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We are back with Part II of our interview with photographer Alex Smailes. If you haven’t read Part I yet, we suggest you do. Part II brings us further along in Alex’s journey as a photographer, where he shares more amazing stories and insights on how he survived the crazy life of a conflict photographer…

**Read Part 1

How were you able to come into contact with these aid agencies?

“…although they had just started throwing grenades into bars and cafes we took a gamble…”

Again, it was all about meeting and making connections, jobs never come to you. I had lunch one day with a director of an aid agency who had seen my work somewhere and he offered me a trip in Bosnia. The war had ended but the reconstruction, reconciliation and the clearing of landmines had started. At the time Belgrade wasn’t issuing visas to Americans but as I was also working for the aid agency called CARE. I got a visa for Kosovo at the end of 97.

Could you share some of your experiences?

It was New Year 1998, I went for vodka with a girl who was working at an aid agency for my birthday, although they had just started throwing grenades into bars and cafes we took a gamble. Later, I was awakened by shooting outside my room, I peeked out and saw loads of cars filled with Serbs driving around letting off machine guns in the air in the Albanian neighborhoods trying to scare everyone. January 98 the war started again. We knew things were going to get bad, one early morning we tried to reach a remote village with a Doctor, it was all gray and misty and all of a sudden masked gunmen stopped our convoy, they made us turn back even though we we’re aid workers. They had surrounded Pristina during the night.

I remember there were field and fields of these massive black crows that just sat there staring. Locals say that they were there since the times of the great Balkan and Ottoman battles where they would feast on the thousands of dead and dying, they were also hanging around WWII where Sarajevo played an important role, it looked like they were ready for another feast.

I wanted to stay, but they kicked down the doors of journalists in the official hotel evicting all the press saying, “We cannot guarantee your safety if you stayed,” I managed to get on a bus full of refugees across the border. I hid my film when a bunch of soldiers came on the bus. Theydragged a man off, leaving his wife and children crying, it was awful. I couldn’t do or say anything. I slowly made my way back to Bosnia by plane. I was pissed off I had to sell a camera just to buy an air ticket back. A few months later I watched the footage of thousands fleeing across the border and wondered if any of my old friends were among them.

Seems like it was a pretty close call. Sorry about losing the camera, that must have been a tough one. Where did you go from there?

“And so he opened with; ‘You have generation Pepsi, we have generation Jihad.’”

My next major job after that was a weird exclusive. I’d been working a Chechen contact at The Hague. He had made contact with Shamil Basayev the rebel leader at the time. I flew into Moscow, then south to Ingushetia with the aim of getting into Chechnya, but more importantly safely out. Being that at the time, it was the kidnap capital of the world and a basic no-go zone for anyone.

The agency made me understand they did not have ransom insurance. The French magazine said they would buy the story if I got back. The Telegraph journalist based in Russia called me a ‘bloody idiot’ and didn’t want to write another story about a stupid foreigner being kidnapped and killed. So I had to stay hidden for two weeks in an old hotel room. Kidnapping was a big problem everywhere in the south, so i was only coming out for food and a bit of fresh air at night.

I was going crazy cooped up and I finished reading the one book I brought. I started to want to go out until one night there was shooting outside the hotel. I had been assigned two armed soldiers by the local government. I jumped out of bed, put on shoes in case I had to run and was waiting to hear if my guards fired back, thinking they where coming for me, it was silent though. My guide didn’t even trust our security really.

That’s one thing about these trips… the waiting was awful and you start to wonder if you’ll pull it off or it was a waste of time an money. At night we would watch the news an they showed footage that was sent to kidnapped relatives of people being tortured, one young soldier had his fingers shot off, another was lying naked and skinny and covered in shit in a small animal cage being hit with iron rods and the worst was of an old man getting his head chopped off by an axe.

While waiting to get in Groznyy I grew a big beard to blend in. On the day I snuck in to Groznyy I hid in the back of a old Lada car, crossed over the border easy enough as there were no border guards and we got through 3 different warlords areas. It looked like a movie set… a burnt out tank, a guy with a balaclava and a RPG on his back and a woman warming her hands over the fire. The city had been completely destroyed over the last two wars that took more bombs per hour than Stalingrad in WWII. Crazed kids ran wild in the streets, a guy in a nice black suit walked briskly past with a gun in his waist- it was scary as hell, but the sun was shining and I was about to interview Russia’s most wanted man.

My guide had instructed me how to behave in his presence. He said “do not to ask any provocative questions or he will take you outside and get one of his men to shoot you in the head as he won’t be bothered to get his boots dirty.”

Nice to know this just before I go in to his secret hiding place- and what the hell is a provocative question when you are about to meet the man accused of blowing up several Moscow apartments, helping to beat the entire Russian army and with known Islamic militant links to Saudi, Pakistan and Al Qaeda several years before main stream press even knew what they where.

And so he opened with; “You have generation Pepsi, we have generation Jihad.”

Soon after we arrived, Russia started bombing Groznyy again, so we sped to a village that had been struck. There was an empty lot full of rubble where a house used to be, a car was pitted and twisted with shrapnel, trees were shredded, even the light pole was full of holes, it was very ire and scary we didn’t know if the village would turn on us. There where women crying, I was told not to speak and they told the people I was deaf and dumb from the last war.

We also went to a children’s hospital that had been recently hit and met these poor little kids and exhausted Doctors who had no medicine, electricity half the time or water. They sat me down and thanked me profusely for taking the risk to show their plight outside world, it was really awkward wondering what if anything I could make an immediate difference. A few days after I left, I read that the hospital had been hit again by mistake; several Doctors, staff and patients had been killed.

When heading back across the border a long line of tanks rolled past! We headed straight for the airport out. A one-armed camera man approached me and begged me to take out some video footage. I agreed and was met by the Reuters guys in Moscow and they aired the first footage of attacks on Groznyy even as Russia issued statements that they were not going to attack. I sent my images and text over, and the agency sold it to le Figaro, probably one of my most prestigious sales. I did the usual sales pitch myself when I got back and had a conversation with the editor at GQ who I said he could have the first exclusive of this man, he snubbed it off saying they are always fighting about something and would probably blow over. It really amazes me how these people get in these positions, several weeks later it was the largest full scale war in Europe since Bosnia. And Basayev, he orchestrated the Beslan school massacre several years later. The images still sell today through Corbis. During the war they found a kidnapped French photographer in a basement who had tried to get in at the same time as me.

Dressing like a bird watcher, growing a beard, it seems “blending in” is and important part of surviving these adventures?

“I didn’t know if they would turn against the international press…”

“The police had to beat them back with whips, we were nearly overrun…”

Big beards also came in useful in the Middle East. A week after 9/11 I got a job with a group called Muslim Aid in Pakistan and an online news agency called outtherenews.com who, at the time were revolutionizing independent news gathering, we got some unbelievable stuff.

First of all, with my looks they thought I was Muslim, it wasn’t my fault no one asked me if I wasn’t. I always get a strange look in Islamic countries. My first name is Alex which is Christian, but Smailes gets translated to Ishmael. So my name gets changed to ‘ilex Ishmali’. But it got me into a lot of places like the Taliban Madrassa’s training schools for young volunteers and even a few from UK! At one place a young voice called out ‘alright mate so you from England as well?’ in a Liverpool accent. They also snuck me into Kashmir still another no-go zone for foreigners. There is actually a sign that says that! It’s actually very stunning place the mountains are mind-blowing.

So your appearance has helped you out in some situations. Where did you go from there?

So it was the day after America bombed Afghanistan. I had been lying awake all night after watching CNN with some old gentlemen. There was obviously going to be riots and backlash I didn’t know if they would turn against the international press. I made my way to the main mosque. After prayers all the men came running out shouting, all the shopkeepers lowered their shutters or peeped out from behind closed doors. It was running battle between the police and massive angry crowds and we were stuck in the middle. I found a finger in the middle of the road, then tear gas canisters were being shot, everyone was screaming and gasping for air and crying, we hid in a doorway and we covered our faces with wet scarves. My eyes were burning while I was trying to take pictures, an Italian photographer got shot with a canister in his lower back hiding in the doorway but he was OK.

Suddenly we came under fire from a hail of bottles and stones and I took cover with Jim Nachtwey from Magnum New York, I figured stick with him he’ll be alright, the stones hit a lit BBQ and showered us with hot coals and we all started laughing, that’s what’s weird about scenes like this there is always humor in adversary. He was later injured in Iraq when a grenade was tossed into the warrior vehicle they were traveling in.

After that the streams of refugees over ran the North west region and massive emergency camps were set up, these were pretty dangerous places there was a lot of hungry and angry people, even going in with the Muslim aid agency we needed armed escort and when they started giving out relief. I shot images of land-mine victims and old ladies who were being pushed over at the feeding centers. The police had to beat them back with whips, we were nearly overrun and the ones who didn’t get anything started throwing rocks at me and gesturing running their fingers across their throat at me! There was still a 15-minute drive out of the camp!

It seems like your experiences kept getting more intense. How did you cope?

“What really gets you is the people on the ground- the people you get close to, but leave behind”

Life was difficult on those early photo trips. I really didn’t know what was going on inside of me at the time but prolonged exposure to the horrors of any conflict or disaster zones obviously takes its toll. Constantly living with fear, the stress of ensuring you get the best possible image, trying to get film or scanned images back to UK under slow internet lines or just working in a foreign country with police, militias, rebels, war criminals or army who take pure delight in taking film off you or relieving you of cameras.

What really gets you is the people on the ground- the people you get close to, but leave behind. The translators, local aid workers, drivers, the people who helped you out. You go through their experiences with them, I will always remember a mother who was finally reunited with her daughter embracing because her daughter was trapped on the other side of the city and she did not know whether she was alive or dead. After you fly out you have this tremendous feeling of guilt.

Then coming home from those things that I had seen and experienced and no one around you really understands, its not really dinner conversation material. I would be overwhelmed when I walked in a super market and there was so much food and so much choice and crying spoiled kids made me so angry.

All my mates didn’t really understand either they were out partying and having a laugh but I knew I just had to fit in again and it was real exciting time. I appreciated being alive so much, I was 27-28, would get off a plane from Kosovo with a bottle of vodka, unshaven, tatty jacket and would end up in some magazine or model party in London! There are advantages too, I still rarely get stressed about the small annoying things in life, or traffic jams or life’s crap that people get so wound up about. Although I still hate fireworks. One night after drinking with a mate after a Balkan trip he hid and then set off a party popper at me I nearly died of fright and he died of laughter.

You were definitely in some pretty hairy situations over the years. What was the scariest?

“You just never get used to the clunk-click of a shot gun behind your head…”

“…pinned down for like 2 hours by a sniper…”

I had done 4 conflicts in a row and I felt my fate getting closer you only have so many chances, some have fewer than others, a lot of press are killed every year. Last time I was in Haiti for the revolution was awful it was free game against the press. Kids on scooters were driving around with Raybans and flip flops and waving guns at us. Everyone from the press was attacked at some stage. We got held up in a road block and you just never get used to the clunk-click of a shot gun behind your head, at some stage it will be the last thing you hear.

In Macedonia Wade Goddard a photographer also with Sygma in New York, a Reuter’s correspondent from Croatia and I, where pinned down for like 2 hours by a sniper.

Bullets pinged off the fence until a tank rolled up and blew up the house; we made it back down the hill to a building site for cover. Then all hell broke loose as a small car ran the military check post and they opened up fire on it, they were also shooting directly in our cover positions, on their own troops! Dust was flying everywhere, I saw that the Reuters guy managed to crawl under a truck, Wade was behind me and very experienced, he had covered the whole of Bosnian war. But the solider next to him was firing directly into the sand bank I was hiding in front of! One of my cameras ran out of film and I quickly changed one, I was cussing because so much dust was flying about, I only realize after, when I popped my head over that Wade was white as a sheet, he told me later about the guy firing straight at my head! He thought I was dead.

We all laughed about it as the three of us were pissing for ages against a wall in a little alley, recovering from loss of hearing and rounds still going over our heads into the hills.

Ok, Part II must now come to an end, but don’t worry, we will be back with the Part III conclusion first thing tomorrow. In Part III, Alex tells us about his book, his gear and his secrets for getting the shot. He also chimes in on the film vs. digital debate, what he’s working on now and where he’s going in the future.

**Read Part 3