PostCards Never Written
Janita Van de Velde
The man strapped to my back resembled a typical medieval hero, complete with resplendent flowing hair and a beard that covered most of his face. We had to sit on the floor of the plane, and I was planted squarely between his legs, my back to his stomach. He was murmuring encouraging words of wisdom and other sweet nothings into my ear. I think. Over the buzz of the plane, I couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying but I am certain about one thing. He was intent on copping a feel.
All images and text copyright Janita Van de Velde ©2007