By the time the aid workers arrive at Mbera refugee camp at 7am after crisscrossing a 15 km (9 mile) trail through sand dunes from the adjacent town in a convoy of white Land Cruisers, Malian refugee and mother Zeinab Mint Hama has already been up for at least an hour.

As she did back home in Lere, Mali, Zeinab starts her days early to avoid the blazing midday Saharan sun, with temperature reaching up to 50 degrees Celsius (122 degrees Fahrenheit). She and the 64,000 other Malians who have fled violence in their home country to settle temporarily at Mbera, a United Nations-run camp about 40 km (25 m) from the Malian border in neighboring Mauritania, are persevering to establish a sense of normalcy to their new lives.

SLIDESHOW: MALI REFUGEES

Mbera itself functions like a fairly normal Saharan city: there are schools, a butcher, hairdressers, lots of tea and even the odd electric guitar. Traditionally nomadic peoples, many of the Tuaregs and Berabiche Arab tribes who left Mali for Mbera are accustomed to a life of minimal material comfort and establishing their homes under tents built from available materials. But events in Mali have provided a new challenge: political instability and violence.

Since Tuareg and Salafist rebels began their campaign in January 2012 for an independent state called Azawad, in Northern Mali, more than 320,000 people have fled their homes and about half of them have sought asylum in refugee camps in neighboring Sahelian states such as Mauritania, Burkina Faso, Niger and Algeria, according to UN statistics. Mbera is the largest such camp.

However, for many older refugees at Mbera escaping violence is nothing new. A Tuareg uprising in the early 1990s and subsequent Malian state crackdown led many to flee their homes and live in neighboring states. Asked why she fled from her home in Lere, Mali, 34-year-old Timal Bara explained, “it’s because we remember what happened in ’92”—when Malian militia groups called Ganda Koy roamed the countryside targeting Tuaregs.

A key missing demographic from the camp is young men, who in many cases have stayed behind either to look after belongings in Mali or fight with the rebel groups. Women and children form the majority of Mbera’s residents.

The more politically inclined younger generation pin their hopes on an independent Azawad. But for those a bit older who witnessed the negative effects of violence in past decades, the struggle to get by takes precedence. The words of Mohamed Iselkou, a 45-year-old farmer and businessman from Timbuktu, described the sentiments of many in Mbera: “We just want to go home.”

(View a slideshow of images here)

My photo story on Spain’s Austerity Squatters is a somewhat humble tribute to women.

SLIDESHOW: LIVING IN A GHOST BUILDING

When I entered the occupied building, I found a group of women with insurmountable courage and strength; women struggling for dignity; women fighting for their families to not live on the street after their eviction; women, often unemployed, without economic resources.

The first night I spent with them, without asking me beforehand, they gave me a plate of ratatouille. Thanking them, my first reaction was to tell them that I was not hungry, but the reality was different – I was starving. I found it uncomfortable to eat a meal in a place where food and resources were scarce, but I thought it would do more harm to reject this ration, that was offered to me with much affection and pride. I ate and it was extremely tasty.

I experienced great human moments, when their eyes shone with the shy hint of tears. I loved seeing their mouths draw into a smile as they asked me if I believed that the occupation would be a success. I said yes, this looks great.

Little by little, I began engaging with them. I felt honored when they confessed that I was the only journalist allowed to move freely around the building. They said they felt very confident with me. I think that’s one of the best rewards that a photographer can get, confidence.

When asked which Polish athlete has a chance at the London Olympics I immediately thought of the shot put champion Tomasz Majewski.

For those who have never seen Tomasz in real life, it can be a bit intimidating. I have always considered myself tall at 192cm (6 feet, 3 inches), but when I first met Tomasz I suddenly felt very small. With a height of 2.4 meters (7 feet 10 inches) and weighing 140 kg (308 pounds), Tomasz is overpowering. He reminded me of Hercules with his long dark hair up in a pony tail. He also has a nice warm smile he puts on easily, so being around him is relaxed and easy right from the first handshake.

I wanted to photograph Tomasz training for the Olympics and he was kind enough to let me just be around him during his daily training and routines. So for the next few weeks I was watching him shot putting, running, jumping, lifting weights and preparing for the biggest sporting event, held every four years. With just one arm he lifted more than I could bench press with all my strength.

I also accompanied him during family moments with his wife Anna and their newly born son Mikolaj. One of the most touching moments was photographing Tomasz holding, with so much care in his huge hands, tiny Mikolaj. The bare torso Hercules was morphing into a gentle giant in front of my eyes.

Tomasz would only agree to this picture after consulting with his wife – another example of a gentle spirit in this massive body that forced me to extend the background I had prepared and brought along for the portrait.

Surprisingly, as a child Tomasz wanted to become a writer and cut sports classes. Then, at the age of 15, he changed and wanted to train in basketball. But his cousin talked him into athletics so he started with the triple jump, moved to discus and only later discovered he really belonged to shot put.

In 2003 he joined Poland’s national team with 20.09 meters in Florence. Two years later he was already among the best in the world and has held this position ever since the 2005 University Games in Izmir. He won a gold medal at the 2008 Olympic games Beijing with 21.51 meters, becoming the first Pole to achieve that since Wladyslaw Komar in 1972.

Photo courtesy of Kai Pfaffenbach

The show features the last two finalists and generally an array of high profile music performances. Our shooting position was next to the teleprompter, so my setup was a Canon Mark IV with 400mm, 5D Mark II with a 70-200 and another Mark IV with either a 300mm or a 16-35.

Seasoned show host Ryan Seacrest got the finale off the ground, accompanied by a joyful and supportive crowd that quickly filled up the theater and cheered for an opening duet by the two finalists. The show definitely kicked into a higher gear with a laser-enhanced performance by Rihanna and an energetic performance by American Idol judge Jennifer Lopez.

The evening passed through performances by music icons like John Fogerty, Neil Diamond and Chaka Khan while the top male finalists honored the memory of Bee Gees founder Robin Gibb, who had just passed away.

The two-hour show quickly motored towards the end, but before the crowning, the audience was graced with another great performance by American Idol judge Steven Tyler and his band Aerosmith.

As per tradition, the moment had come for Ryan Seacrest to announce this season’s winner, while a very attentive and quiet crowd started cheering for Phillip Phillips.

Under a blanket of confetti and in tears, Phillips performed the closing song of the show. Another idol had been made.

“Jim Urquhart; lowering expectations since 1977″

That is something that kept popping in my head as I drove home from southern Utah after covering the annual eclipse for Reuters the day before. That, and also regretting not purchasing a bumper sticker from a small gas station in the town of Beaver, Utah.

It wasn’t that my pics were bad – several had run in some the most respected online photo galleries of the event – but I knew I didn’t hit a home run.

I had spent weeks planning how to cover the unique annular eclipse that was last visible over the United States in 1994. I researched time tables, discussion boards on how to shoot the eclipse, talked with other photojournalists on how they planned to cover it to make certain I was in the right place for the eclipse. I spent hours working with neutral density and solar filter combinations. I even researched the meaning of Johnny Cash’s 1963 hit “Burning Ring of Fire.” Some say the song is about “transformative love.” After covering the eclipse I subscribe to the belief it has more to do with the transformation of one’s bowels after too many habaneros and tequila than it does with love.

Myself and our reporter ventured to the small town of Kanarraville, Utah. NASA scientists had deemed it the world’s “sweet spot” to view the eclipse. I heard many people (over and over again) say they expected 5,000 to 15,000 people to venture to the town of about 300 for the event. I was dead certain this was the right place to watch the eclipse and also make images of the crush of on-lookers.

When I had arrived there early on Sunday at about 10 in the morning to secure my shooting position a whole ten hours earlier than the event, I was one of the first there. I felt good about this but as the day went on I began to really question my choice. Yes, I would have a great view of the eclipse, but I wouldn’t have a distinct landmark in front of the eclipse to really show where I was.

The weather forecast of clear skies was also holding true and this was actually kind of upsetting me. I thought clouds would make a more compelling frame. The day before, I spent rock climbing elsewhere in southern Utah and had found several unique rock formations that would make for interesting photos. But I was going to the small town to focus more on the people watching the eclipse and not the eclipse itself.

As the eclipse neared I really began to question my decision to be where I was. Thousands did show up, but not the crowd crush I had envisioned. There were a lot of people where I was, but we weren’t crushed in shoulder to shoulder. A nine mile section of road leading to the town was lined with cars parked on both sides but I was now quite a distance away from this road and wouldn’t have enough time to go there and come back. So I opted to stay.

I made images I felt told the story of what was happening in front of me, but I wished there was something more amazing. The eclipse itself was beautiful but I didn’t spend a lot of time focusing on it.
During the eclipse I spent my time making photos of it, shooting pics of people watching it and also editing and attempting to transmit the photos from my location. Earlier in the day I had tested my broadband internet connection and had no problem sending pics but now that thousands of people had descended on this small town, the cell phone towers were bogged down by everyone’s smart phones. It was almost impossible to even make a phone call. I was now waiting in excess of 20 minutes to just upload one photo.
This beautiful event was taking place right over my shoulder and I was sitting there cussing and swearing to myself (and to anyone else that dared listen) about such issues like connectivity and trying to get the pictures out in the U.S. before east coast deadlines had expired. Luckily, no one cared to listen.

I kept making images but none were jumping out at me. I have tried to tell myself over and over again that I did the best I could. I covered what happened in front of me but I am not convinced that is fully true. Yes, I was there. I shot what was taking place in front of me. But it was not anything close to what I had expected of myself. As the eclipse began to set behind a mountain the crowd began to sing “Burning Ring of Fire.” To them I guess this was a happy moment.

However, in my mind, I was shaking my fist in the general direction of the sun and moon and mumbling to myself about even more offensive theories to which that song is really about.

Using my tripod as a walking stick, I carefully worked my way down the dark and muddy slope of a Maine riverbed to the rocks below where the nets and plastic bucket marked carefully selected and secretive fishing spots. The elver fishermen had arrived hours earlier to stake out a good location on the shore. With the baby eels selling for $2,300 a pound, the extra time and effort is worth it. Once their space is secure, it’s time to “hurry up and wait,” as one fisherman explained.

Elvers are American eels harvested as they swim upstream from the ocean where they are born to rivers and lakes where they will live until they reach sexual maturity. They swim at night with the incoming tide, so the fishermen typically work in the dark.

With only around 400 permits issued by the state, reporter Jason McLure and I had some difficulty finding fishermen willing to be interviewed or photographed. Although we had a handful of names and phone numbers, they were all dead ends. There was always a veil of secrecy as we asked around trying to track fishermen down. With the amount of money involved, ensuring personal security and preventing poachers were common concerns. Reporters and photographers can be considered threats to these efforts.

Two friends of mine asked around a small fishing community up the coast, and the closest they got was the acknowledgment that there were people in the area fishing for elvers. Everyone went quiet when asked for a name. Another journalist had warned me that this would be the case. We just had to go to a river where there might be fishing and be willing to “hurry up and wait.” This strategy eventually worked and we found our subjects as long as we promised not to mention the name of the river or the town they were fishing in.

When finally upon the action, I noticed each fisherman had a different technique for dipping his net in the water. One preferred to walk back and forth along a stone wall; others swung the net from side to side in front of them. As we were waiting in the afternoon, one fisherman invited me down to try one of the nets so I could see what they have to do for hours each night. I expected the net to glide easily through the water, but with such a fine mesh needed to catch the eels, it was more like paddling a canoe with an awkwardly long paddle.

When the sun had set and the tide rose again, it was time for them to fish. Unfortunately it was now raining, but the alluring market price for their haul outweighed any concerns about the weather. They worked for hours, but it was slow going that night because the rain-flooded river was running stronger than usual so the elvers would wait until it calmed down to continue.

By early morning, the fishermen were debating whether to head home or try another spot. Jason had gotten the name of an eel buyer we hoped to track down the next day in Portland, so I headed home to dry out. I took off my rain gear, muddy boots and headlamp and tried to wipe down my wet cameras as I packed them.

Our story wasn’t done yet, but we had made a big first step by finding these fishermen. From there, things started to fall into place. One fisherman gave us the name of his eel buyer to contact.

While photographing the packaging of eels at their facility, I met a fisherman I’d been trying to reach earlier in the week. He agreed to allow me to photograph him as he checked his net early the next morning. What started on muddy rock in the rain led us to a warehouse on the Portland waterfront, then on to a marsh outside of town. That was the final component I needed to show elver fishing in Maine.

It began as a normal summer day in cold Bogota, with bright sun lighting up the morning. I had just picked up one of my favorite lenses from a repair shop, and was carrying a camera and wide angle lens in a bag while heading for a local university which I have done photo assignments for. As I talked to Vicky, the head of the journalism school, all of a sudden a great explosion shook us. In her eyes I saw the same fear that I was feeling, as the deafening sound left us speechless. It was only instinct that carried me to the street.

I ran out of the university towards the place of the explosion like a bull being released into the ring. Ground zero was right on a nearby street in downtown Bogota, where attacks like this haven’t happened in a very long time. I walked through the strange atmosphere of shocked people, deafening noise and fear, to reach the epicenter. I was surrounded by terror, blood, screams, sobs, rumors of another bomb, and death exposed for all to see.

One woman tried to calm a man lying on the ground, as another appeared with blood on her face in a way that reminded me of Christ bleeding from the crown of thorns.

The body of an elderly man, the driver of the bus that was destroyed, was hanging from the bus window. With his head swaying like a pendulum almost touching the front tire, his blood and sweat dripping on the asphalt below, and his left hand hanging by just a thread of skin, he seemed dead, but he wasn’t.  Several men and women with their faces bathed in blood, stood frozen with shock, watching the minutes pass.

One elegantly dressed man with a bloodied face was surrounded by bodyguards with their 9 mm pistols drawn and ready. He was stupefied. I began to photograph him only to find out later that he was a former interior minister under the previous government, and that he was the target of the blast.

Police arrived and made it difficult for me to photograph. I was only documenting one act of the terrorism that is plaguing the globe. I evaded them as I photographed, trying to photograph a body lying amidst the destroyed vehicles. The police closed off the street as the woman kneeling next to the man asked them for help. Ambulances began to arrive and take away the injured, with everything happening very fast.

I used in seconds almost everything I had learned in my years as a photographer, and relived my experiences in the streets of Medellin covering the armed conflicts of the 1980’s and 90’s. Amidst the shock and daze, I pressed the shutter as the adrenaline flowed and kept me from breaking into tears.

My mobile phone rang, and my boss asked me, “Where are you?”

“I’m at the bomb site.”

He calmed me by saying that I should relax and keep photographing, and that he was on the way.

After seeing this collective fratricide by armed groups of unarmed and defenseless people, I was impressed by the struggle of the innocent victims to save themselves and others, in such an inhuman situation.

Almost 2 years ago I started work on a photo documentary simply titled “Obesity in America.”  It’s a simple title but with complex subject matter.

Getting the access, the various permissions from individuals and institutions and working through the convoluted American HIPPA (Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act) that protects patient privacy to extremes was quite a challenge. But trying to tell a story with this many layers and permutations was even tougher.

It was a hot topic back in 2010 when I started, with obesity-related stories moving frequently on the Reuters wire but with few images to go with them. I set out to change that and decided to work the project in multiple chapters.

Since I last blogged about the documentary, I have shot several more chapters and learned a lot more about how complicated this topic is.

After the early chapters in 2010 on “fat acceptance” and on an obese woman getting a gastric bypass, I’ve done work on:

-       Local hospitals fighting youth obesity

-       Morbidly obese people auditioning for The Biggest Loser TV show

-       The Biggest Loser Boot Camp in Utah

-       A clinical study on infants born from obese mothers

-       How schools are working with very young and obese children to eat better and exercise

-       A teenager having a controversial lap band procedure and her mother who had gastric bypass at nearly the same time

-       And most recently, free Zumba classes for low-income people

What I have learned along the way is there is no easy fix. Simply telling people to eat less and exercise more is not the solution in and of itself. There can be complex genetics involved, psychiatric implications and much more to address.

Then there are the societal influences like the “super sizing” of fast food offerings. There are the “food deserts” in the inner city where supermarkets selling healthy food are completely absent. Convenience stores selling cheap hot dogs and chips are the sources for dinner for many. And there are traditions like bringing giant cakes to school for parties celebrating every kid’s birthday.

Possibly the most rewarding work has come in covering Jazmine Raygoza and her mother Veronica who both had bariatric surgery. I’ve been covering them consistently from the days before Jazmine’s surgery, through her procedure, and post-surgery life with gym workouts, learning exercises with other bariatric patients and just hanging out with friends watching her get thinner. Since she is in her last year of high school I’ve shot her at prom, her graduation. I will be shooting the final set of pictures at her one year mark on June 20, 2012. By then, between Jazmine and her mother, they will have lost nearly 200 pounds. That’s a lot of weight they won’t be carrying around anymore – hopefully forever.

As for me, I did well in the gym and lost 20 pounds myself. But don’t look to see me in a photo documentary any time soon!

Recently I was at the beach on a very hot and sunny day in the province of Matanzas, east of Havana, when a group of tourists arrived in a bus. As I watched, two of them sneaked behind a bush, stripped to their underwear, slipped their clothes to their companions, and had a quick dip in the sea. They were obviously nervous, watching out so that they wouldn’t be spotted by their minders. I realized that they were Americans, and that by taking a swim and committing an act of tourism, they were breaking the laws of the U.S embargo. They were breaking the law in their own country, and they knew it.

United States citizens are now allowed to fly in directly to visit Cuba under a cultural program bound by strict conditions, the main one being that they are not allowed to practice tourism. By following the rules they will not be breaking the 60-year trade embargo imposed on the island under U.S. law. At last U.S. citizens are allowed to visit this forbidden country, listed by the U.S. as a sponsor of terrorism along with Iran, Syria, Sudan, and North Korea, but they have to behave themselves.

The sneaky swimmers spoke in a nervous whisper, twisting their mouths as if someone could read their lips from the distance. As they glanced over their shoulders, it was like a massive crime was being committed with a long prison sentence as punishment for being caught. There were rumors among them that minders were infiltrating their groups and posing as one of them. If it were true, anyone could be a minder reporting back to the U.S. congress on illegal tourist activities engaged by American travelers with the aim of stopping these tours and tightening the embargo once again.

A known fact is that thousands of Americans have been breaking the embargo in increasing numbers by flying into Cuba via transit stops in the Bahamas, Mexico, and Europe. Cuban immigration authorities don’t touch their passports, but give them entry and exit stamps on a separate paper. In their passports they only have exit and entry stamps from the intermediate country, so technically they could have been on the moon, on mars, or floating in the ocean for the undocumented days.

But many U.S. immigration and customs officers checking passports on return know very well where citizens have been. Occasionally they ask questions about popular Cuban products like cigars and rum, and sometimes people are discovered and fined. In spite of that, it is a known fact that it is happening, and if the U.S. really were to enforce the law and build prisons to lodge all Americans visiting Cuba, another problem could be added to the list of ills in the U.S. economy.

The groups are tightly guarded and controlled by minders from both sides, with Cubans taking care of security for the visitors, and the Americans in charge of enforcing the embargo rules. They are not allowed to speak freely to the press nor to ordinary Cubans. It looks to me like the tropical salsa version of a North Korea tour, but without the salsa; no salsa dancing allowed, except maybe alone in your hotel room, in the dark.

I have spoken several times to people in these groups as I find the subject fascinating. Recently some complained that they were not allowed to take a dip in the sea after a long, sweaty day of cultural visits to museums and lectures. The words they used to describe their minders from the American side were not nice, and they accused them of reporting directly to the anti-Castro lobby led by U.S. congresswoman Ileana Ros-Lehtinen. These visitors were literally paranoid when having a short chat with me, even more so after I told them that I work for the international press.

Nearly all the visitors I’ve spoken to were elderly, open-minded and intelligent. I felt sorry for them because they were not getting the ‘real picture’ of Cuba. Others I approached for a chat put their heads down and didn’t utter a word, and a couple gave me a defiant look. I assumed those were minders.

The new cultural exchange trips are a new delicate, interesting and challenging way to visit the communist island, but you will not feel very free and the only dip you can legally take is one in your hotel bathtub.

Hardeep Singh, a father of two, leaves his home in west Delhi every day at around 2 p.m. Dressed in a pair of light trousers and a shirt, he reaches a local charity, where he undresses to reveal his female clothes underneath and transforms into Seema.

The 33 year old is a male-to-female transgender, or “hijra”, as they are known in India. Living with two identities, by day, he is a married family man and by night, a hijra sex worker.

With no legal recognition in India, transgenders like Seema have little choice but to turn to prostitution to earn a living, which is something she hides even from her family.

She has been working the streets since the age of 15, as well as with the life-long risks that come with the job, including HIV/AIDS.

She takes anti-retroviral drugs to control the infection – something I got to know while photographing her at her home with her family.

After spending a day with Seema, I asked if I could go out with her to see her working the streets. She agreed and from a safe distance, I photographed her as she took her position under a busy flyover to wait for clients. With my 50mm, I captured a few shots of her negotiating her rates with potential clients. For some, it took a few moments, for others, Seema negotiated for up to 45 minutes before jumping on the back of a motorcycle or hopping into the front seat of a car.

I’ll admit I wasn’t totally prepared for the shoot. Prostitution, like in many other countries, is illegal in India, and photographing sex workers talking with clients was risky. I was worried that someone would spot me or that I would be hit by a car speeding by as I stood on top of the flyover peering down at Seema.

Setting my camera up to the highest ISO level, I managed to capture some unique moments.

It was quite an experience shooting her double life, seeing her at home, playing with her children and doing regular household chores, as well as being able to document her going through her daily transformation from male to female, into her true self.