The Bajau people of Wakatobi national park in Southern Indonesia are perhaps the most smiley people I have ever encountered, but then again… I haven’t met many people. Three months ago I traveled to Indonesia, embarking on a South East Asian odyssey. This was my very first ‘big’ adventure. 18 years old, with a bag so heavy that it made me walk like a new born calf, I set off with a friend, to a corner of the world very different from my own. 48 hours later we had made it to Jakarta. The blast of heat wasn’t the most comforting element of my first few moments off a steamy, sweaty airplane. Forget that, I was in Jakarta! The roads alit with red and orange lights, car horns of course, the soundtrack to an Asian city. We were quickly bustled onto a bus, and off we went, to a hotel…

I’m alone on the bluff above the magnificent Fulda Cathedral. I’m no ghoul – at least, I don’t think I am. But I can’t take my eyes off of the large slab of gray slate that’s bolted to the sandstone blocks of Saint Michael’s chapel. It’s quite the experience. Rows upon rows of skulls are carved in stone – large skulls, small skulls, adolescent, child and infant. The skulls are carved in relief, with such gentle detail that I think that I can distinguish between male and female. On the far right, a stylized angel/monk points heavenward. Saint Michael’s is the oldest Holy Sepulcher church in Germany—and dates back an incredible 1200 years. I’d spent the morning thirty minutes to the south, in the “Salmuenster half” of the spa town of Bad-Soden Salmuenster, a smallish town of 15,000 permanent residents. It’s Blutsonntag—Blood Sunday. I was early, but Saint Peter and…

Beads, the color of aqua and jade, dangle from my fingertips. The freshwaters of Mountain Creek catch them in its path, purifying their plastic centers until the sun shines through them with verve. I’m washing these necklace beads in the waters of my hometown just outside of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. They left the hands of a market merchant in Bahia, Brazil two weeks earlier, shifted amongst jostling clothes still damp from the humidity of Brazil in the undercarriage of a 747, and ended up here in the woods of Pine Grove Furnace, grounding me to something. I’ve worn these beads a few times since returning from Brazil, wrapping them around my neck, letting them fall beneath my shirt to rest in between my rib cages. That’s the way the people of the Candomblé religion wear them, hidden under their clothes, close enough to salty skin to allow the energy of the…

A photo essay about the Waraos, 'the water people' who live in the Orinoco Delta in Venezuela by Victor Manuel Rodríguez Urosa(c)Victor Manuel Rodríguez Urosa

In the ‘Western’ developed world I think we’d all agree that memorials for our departed beloved are scarcely an annual event. When they do come about, they tend to be quite low key, somber affairs. You will experience quite the opposite, should you find yourself in Guatemala, Mexico or a handful of other Latin American countries on November the 1st. Think bustling, colorful and warm. Throw in some indigenous artistic masterpieces and a lot of spirit. This is ‘Dia de los Muertos’, in English ‘Day of the Dead’. Ancient indigenous peoples such as the Incas, Mayans and Aztecs in Latin America each used to perform different rituals to honor the dead. Following the influence of Catholic All Saints Day, brought to the region by the Spanish and Portuguese conquistadores, these traditions developed into the modern day Dia de los Muertos. Common to the festive day in several countries, families congregate…

At first I was not convinced. I had never been interested in horse riding at all, nor did I even plan on mounting a sturdy white mare upon arrival to Mongolia’s Gorkhi-Terelj National Park. And despite everyone indulging me with horse maxims like, “to ride a horse is like to ride the wind,” or “no hour of life is wasted that is spent in the saddle,”  I still associated the pastime with priggish bourgeois social classes and the boring equestrian events of the Summer Olympics. Even as a boy I was thoroughly bored with Wild West and Cowboys and Indians movies; and need I even mention the dancing Lipizzaner Stallions of the Spanish Riding school in Austria, which to me, are parodied of their true abilities and groomed to look like pearly “My Little Pony” toys for children. But after ceaselessly goading me on the prospect of a mini-adventure within the…

A Photo Essay A boy waits for his Bratabandha to begin. Bratabandha is a complex Hindu ceremony where boys, between 8 and 12, take the first steps in learning the traditional laws, ceremonial roles and rituals of their caste. In Nepal, it is considered the beginning of manhood. Before the ceremony boys wear a traditional orange headband pierced with a porcupine spine, for protection from evil. The boys warm themselves in front of the fire, close by a priest prepares. The boys try to behave like young men until the urge to wrestle overwhelms them. This Bratabandha is being performed by 6 Brahman priests, though only 2 are technically required. Red, white, yellow patterns, Swasti, were made around the fire for protection and to mark an elaborate place setting, indicating where each god should sit as they joined the ceremony. Pujas are performed to Ganesh, and light and water. Female…

So you think you can dance the otea? Tahiti's flamboyant Heiva festival helps keep Polynesian traditions alive You can cut the anticipation with a machete as the spot lights dim under a canopy of southern stars. All eyes are fixed on the stage in the French Polynesian capital of Papeete’s waterfront amphitheater. Tonight’s audience is here to watch dozens of dancers, singers and musicians perform in Heiva Tahiti, a spectacular annual month-long celebration of traditional Polynesian culture. Backstage, dancer Maire Teihotaata nervously adjusts her elaborate headdress. Her skirt is made of coconut bark and hibiscus flowers, with a wide belt slung low on her tall, lithe frame, and decorated with mother-of-pearl, shells, natural fibers, and colorful seeds. Bathed in intoxicating tropical flower scents with jet-black hair flowing to her waist, this 37-year old government communications specialist could have stepped out of a Gauguin painting. Suddenly, slit and base drums carved…

While farmers and politicians across Australia battle it out over water allocations, in South East Asia Thais and Laotians are preparing to embrace their water shortages in a style all of their own.

Terceira Island sits in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, among the isolated archipelago of the Azores. Its origins are humble—Portuguese farmers and fishermen settled the island in the 14th century—and it’s still a place without pretension, where people rely on agriculture and artisanal traditions such as cheese-making for their livelihoods.

The blowing sand rocks our Land Rover as we reach the outskirts of Timbuktu. Mahkmoud leans over the steering wheel and peers into the hazy lemon yellow that fills our windshield. There is no horizon between earth and sky and I wonder how he can continue to drive with no reference points, yet on he goes with the instinct of a desert nomad. I realize for him, this is normal.

The threshold, a tree branch on the ground, has been crossed. The 16-year-old boy, the candidate, steps forward. He's about to become a man. The crowd encircled around him inches forward, craning for a better look. Children crawl beneath the forest of legs, hoping for a glimpse.

In our first few months in Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia, my wife Ruthann and I have celebrated Id al-Fitr, the Muslim festival ending Ramadan; Chinese New Year; and the Hindu full moon festival of Thaipusam. Now it is our turn to host a celebration. Passover is next week and my wife and I, Reconstructionist Jews from Minneapolis, are determined to have a real Seder, complete with Haggadoth, matzoth, and charoseth. The problem is, in this city of Muslims (62%), Buddhists (24%), and Hindus (8%), we can't find the fixings and, except for one visiting American couple in our building, we can't locate any Jews.

We step out of the car into the hot blowing dust of southern Kenya, into a different world in a different time.A dozen stately Maasai in bright red and purple robes surround us. Ebony colored hands reach out for ours in welcome, and two different ways of life come together. Maasai means those who speak Maa, but they simply call themselves "the people".

Despite the threatening clouds, the procession swelled in size, stretching as far as I could see in either direction. I was swept along by the crowd, down winding cobblestone streets and past colonial buildings painted tropical fruit colors. In doorways and windows, behind the wrought iron curlicues, whole families stood and cheered.This kind of procession, called a calenda, is how the people of Oaxaca, Mexico, traditionally kick off a fiesta, and the Guelaguetza of Lunes del Cerro is the biggest fiesta of the year.

Many Indian cities have been built around holy bodies of water. The Ganga, of course, is the lifeblood, the sacrament of these bodies, but lesser lakes and rivers are also revered. The water is sacred, so, understandably, people build religious vessels around it. Worship is solidified in the form of multi-tiered temples (with swimming landings called ghats) constructed in blocky layers around the lake.

The hint of a city – plaster white buildings and golden Khmer steeples – finally emerged from the green of the jungle and dirty brown river. After hours of traveling up the Mekong, the small clunky motorboat began its approach into Phnom Penh, the driver taking a back door approach into the city as to avoid the racers. It was the final day of Bonn Om Teuk, the water festival, one of the most important national holidays in Cambodia.

In the beginning there was darkness, te po--the domain of the gods. Here, Rangi the Sky Father and Papa the Earth Mother were joined in an intimate embrace that left the world void of light. They begot many sons who dominated aspects of the natural world: they controlled animals, the forests, the weather, and the seas. The sons of earth and sky suffered from the eternal darkness of the tight hold between Heaven and Earth and resolved to separate their parents.

I was naked except for a pair of plastic sandals and the brown felt version of Gilligan’s hat. My friend, Kiril, was unadorned in the exact same manner. He was also beating me with birch branches. I’m told this is a Ukrainian tradition. I probably shouldn’t have told his mother, Larissa, that I’d had a sore throat

Diwali around the world is known as the “Festival of Lights,” or when lord Rama returned home after a 14-year absence and a battle against the demon king Ravana. It’s a time of year, much like the Western holiday of Christmas, where families gather together in celebration. They pay homage to the gods, eat decadent sweets, dress up in their best attire and light small candles known as diyas around the house.