One of those reporter guys.
It was reportedly Joseph Stalin who made the observation: One death is a tragedy, one million a statistic. The 2015 Nepal earthquake took over 9,000 lives, injured upwards of 23,000, and damaged or destroyed over 600,000 structures. It measured a magnitude of 7.8 out of 10 on the Richter scale.
Nate Allen, head chef and owner of Knife & Fork, a big-league restaurant in small-town Appalachia, sees poetry in biscuits: When hand-made, each one is as unique as a snowflake. It is his grandmother's philosophy and it centers him.
On a sunny January morning outside Richmond Hill, Georgia, Bill Eberlein, a fifty-two-year-old former I.T. specialist, went diving in a local creek.
Recently, a hunter gave me some bear meat. It was a gift. It was a piece of backstrap, “the best part,” he assured me, wrapped in wax paper inside a plastic baggie that was sharpied “BEAR.” The hunter lives in western North Carolina–Appalachia–which is home to one of America’s most thriving populations of black bear.
In the ’80s, the Italian journalist and author Tiziano Terzani, after many years of reporting across Asia, holed himself up in a cabin in Ibaraki Prefecture, Japan. “For a month I had no one to talk to except my dog Baoli,” he wrote in his travelogue A Fortune Teller Told Me. Terzani passed the time with books, observing nature, “listening to the winds in the trees, watching butterflies, enjoying silence.” For the first time in a long while he felt free from the incessant anxieties of daily life: “At last I had time to have time.”
Among the residents of Ban Khok Sa-Nga, otherwise known as Cobra Village, there are two kinds of bites: severe and not so severe.
Salami is, according to British drone manufacturers Windhorse Aerospace, "physically strong with good tensile strength and flexibility," which makes it a good option for landing gear.
On a recent expedition into southeastern Georgia’s backwoods, after 137 hours of searching through blackwater ponds with nets, amphibian specialist Mark Mandica came away with two flatwoods salamander larvae, a federally endangered species. Although only a meager find, the larval pair was “unfortunately considered a huge success,” the executive director of the Amphibian Foundation laments.
Deep within the Dangrek Mountains of northern Cambodia, on a cliff at the end of a rugged jungle path barely wide enough for a motorbike, stands Pol Pot’s house. Blanketed in moss and moldering in the tropical swelter, the two-story ruin is a monument to two decades of neglect. The air, heavy and humid, buzzes with cicadas.
At first glance, Seit Tine Kya feels like any other teahouse in Yangon, Myanmar’s largest city: boisterous with animated chatter, the sipping of milky tea, the slurping of greasy noodles, the shuffling of sandals on concrete, and the kiss-kiss of old patrons calling out to young waiters.
Life moves slowly at Myanmar’s largest lake but in the mountains just beyond its shores buzzes a flurry of both destructive and illegal activity. Along with dozens of unregulated gold mining operations south of the lake, there churns an illegal logging industry in the northeast which local conservationists say is ravaging forests inside Indawgyi’s wildlife sanctuary.
Six years ago, Ry Mam boarded an international flight from LAX with three other Cambodians and two US marshals. “If any of you try to run, we’ll shoot you,” one of the marshals told the Cambodians. Mam thought that was strange—they were on an airplane and, anyway, he could have run a long time ago.
In the close-knit world of Maldivian bodyboarding, everybody has a nickname. Ahmed Arish, the country’s fourth-ranked bodyboarder, is Teddie. Ali Javed, the country’s second best, is Jaatte. Abdulla
Areef, the president of the Maldives Bodyboarding
Association, goes by Fuku.
My bus to Taroko, a natural reserve on Taiwan’s east coast, was as slow-going as its passengers. A big tour liner, it stopped frequently and each pause brought in another sluggish senior – the island oozed with them – wearing a bucket hat with thin straps that dangled below their chins like soba noodles. They congregated in groups at the front of the bus, looking like middle school field trippers in their silly hats, chatty and spry. I sat alone in the back by a window, pleasantly anxious in my hiking shoes, spying from my seat the sceneries of Hualien, a quiet littoral town with an alpine tinge. The island was kind to a slow-going solo traveler like me, showing itself off in hidden valleys, milky coastlines and green mountains that looked like English hills.
At 10 a.m. in Prek Lvea, a village across the Mekong River from Cambodia’s capital, among pecking chickens, dirt roads, and palm-shaded hovels, a heavy-metal concert is under way. The show, put on in an open-air kindergarten classroom, is performed by an assortment of local children and teens, and it seems as if the whole village has come out to gape. Watching from the crowd of chirping children and visibly confused adults is Timon Seibel, a bearded, blond Swiss-German – and the mastermind of this rural metal madness.