It was pitch black outside, but the weak kerosene lamp in the nakamal provided just enough light to see the excited expression on his face. I touched on topics that were dear to him – tradition and culture. There was no better person to tell me about these than chief Ayar Rantes.
A man usually digs up the salt and loads it into a large aluminium basin. The basin goes on top of a woman’s head. She unloads it into the back of a tractor. A new pile of salt is waiting within seconds.
My love affair with South Gujarat continues. Having ridden back and forth here so much, I’ll miss the roads that go through it. They’re special. Different to many other roads of India that I mostly associate with hell.
For a photographer who predominantly makes images of people there is nothing like India. The country must have the highest concentration of amazing stories and characters per square kilometre.