me, you don’t want to go inside…

Then, at 300 kilometres, we got unstuck. A police roadblock. Two police get on the bus. Two foreigners get off the bus. Two foreigners stay permanently off the bus. ‘Litang is forbidden for foreigners’ the abrupt, yet nice young female policewoman tells us. We come to the conclusion that there is no chance we will get any further west.
We are put into a small, and I do mean small, mini-van and driven back to Kangding. And how bad I thought the road was on the way in was multiplied by 20 times going back. How this van managed to stay together is a miracle. I must have hit my head on the roof at least a dozen times. And this was going at an average speed of just 20 kilometres per hour. Never again I said, never again.
Three days later, I am in a taxi travelling along the same road, at the same speed, at the same time, but now with the added obstacle of ice covering the entire road. How this taxi managed to stay on the road, going up and down the mountain passes, with no chains on the wheels, is yet another miracle. I didn’t realise just how slippery the road was until I had to get out and push the cab, when we lost momentum and stopped after getting stuck behind a large truck up a hill, and then run and jump back into it.

A yak sits in the middle of the icy road after a heavy snowfall the night before.

This time, we did at least make it to our destination - a monastery in a small village some 200 kilometres away - but due to the large increase in the number of official vehicles along the road, I also now had to duck every time one of these cars approached. Try doing that over 50 times.
Anyway, now that I am back in Kangding, trying to cover this story, which is getting more and more difficult everyday, I try to sleep at night not dreaming about those bumps on the ‘world’s worst road’.

You’ve heard of the two-horse-town, well…

A local Tibetan walks towards his home situated at the base of a beautiful snow-covered mountain near Kangding.

Landing at North Korea’s Pyongyang International Airport to cover the two-day visit by the New York Philharmonic, we did not know what to expect. Myself, and Reuters TV cameraman Anil Ekmecic, had never been to Korea before, and what must be a fairly unusual experience, we could now say we traveled to Korea via the reclusive North first.

As we touched down, both Anil and I, along with text journalist Jon Herskovitz, the feeling was of intense anticipation of the unknown in a visual sense. The first sight was a welcoming party, consisting of some 10 uniformed North Korean soldiers and more than 60 well-attired officials. All looking tense. Then what happened next must have been a rather unusual sight for North Korea - a media scrum. The traveling press of which we were a part of, consisted of approximately 60 journalists, 20 television cameraman and 10 photographers. But then what we hadn’t counted on was the local media, who appeared from nowhere, and were definitely not used to having to worry about getting in other people’s viewfinders, let alone being told to “get outta the way, Man”.

After the official group photograph of the orchestra had finished, we were introduced to our ‘guides’ for the two-day visit, and shuffled into buses. These friendly yet intimidating officials stated that they all were named “Kim” and they would be more than happy to accommodate our every need.

The convoy then started out to our hotel, about a 45 minute ride into town. At first we were expecting to have to sneak a few photographs and footage as we had been told on all previous official tours was the case, but all of us were pleasantly surprised when no orders to lower our cameras were given. So through thick, badly scratched and tinted windows, we recorded what we saw. A bleak and gray landscape covered in snow, dotted with run-down dilapidated buildings, the occasional car (usually an early 80’s model Mercedes), horse-drawn carts, and many many weary-looking people. Some were collecting firewood, while others were just aimlessly walking or standing by the road.

Then we entered the city itself. The gray and run-down apartment blocks were a stark contrast from the colorful propaganda posters lining the streets. One poster in particular caught the eye of the travelling press - a fist smashing into the head of an American soldier.
After checking into our comfortable five-star hotel (believe me, it wasn’t bad, but no five-star), we were taken to watch a performance by a traditional singing and dancing group that was quite beautiful. But the lavishness and quantity of food laid on at the dinner after was not. I could not bring myself to eat such food in a country where people were so hungry as evidenced by the skinny faces we had seen just a few hours before along the side of the road. The breakfast the next morning was even more extravagant, with an ice sculpture surrounded by food that the lovely traditionally dressed waitresses would surely have never seen before in their lives.

Next, we were herded into buses for a “city tour” that proved quite interesting but not all beneficial at showing real life in Pyongyang. We started at the massive bronze statue of ‘Dear Leader’ Kim Jung-il, which we were politely told we could only photograph ‘full length’, and made clear with a ‘make sure you do as I will check that you have Mr Gray’. Next was the city library, in which we all became very suspicious after being shown a room of some 40 brand new computers, all being used, and by people who we were told we could interview with ‘no problem at all’. And when Anil tried to film in a certain direction, and was promptly told he could not, he seemed to have made a very good friend for the rest of his time in North Korea.

But when we got to the next location, it provided me with my most distinct memory of the entire trip. We were taken to a subway station and ushered onto an 80-meter-long escalator, and while we were traveling down, coming up the other side were ordinary commuters. Their appearance to me was of complete helplessness, all passing slowly as if in a trance, heads bowed, staring blankly, faces unmoved. The best description is a factory conveyor-belt. The beautiful murals adorning the station seemed to become quite horrifying with their messages that all citizens exist to work for the state.

That night, the concert was without doubt beautiful and gave the elite members of Pyongyang society enjoyment. But to hear such gorgeous music in such a bleak environment did seem somewhat out of place.

The next day, our final tour site was an elite talent school for young children, involving performances of singing, gymnastics and dance. What was on stage was both amazing, and scary, with the level of talent leaving you breathless and wondering how long they must have rehearsed.

But what was even more amazing was the audience. Hundreds of students sitting with their eyes lowered, hands on their laps, no talking, no smiling, no giggling, no moving, until someone in charge started the applause. It was as if they also had been training for their performance. A sad moment happened as Anil was leaving and caught a shy glance from a young girl in the crowd. Just the fact that she was able to offer a slight smile and nod of recognition in an otherwise robotic environment gave him and myself hope that change might just be possible.

Once on the plane, after numerous photos on the tarmac for prosperity with our new ‘friends’, a wave of euphoria swept through the plane with the knowledge that being constantly observed and studied was finally over.
My personal impression of this experience - a sense of amazement that you can enter a George Orwell novel and come out the other side, especially when that novel is titled ‘1984′!

(To view an audio slideshow of David’s experience in North Korea click here. The audio is from the New York Philharmonic orchestra’s performance in Pyongyang where they began their show with a rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.)

When I’m asked, “what it like riding a bicycle in Beijing?”‘ my reply is, ”WATCH OUT FOR THE BUSES!!”                          

With most roads in Beijing already squeezed for space by millions of cars, the thousands more added everyday, the bicycle lane is often used as a bus stop, especially around Tienanmen Square. Bus drivers have developed a blind spot where cyclists are concerned, particularly those riding down a dedicated cycle lane.

There are other perils too.

- The weather.  In winter the cold slaps your face, in summer the sweat runs into your eyes but the freedom of cruising without a helmet (such things are more relaxed in China) reminds me of when I could do the same as a youngster back home in Australia - so much fun - and it’s not as if a cycle helmet is going to prevent anyone from becoming the hood mascot on a crosstown bus..

- The pollution.  Not so bad unless you are an air-breather but just about survivable if you cough vigorously about every 500 metres or so.

- The taxis. Wow, WATCH OUT for those guys, they really know how to cut you up. If they were the same size as buses, they would be the cyclist’s public enemy number one.

 Ohhhh, I nearly forgot;

- the electric bicycles. Silent but deadly. If you aren’t paying attention they can be on top of you before you know it, even after you’ve just looked over your shoulder.

But hey, if you can survive all those things being a ‘LaoWei’ on a bicycle cruising along the main roads of Beijing on a bicycle can be extremely enjoyable. The flatness of Beijing coupled with miles of cycle lanes allows you to progress at a leisurely pace while taking in the sights. Fascinating………..if not a little scary.

I recently took up a position as Senior Photographer based in Beijing, China after 12 years in Sydney, Australia. Here are some of my first impressions.

The first thing is the sky isn’t quite so blue. In fact, it’s not even near a shade of blue. The smog on the first five days I was here was amazing. The closest thing I have experienced similar to these conditions was in 2001 when Sydney had its last extreme bush fire season, and the whole city was covered in a thick, smoky haze. But that was when there were over 100 fires burning in and around Sydney, this was a normal Beijing day. Though I must say so far, most likely due to the fresh, Aussie lungs that I possess, I have no breathing problems to report.

Secondly, there a just a few more photographers competing for the best angle. For example, the first thing I covered was the spectacular one-year countdown celebrations in Tiananmen Square. There would have been nearly 200 photographers and television crews trying to cover this, in an area that normally I would have seen reserved for about 60 people. With the humid, high temperatures, being so closely packed does tend to make it a little uncomfortable, especially after 5 hours.

And thirdly, the Chinese authorities love accreditation forms. Almost every event, and when I say almost I mean 99.9 percent of all events that are press related, requires an accreditation pass. This means that forward planning is essential, and turning up on the day without any groundwork will mean a nice, uniformed man will put his hand to your camera and say something very loudly.

Having said all this, however, it has been extremely interesting and eye-opening. Impressions formed of a country looking in from the outside can be vastly different from the actual reality of what occurs. I have encountered a fantastic sense of humor that I hope to understand better when I can speak a little more Mandarin, as my favorite thing to do when visiting a country is to strike up a conversation with taxi drivers. You always find out what’s going on through these very often extremely interesting people (the last taxi driver I spoke to was a 4th-year medical student from Uganda who was making some extra cash driving a taxi on the weekends).

So, I must quickly get back to filling in my press card form, temporary resident form, air freight cargo form, Olympic test events accreditation forms, car license form, real estate application form, mobile phone application form, medical examination form, office security card form, etc etc etc……………

To illustrate International Womens Day Sydney photographer David Gray travelled through clinging mud to tell a story of true grit.

Anyone single-handedly running a 6,000 acre farm in the New South Wales outback in the grip of the worst drought for 100 years needs to be pretty remarkable, but when May McKeown told me on the phone that she was 68, she dispelled any lingering doubts I may have had that her struggle was the ideal subject for a photographic essay to illustrate the celebration of International Womens Day.

Mays property is located more than 700 kilometres north-west of Sydney, near the small town of Come-by-Chance, a mere nine hours away in a country where distances are measured in how many days it takes to drive there.

Unbelievably, as I got close it began to look as if it might rain, so I rang her for advice. I was almost at the end of the bitumen road and when the black outback soil gets wet it sticks like glue to tyres. The further you go the more it sticks until you get to the point when the wheels wont go round anymore and the vehicle grinds to a halt. Encouraged by Mays promise to ring me if it rained, I pressed on.

The rain started almost as soon as I left the bitumen road. The sound the mud made as it clogged the wheels got louder and louder the further I drove. Just when I thought it could get no worse I found her property. Another kilometre and I would have become bogged in one of the most remote spots on the planet. However, having stopped at the gate I had to struggle to get the car to move again and slid down the track to the house barely able to control its direction.

May ran out, amazed that to see me as minutes after our first conversation she had left a message on my phone advising me not to attempt the journey, (a message I received only next day when I got home).

For the next few hours I walked with her as she inspected the property. We walked because even her four-wheel-drive would have become stuck in the mud. Just before dusk the sun appeared from behind the storm clouds, bathing everything in the beautiful light you can see in some of the pictures.

Next day I followed her around while she hand-fed her remaining cattle in the way she has had to do for the past four years. Hopefully I have captured something which will stand as a memorial to her determined struggle to hang onto a way of life and a property which has been in her family for more than 150 years in the face of the elements and physical and financial hardship.