A Stroll in Klong Toey

My Canon EOS 3 is not just a camera but an instrument which I use to capture the essence of the world and its people. When I hold the camera in my hands and look through its lens, I discover a world that I could not see with my naked eyes. Deftly adjusting the focusing ring with my left hand, I refine the blurry demarcations of the world. Then, tweaking the aperture and the shutter speed with my right hand, I exhale deeply and lock in my elbows to minimize the shaking of the camera at the moment of exposure. Slowly pressing down the shutter button with my right index finger, I attempt to capture meaningful events in a person’s life or human history. I venture into places known and unknown to capture moments of birth, joy, order, chaos, death, dejection, rituals, or celebrations.

Today, at sundown, I stand on a street in Klong Toey, Bangkok, and study the natives as they laugh, cry, cross the streets, or sit around as their minds adrift. Just as I examine their every movement, I am also under their scrutiny, for I appear as a stranger, as a tourist, despite attending a school that isn’t far from where I am standing. Also, I reckon my camera, which I let hang from my neck and occasionally hold up to my face, may appear as an intrusive object, especially when they don’t know what I am photographing. As I shift my eyes from one scene to another in search of an image to capture, I begin to understand fragments of the life in Klong Toey: I watch a child and his mother in tattered clothes sitting at the steps of their home constructed of plywood and eating their freshly made Som Tam. I find an emaciated elderly man–completely soaked in his perspiration–kneeling to realign the bike-chain on his battered metal bike. Dressed in a flimsy, ragged overall, he covers his mouth with his dark, wrinkled, grease-stained left hand and coughs violently. I feel a surge of anger, pity, and helplessness at the world’s unjust distribution of wealth.

I grip the camera with my right hand. Supporting its body and the lens with my left hand, I bring the camera closer to my face. Looking through my viewfinder, I find the elderly man. His blank eyes hint exhaustion and defeat as his bicycle remains immobile and as the sun’s disappearance steals the city’s radiance. Assessing the distance between the man and me, I hastily move back two steps. Then, taking into account the darkness that envelops the man, I adjust the focus, open up the aperture as wide as possible, and set the shutter speed to a full one second. Waiting for the right moment, I remain frozen with my right eye on the viewfinder. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, I steady my breathing. Then, I see the man’s eyes fill with brilliance and hope. Perhaps his eyes brightened because he finally fixed his bicycle or because he recalled his favorite childhood memory, but I have no time to explore my curiosity. Locking my elbows against my chest, I hold my breath and press down on the shutter button.

When exposing a film for a second, photographers feel as if that one second is an eternity. For that second that the shutter remains open, photographers have to avoid making even the minutest movement, for a slightest tremor before the completion of the protracted “c-lick” could destroy the shot. During this eternity, while some photographers strive to remain focused, others allow their minds to meander. Still, others recall their childhood memories, plan their future, or practice meditation. As I wait for the completion of the prolonged “c-lick,” I wonder what could have caused the man’s eyes to fill with hope and energy. I wonder if others on the street could also recognize the brilliance in his eyes. I wonder if the Som Tam is enough to fill the child and the mother’s bellies and if poverty could ever end for Klong Toey. Finally, as I hear the shutter close, I suddenly wonder if I now have proof that unrelenting hope gives mankind its strength to champion over the world’s injustice and indifference.