“Oooohhh, the little man who look like terrorist?” said the little man as he stroked his pretend beard to make sure we all knew who he was talking about.
“Dion is,” answered Blake Myers.
“Which one of you is the boss?” piped up the cheeky little transport man driving the van.
“How much would you pay to be poolside with an ice cold beer, Dion?” he asked as we waited in two-hour traffic stuffed in a transport van on the way to Seminyak. “I’d easily pay 200 bucks right now,” he said, answering his own question.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” John Respondek said. “How am I suppose to shoot portraits of you guys if you’re all shooting photos of each other? I guess I’ll shoot you guys shooting each other,” he said as he dipped into the villa pool hungover from some silly party in Canggu the night before. “Spons” lives the good life. He shoots the best surfers in the world in the best locations in the best waves, parties harder than any of them, and spends the lay days dipping in villa pools and drinking ice cold beer — only ice cold beer. If halfway through a beer it starts to sweat just a touch too much, Spons springs for a fresh cold one. He fantasizes about paying pretend money to get him out of situations he hates like airports and cab rides.
Cole somehow wandered to Bali, basically through a few Instagram comments and a flight from Russia, then wandered off to Brazil to finish off a project about him wandering to five different cities shooting double exposed portraits of beautiful women, all by himself. When I asked Cole about his whimsical wandering prose he replied from the pit of his chiseled Buddha belly: “You’re not wandering if you end up exactly where you meant to, Warren.” A long pause ensued while I tried to digest the depth of such a simple yet profound statement, jealously wishing I had said it instead. Meanwhile Cole was already off and wandering, yelling across the courtyard, “Hey Ozzie, go get in the urchin covered ocean in the pitch black night and hold this burning surfboard doused in gasoline.” Ozzie declined.
“Hey Warren, set your hair on fire and pour milk on your dick while I shoot through this gutted out jitterbug,” exclaimed snowboard photographer turned wandering portrait specialist Cole Barash.
“Hey Creed, spit this Bailey’s out of your mouth while you’re underwater, it’ll look rad!” ordered director Dion.
“What’s your meter say, Dion?” asked Thom Pringle as he reloaded his medium format something or another.
Every single person on this trip had a camera.