Banda Aceh 2004

I naively stepped onto a military cargo plane just days after the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami, unaware that I was flying into one of the worst natural disasters in modern history. The 9.1 magnitude earthquake unleashed waves more than 100 feet high, devastating 14 nations and killing over 227,000 people.

The plane landed first in Thailand before heading toward the epicenter — Banda Aceh, Indonesia. I wasn’t supposed to leave the aircraft, but somehow I found myself wandering a half-destroyed city, disoriented and unsure of what had really happened.

At first, the town seemed deceptively normal. Scooters buzzed, women in headscarves filled the markets, and buses belched smoke. Daily life carried on in appearances, but as I walked closer to the disaster zone, the faces around me changed — eyes haunted, expressions weighed down by trauma.

Soon I came to what looked like a muddy riverbank. But it wasn’t a river — it was the place where the tsunami had ended its inland march, more than two miles from the coast. The stench of diesel and cooking fires gave way to something darker: a foul, rotten odor I had never encountered before, yet instinctively recognized as death.

Along the mud-caked road, I saw a large yellow body bag. A group of men in orange coveralls and helmets smiled nervously before one of them unzipped the bag, revealing two decomposed bodies — an adult and a child, limbs intertwined, clothes torn, hair matted. The smell overwhelmed me, buckling my knees. The bag was quickly shut, but the men beckoned me to follow.

They led me into what had once been a beautiful stucco home, now filled with more than a foot of mud. Nervous eyes darted back and forth. One man mimed the click of a camera, urging me to document what was happening. Then, another man reached elbow-deep into the mud and pulled up an infant — tiny, limp, coated in sludge.

The room froze. The man stumbled, wide-eyed, holding the child. My camera clicked, my breath grew heavy. And then, as if the earth itself rejected our intrusion, the baby’s body slipped from his hands, its skull shattering as it hit the floor. A gasp went through the room. Death clung to us, on our faces, our clothes, our skin.

The man carried what remained outside, trembling, and laid the child into another body bag. I stumbled away, shaken to my core, dry heaving and sobbing. I had never been so close to death — so intimate, so overwhelming. My photographs from those moments were blurred, barely usable, but they were a record of my first encounters in Indonesia.

For a week I worked alongside Mexican “rescue” workers who, in truth, only recovered the dead. We drove through wreckage, following leads from locals. Bodies were pulled from rubble, placed in bags, lined on the streets. I asked one worker why they called themselves rescuers. He had no answer.

When I returned to the U.S., the news had already moved on. Hundreds of thousands had died, but the world’s attention had shifted elsewhere. I felt broken — mentally and physically — carrying images and memories I didn’t know how to share.

Eventually, the East-West Center at the University of Hawai‘i agreed to exhibit my photographs. The show grew into a book, with 100% of profits donated to relief efforts. They sent me back to Indonesia months later to document the aftermath — the return of markets, schools, and ordinary life, though everything had changed. Survivors told stories of ten minutes of shaking earth, of families swept away, of impossible choices — one man who had to let go of his wife’s hand to save his children.

Her body was never found. She may have been one of the thousands buried in mass graves, or among the remains my companions retrieved.

Life in Banda Aceh went on, but for me, it never returned to what it was. The tsunami marked me as deeply as it marked the land.

🥃 Refined Draft — Stumbling Home

As rigid as Japanese society can be, attitudes toward alcohol and public intoxication are surprisingly liberal. On any given night, Tokyo’s entertainment districts can feel like drunk college towns. Smoke-filled izakayas overflow with raucous salarymen in identical black suits, devouring yakitori while guzzling frothy beer and sweet sake. Later, many stumble into karaoke bars where the older men croon Sinatra and the Beatles, while younger colleagues belt out J-pop or Western hits.

Work pressures and rigid top-down leadership drive much of this behavior. Drinking with colleagues and bosses is seen as a way to build cohesion and loyalty, even if it means enduring heavy workloads and late nights. For office ladies (OLs) who join, the rituals are different: pouring beer for male coworkers, laughing along, fending off wandering hands, and keeping their composure. Rarely do women stumble home in the same state as the men.

By midnight, the scene shifts to subway stations. Red-faced drunks clutch their briefcases, fumble through turnstiles, and stumble down stairwells to catch the last train home. Some vomit on platforms or collapse against walls; others pass out on benches until shaken awake by concerned passengers. And yet, Japan’s safety remains remarkable—belongings left behind are often returned, and violence is rare.

To Western eyes, such public intoxication might seem scandalous, but in Tokyo it’s simply accepted. The next morning, those same workers appear at their desks, bleary-eyed but dutiful.

Many of these photographs were taken in the early 2000s, some published in the now-closed Photo District Newsmagazine. With COVID-19 came shuttered bars and empty entertainment districts, making the stumbling salaryman a far less common sight in Tokyo today.

I was commissioned by Frommer’s to photograph geisha culture in Kyoto, and given the rare opportunity to spend time with a maiko, an apprentice geisha, as she prepared for an evening performance. Watching her transformation was mesmerizing—the layering of silk kimono, the tightening of the heavy obi, and the ritual application of white makeup accented with vermilion lips. Each step followed a tradition that has been passed down for centuries.

Geisha, or geiko in Kyoto, are artists trained in classical Japanese music, dance, and conversation. Maiko apprentices often begin their training in their teenage years, mastering not only performance but also the etiquette of refined hospitality. Their role has long been misunderstood in the West, but in Japan, geishas are celebrated as keepers of cultural tradition and elegance.

Spending time behind the scenes with a real maiko gave me a glimpse into a world that is carefully preserved and rarely revealed to outsiders. When she finally stepped into the performance, every movement of her fan, every turn of her head, and every graceful step carried the weight of history. This series documents that intimate encounter, offering a visual record of one of Japan’s most enduring cultural icons.

Marco Garcia’s Tokyo Subway gallery captures candid street and documentary photography inside Japan’s transit system—moments of daily commutes, portraits, and urban life underground.

Tokyo never stops. It weaves and wiggles around you. It’s an endless city with endless people and endless movement.

These images were taken over 20 years starting in the late 1990s taken with both film and digital mediums.

Oahu has a number of community gardens operated by the city which allows residents to cheaply rent a small plot of land. In most cases the plots are only a few dollars a month plus a small fee for water usage. The plots are in high demand and wait lists can extend for years with some gardens rarely having openings.

Many of the gardeners, who are elderly, have held their plots for decades. Land is an expensive premium and many live in high rises or lack space at their homes to have an in-ground garden. They will personalize their gardens with some building elaborate fencing with locked doors and place signs and mementos around. Some plots are overgrown with colorful hibiscus flowing over fence lines or vines and stems spreading around their area.

This particular gallery is from the Ala Wai community gardens just outside of Waikiki on the other side of the Ala Wai canal.

As Covid-19 restrictions continue on Oahu, a private water polo group, Lokahi Water Polo Club, has moved its practices from a closed, city owned pool to Ala Moana Beach Park. The reef protected calm waters are perfect for passing a ball around and shooting at a blow up, competitive size goal floating just a few meters off shore. Practice is held near sunset several days a week.

For many decades, locals claim the state bird is a construction crane as high rises seem to sprout from vacant lots across Honolulu. There are currently half a dozen residential towers being built in the Kakaako and Ward Village areas with many more planned for the near future.

When construction begins, builders usually fence off the areas with wooden walls or covered metal gates. Many of the fences have small cutouts for windows giving a peak of what’s going on inside the area from the outside.

The windows come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and heights. The walls around them bare warning signs or advertisements of things to come. Many of the walls have been tagged, scratched, or vandalized.

Many of the window views are obscured while others frame a view of the future.