We arrived at the wreck location, as always in Namibia miles from anywhere. It was a beautiful summer morning, the sand so hot you could not walk barefoot. The wind had furrowed the beach into long undulating ripples, and amongst the patterns lay this small remnant of a shipwreck. It was surreal, a vast tract of soft white sand punctured by shards of rusty broken hull. I loved the incongruity of it all.
I shot two frames before out of nowhere a dark Toyota Landcruiser appeared. They could see me photographing but that made no difference. It drove towards me, passengers hanging over the side of the truck, beers in hand, shouting and jeering at me. Their tyre tracks carved up the beautiful white sand surrounding the wreck, ending the shoot there and then. A huge 20 stone fat man sat in an armchair buckled into the rear of the truck; two fat kids and three muscle-bound rednecks pulled faces as their truck circled around to come and carve up even more of the scene I’d been photographing. These were not the sorts of people you’d want to engage with, so I just packed up my camera and without any gestures of annoyance, made my way back to our van.
Thankfully I’d grabbed this frame before the morons arrived but the strange beauty, the vivid sense of history in wilderness, had been ruined for me. Such a shame that wherever you go in the world, there always at least one sad individual ready to spoil thing for others.