Ojai: The Vulnerability & Hope Walk Side-by-Side

     
The temperature was likely the highest I have experienced in my life--- "Jesus, what am I doing here?" is the only thing I could think as we drove closer to the small town, two hours Northeast of the powerful and glamorous Los Angeles.
Upon arriving at the quiet little town,  for a second I was transported in my day-dream to my home-town. The old architecture, the few and quiet people walking on the sidewalks; Gosh! The many, many fewer cars than any other city I have been in for the past 2 years! It all resembled the small third world country town where I was brought up. Still, the heat was unbearable, and the excitement of exploring a new and (until then) unknown landscape no longer stimulated my mood.

I unpacked one or two items from the car, but, alas, my watch was showing 2:47 pm, and I had a photo session at  3:30 pm
-- Don't get too comfy, Joe. I mumbled while witnessing my assistant and friend Joe sitting down for a second to rest from the trip.
-- I am just taking a breath, Kid-- He replied slightly annoyed by my tone of voice.
A few minutes later we headed for the point where we were supposed to meet Brian Aiken, chairman of the Historic Preservation Commission. Meeting Brian was the first icebreaker of many during that trip. The man who has lived in Ojai for more years than I have walked on this Earth showed the same passion my ancestors used to show while talking about my customarily overlooked homeland. Brian was kind, gentle, and courteous; and in spite of the apparent shyness, the Man seemed to know every single person in town.
Between a shot and another, throughout the three days I stayed in Ojai,  Brian introduced me to people (almost) as interesting  and loving as himself. Julie, the Native American leader in town; Johnny Johnton, the mayor of Ojai; Ray Power, a very pragmatic man whose personality reminded me of a sagacious character in a tale. I also met Tonny Thatcher, a sweet man who has lived in Ojai for over 75 years-- "Gosh, there has to be a reason everybody I meet lives in this place for so long, in spite of the horrible destruction the fire has left and the fierce and relentless drought," I remember thinking while interviewing Tonny.
Tom Hall, was, to me, the final great surprise:
--" Four am?" Brian asked a little skeptical.
--"Yes, Brian, trust me, it will be worthwhile," I replied, still unsure if even I believed what I was saying.
-- "Ok, then," Brian replied without questioning my reasoning as was the usual case.
Upon arriving at Hall's place, we encountered a treasure trove of images which seemed a paradise  to a photographer: old grungy trucks, an infinity of textures and colors on wooden windows and doors; metal surfaces, and an extensive gray landscape, all of which formed the remains of Tom’s apricot farm, which at one time was his primary source of income.
Thomas met us with what I judged to be a mix of skepticism and sleepiness, which changed quickly after "shooting the breeze" for a few minutes. The seemly grumpy man, was in fact, a showman--literally. Tom told us that with the drought and this entire plantation having been reduced to ashes by wildfires, his alternative for making extra income was to get back to one of his passions, acting. During the 40 minutes there, in between one frame and the next, Tom told us endless stories about his land, his neighbors and his passion towards his lost trucks. As a tribute, I decided to have a few of his images taken in front of his "diseased" trucks. Alas, barely did I know my act of compassion would become some of the best images I ever produced.
As the sun slowly rose, our job was done. The pictures were taken, but, for some reason, I just couldn't drive myself to call it. I knew I was done. We all knew we were done, but saying the words would make it real. I shot until the last bite in the SD card was filled, and then, when there was nothing else I could do to avoid the end of that moment, we stood there in silence. Perhaps it lasted only a few split seconds, but, dear reader, believe it when somebody tells you, time is in fact relative.
"That's a wrap," I called.
On the way back to the hotel I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened back at Tom's farm. Only then I realized that what makes a city isn't the Rocky Mountains, isn't the all-time-low lake level, the fire that burned down the houses, or the uncertainty of the future. What makes a community is the people who inhabit it and raise their kids, and grandkids there. These are the people, who, in spite of all the natural vulnerabilities and uncertainties, still find reasons to be kind, and sweet, and cherish what they have instead of dwelling in sorrow for what they have lost.
I left that day leaving a piece of my heart in Ojai.

By Pedro Oliveira.