Bad Yoga

Expectations are the enemy of happiness. My most magical moments are unexpected.

December, 2023.After a month spent silent in Beppu, the Hot Spring capitol of Japan, I was wandering in winter wonder when I found Tapasan, a sliver of a bar with guitars on the wall. The owner and bartender was the only person present, jamming in solitude on the sofa.

I asked if he’d mind a jam mate. “Of course not!” I bought a beer, but I had no cash. I left my health insurance card as collateral. We spent the next hour or so sharing songs we knew or wrote. This is one of mine.

I returned a few days later with cash in hand, still wet from my onsen soak. A day or two after that, I received a text inviting me to attend his 4 year anniversary party. Would I mind joining in on “One Love“? “My pleasure,” I replied before I realized I did not, in fact, know the lyrics to the verse.

The party was the day before my departure. I crammed the lyrics into my brain on hte walk there. I had had almost no human interaction in the previous month. My breakfast was served by a robot and a cat was the gatekeeper at my closest ancient onsen. Tonight, though, I was warmly welcomed by the most outgoing Japanese I’ve ever encountered.

The musicians were so fantastic, I was so nervous about performing. The night wore on, and I hoped that there wouldn’t be time for me to join in. I was about to bow out for bedtime when Tapa called me up. He communicated with the crowd in Japanese. A new friend translated his far too generous praise. I was the closer. I was the “special guest from NYC.“ Humbled and moved, I did my best. A night, a place, and people I will never forget. I could never have planned a more perfect farewell.

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I can’t remember the last time I ate a four legged animal. After witnessing the ceremonial sacrifice of a buffalo at a traditional Torajan funeral in Sulawesi, Indonesia, I can unequivocally assure you that Morrissey was right: Meat IS murder.

I was unprepared for the sudden slice and the prolonged suffering. The beautiful beast was punished for the pleasure of the party. He suffocated for at least fifteen minutes, miraculously lifting his near severed head several times, and violently smashing it to the ground. Large gravel rocks were launched meters in all directions as his seismic convulsions thrashed his spine back and forth. Four of his friends watched his slaughter. Each of them will meet the same end in the four remaining days of the funeral rites.

Eventually, exhausted, he lay still as his blood pooled between his legs. At least five men began flaying his flesh from the snow white fat that surrounded his muscles. His skin, like clothing, lay in a pile on the ground. I could see then that he was not, in fact dead yet. His heart was still beating. His jugular was pulsing, as the muscles at his shoulders twitched. He had been skinned alive.

The men took a break while another portion of the ceremony commenced. The flies collected as the sun steamed the fresh meat. They returned with axes to break his ribcage. His organs were separated from his bones. His stomach had been sliced, revealing fresh, compacted grass from his last meal.

I kept shooting, as seven sows screamed, bound to bamboo boards. None of the animals had been given water as they roasted in the heat. Unmitigated, unnecessary torture. A deer, a goat, a horse and a calf were tied to posts near the buffalos. The valuable, blue eyed, Albino was secured tightly by rope through it’s septum.

To eat an animal out of necessity is one matter. To subject it to suffering is another. Livestock in the states has a horrible life and a “humane” death. Here, the buffalo spend their lives wading in rice paddies and roaming the hills. It pays for that privilege with this agony. I’d prefer neither scenario.

I was not in a position to stop this. I replaced emotion with action. My job was to witness the horror and share it with those of you who choose to eat meat purchased pre-wrapped or plated with sides, without ever having dirtied your hands with the being’s blood. If these images horrify you, good.

To commemorate the halfway point in my mission to 330 countries, colonies, territories & exclaves I’ve decided to release an expanded 2nd edition in November, 2025, so I can include 30 more countries than the original.Read the preface below:

I was a traveler long before I was a photographer. I lived in West Germany on an American Army Base until I was 5. My mother traveled the Schengen states extensively with my sister and I. I returned to pre-Euro Europe after my freshman year in high school as an exchange student. Based in a Parisian suburb, I spent that summer traveling revisiting the Schengen zone with a retinue of routards. I’ve returned numerous times since, amounting to more than a year, maybe two.

Israel & Palestine in 1999 were my first adventure beyond Europe. A Red Sea road trip along the Egyptian Border with my Tel Avivian boyfriend included a chance encounter with soldiers from both sides of the chain link fence who, like all races, religions and creeds, shared a love of Bob Marley.

After 8 years, 3 trips to Europe, all of the lower 48 states, Mexico and a 24 hour flight to my Kiwi Boyfriend’s native islands, I finally made it to the other side of that chain link fence in the desert. Egypt, more than any prior experience, ignited my passion for travel, despite, or perhaps because of having been, briefly, kidnapped in Cairo.

18 months after my escape, I was off to Sri Lanka to teach Yoga in a recently tsunami’d southwest surf town while the 25 year Civil War raged in the northeast city of Jaffna. My students were journalists, NGO Contractors, Foreign Diplomats & British Cricket Fans. Following my 2 month contract, I traveled through India, Myanmar, Cambodia and Thailand for 4 months, earning my Thai Massage Certification along the way.

Upon my return to NYC, I opened a 9 bed guest house in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, so I could write off travel expenses as Research & Development. Goodpoint incubated Goodyoga, which was, when I retired from brick and mortar in May of 2023, Brooklyn’s Oldest Studio with 10 total locations over 16 years.

During the best period, pre-pandemic, I was able to travel 18 months out of 24including:

* a 4 month overland itinerary from Argentina to Mexico

* 6 months traversing a counterclockwise sorta circle around Europe from Malta to Iceland

* a month in Castro's Cuba

* a 4 week overland round trip circumnavigation of Hispaniola from Port Au Prince

* a month teaching on the Big Island of Hawaii from which I traveled directly to

* Rwanda to meet the Gorillas then overland to Tanzania to host a Kilimanjaro summit hike and Zanzibar recovery.

​It was during this period that I became a photographer in earnest. Having followed my Instagrammed iPhone Album, my dear friend and notable photographer, Merri Cyr, insisted that I buy her 2007 Canon 5D Mark 2. Most of the photos published in the 1st Edition were taken with that camera or the lighter 6D I quickly upgraded to.

There were a few from a 2001 early Olympus digital I carried in Egypt and my first trip to Asia. It produced great shots, but most of it's full size files have been misplaced. Archiving was a gargantuan task that produced hundreds of contenders from over 10,000 images. That said, the final selection are from only a handful of places because I simply didn't have the right tool for the job until 2015.

I've recently traded in my bulky Canon body, with her suite of 3 prime lenses and a Flash, for a petite, powerful used Fujifilm X100F. At 2 pounds lighter and 2” smaller all around with a 4.3 MP advantage, she’s a better daily street rig than the Canon. A rangefinder, I’m restricted to it’s built in 35mm lens, but I’m a traveling portraitist. That’s all I need. It took me 150 countries, but I finally found my aesthetic.

Armed with little else, as little as possible, in fact, I intend to visit every Country, Colony, Territory, Exclave and Enclave. I’ve made it to 150, so far…If I’m blessed with the health to visit the remaining 180, I’d love to return to many that I’ve already explored, to create a cohesive collection of 330 portraits to represent each. If I can accomplish that, why not continue? Can I collect every culture and ethnicity?

Of course, this entails a life of perpetual travel. I live out of my carry on and personal item, stuffed with more gear than clothing. I’ve sold, donated or gifted everything I own, except for my personal archive. It’s a monastic existence that I’ll share in detail at www.flanneryfoster.com, where you can purchase your own print of any image that might move you as you flip forward. Thank you for allowing me the time to introduce the people I’ve met on the road. I hope we’ll meet along the way, as well.

I had traveled by train to the nothing town of Agartala to cross the border into Bangladesh, but the border was closed for 3 days because of Gandhi’s birthday, so I made a swift exit 24 hours later. The little travelled Northeast States of India don’t have many amenities. My hotel was lit by a flickering fluorescent tube and smelled like the mold climbing the walls.

Death is public here. It’s everywhere. Open air cremation is the number one attraction in Varanasi, one of India’s most visited cities. I didn’t want to see this, let alone take a picture, but someone had to. I didn’t need a photo to remember this moment. Who’d WANT to remember this moment? I needed a photo to bear witness. I needed evidence. The blur reveals my discomfort. One shot.A Dalit woman, an “untouchable,” dead in the train station, her face covered with a shawl, her feet dusted with bright red abir…a little dignity afforded her by some unknown angel.

I boarded the westbound train. I couldn’t even consider a visit to Nagaland because I wasn’t traveling with a husband or male family member. I’m told that’s no longer the case, but I’m in no rush to find out. India’s no place for young women.

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December 6th, 2024. His arms are raised defiantly. It's almost... He's surrendering, but... He's surrendering to the forces. He's surrendering to death. Complete acceptance. But the look in his eyes tore me up and is still doing so. It's... impossible for me to not see the poignance of that portrait. When I look at his face, I see the Gazans. I was sitting there on the bench in front of the portrait, seated with tears in my eyes, visibly moved, trying not to be, trying to, you know, be discreet.

November 30th, 2024. I'll be flying round trip from Madrid to Morocco in order to visit the Spanish-Moroccan territory of Ceuta. which will be my 145th. And then I fly back to Madrid and then from Madrid fly to Lanzarote. And I will be taking a ferry between Lanzarote and Fuerteventura. These are two of the easternmost Canary Islands off the coast of Morocco. This place has been calling to me.

June 4th, 2024 Manali, India I'm a week delayed past what I had planned because the roads only opened a couple days ago. The buses, however, the public buses, which I prefer to take, don't start for another month at least. So I was forced to pay the exorbitant amount of $30 as opposed to $3.

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June 3rd, 2024 Manali, India

May 20th, 2024 Delhi, India

May 18, 2024 Delhi, India