Standing in the middle of the forest in the dark, looking up at a towering Tualang tree, I suddenly felt lost.
I had prepared for this. I had a long checklist in my head of what to photograph, what to look for and which moments I should focus on. I had imagined the pictures long before I arrived. But standing there at 3 a.m., everything looked and felt different. Nothing was happening the way I had pictured it back home.
I was the only photographer among the team. There was no one beside me to ask, “Did you get this?” or “Don’t forget to photograph that.” There was just the tree, the harvesters, the bees and a whole lot of darkness.
And everything was moving.
Someone was preparing the ladders. Someone else was handling the rope. The harvesters were moving from one place to another. The bees were somewhere above us, invisible in the darkness. Voices, footsteps and movement filled the forest.
What should I photograph?
Should I photograph the Tualang tree? Focus on the harvester preparing the ladder? Follow the team handling the rope? Or wait for the moment when the actual harvesting begins?
I stood there with my camera, trying to make a decision before the moment disappeared.
And then I realised something.
Taking still photographs in a situation like this is very different from shooting video. With video, you can let the camera keep rolling and allow the story to unfold. With a still camera, you have to decide.
What deserves to be captured?
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