Not Everyone Is A Fan Of Movement...

la migra in the sky

and currently in this country that is best represented by the incredibly strong police presence along the US - Mexico border. I just returned from a few days in Tucson with Nikolio, and on Saturday we went to the Alto Arizona protest against SB1070 in Phoenix. The two cities are 120 miles apart, and in each direction we saw at least 5 tricked-out, camera-laden cop cars on the side of the highway, as well as helicopters overhead. The action was well-attended, though tame, and I was happy to see some homies who also migrated from afar to show their support for those in Arizona who are fighting this horrific bill. 

More photos and thoughts to come. 

The Daily Commute...

from Siem Reap into the countryside of Peak Sneng. The one hour return back to the city began on dirt roads bordered on either side by the few trees left in the area, the rest having been used for energy or sold for income. The leaves of the trees were coated, only on the top and in stark contrast to their green underbellies, with the red, red earth driven up from the ground by passing cars and motos. After about half an hour, our route became paved and took us through the Angkor Wat temple complex. The commute to work was spectacular, the best I've had the pleasure of taking. Plus, who could resist our driver Mr. Niem's bobble head horses? They're awesome.

Honestly?

Most Beautiful City In The World.

it ain't just a curvy street

Maybe. It's hard to commit to a definitive superlative like that. But sometimes I really think so. Not because of this one view, but because all around San Francisco one is exposed to arresting views and a visual stimulation that is arguably unparalleled. The water and the hills and the nature are mesmerizing and evoke emotions of wonder and awe. And here I'm just repeating the sentiments of many, as expressed for centuries. In Isabel Allende's Daughter of Fortune she echoes this in the passage,

"They spent the rest of the evening listening to the captain's wondrous stories about California, even though he hadn't been there since the discovery of gold and the only thing he could say about San Francisco was that is wasn't much of a town but that it did sit on the most beautiful bay in the world."

In the city itself there is lots of innovative architecture and design

though what gets me drooling are all the rides that are are just too too clean.

Traveling is Fun...

Traveling is fun because there is so much beauty in this vast and diverse land, even through a bug-splattered windshield.

driving into the Tucson sun as it sets

And when you turn your shotgun head to the right, there are all these wondrous things whirling by on the other side of the glass.

Like the green pastures of West Virginia

and the arid brush of central Texas.

The looming mountains and new blossoms of Arizona

alongside their majestic cacti companions.

SoCal holds its own, what with lush fields backdropped by mountain range and freight train 

brushing right up against the stunning starkness of the Algodones Dunes.

And there you are seeing it all go by...

Sahara Chronicle

"The immense desert territory of the Tuareg was split in five by the colonial empires, covering substantial areas of Algeria, Libya, Mali, Niger and Chad. Tuareg existence is transnational by definition. They worked out a system of information, itineraries and topographic literacy to manage the most valuable resource in these latitudes: mobility. Revitalizing tribal bonds across borders, the nomads quickly organized the transport of migrants into an efficient network. On the Atlantic coast, new migration systems are emerging as the Straight of Gibraltar is sealed off. Here different networks intertwine and reorganize themselves as border regimes change."

- "Sahara Chronicle" is a collection of videos on mobility and the politics of containment in the Sahara. The multimedia exhibit is part of the geography of transterritories exhibition at the San Francisco Art Institute.

"Wanderlust"

"Our paths long ago diverged. But two decades on, the most recurrent features of my love life remain airplanes and letters. I've met people who can't separate love and lust; for me the tricky distinction is between love and wanderlust. They're both about wanting and seeking and hoping to be swept away, so lost in the moment that the rest of the world recedes from view.

Some people spend their lives looking for anchors. For years, I cut ties as fast as I formed them, always struggling to be free...

'Wanderlust,' the irresistible impulse to travel, is a perfect word, adopted untouched from the German, presumably because it couldn't be improved. Workarounds like the French 'passion du voyage' don't quite capture the same meaning. Wanderlust is not a passion for travel exactly, it's something more animal and more fickle - more like lust. We don't lust after very many things in life. We don't need words like 'worklust' or 'homemakinglust.' But travel? The essayist Anatole Boyard put it perfectly: 'Travel is like adultery: one is always tempted to be unfaithful to one's own country. To have imagination is inevitably to be dissatisfied with where you live... in our wanderlust, we are lovers looking for consummation.' "

 - From "Wanderlust" by Elisabeth Eaves in The Best Women's Travel Writing 2010, given to me by my Father Dearest and which has been my main road trip reading.

Birds Of A Feather

Though birds of a feather flock together, the flocking is pretty challenging for us birds with movement feathers, because by nature we are all over the place. I am very fortunate to have relationships with people I care about who approach their own lives with the same resistance to being sedentary as I do. Frankly, I do not know what I would do without them since much of the time I feel so different from other people because they don't seem to understand my "be everywhere" approach to living and how it works. And so I love getting off a long phone conversation with Boima, an amazing DJ, musician, youth worker and the Most Movingest Person I know, wherein we catch up on all our movement, share where we are going or trying to go next, and I hang up feeling close to him and reassured in myself because we are the same. Or, when I was in New York last week hanging out with Kashish, an awesome photographer, writer, environmentalist and Successful Multi-Continental Inhabitant, we caught up during a long, drizzly nighttime walk in midtown east. He talked about his recent road-tripping down to SXSW, and how smitten he was by New Orleans, so much so that he wants to move there (which sounds a lot like me and Mae Sot.) "But you wouldn't move there permanently, would you?" I asked. "Oh no." Kashish replied, shaking his head, because that's not how we think. The next move just leads to the next move, which is usually somewhere else. When a life-view is such that location isn't an issue, it is so inspirational and makes me feel like anything is possible, and like me Kashish has his homes in Kathmandu and NYC where he can and will return, but between those times it's anything goes.

Speaking of road trips, I decided two days ago to drive cross-country with Rachel from DC to LA, and we leave in a few days. I've always wanted make this journey but have not yet, and am so excited!! It also dovetails nicely with my preexisting plans to get out to the Bay sometime in April, so let's hear it for spontinaeity and a new adventure! On the way we will stay with at least one old friend I haven't seen in a while, Nicolas, a dope performer, educator, father  and all around Kick-Ass Raza that gets around this country of ours so much that I didn't even  know he was back in San Antonio. And since I haven't been out to the Bay in over a year, this next journey calls to mind what is probably the most reassuring thing about my relationships with these other birds and how we live our lives, which is that with all of us being on the go, we will always see each other again. It's only a matter of when, and where.

Morocco Memories

morocco desert

The first time I ever walked across a border, meaning the first time I ever passed on foot from one nation-state to another via a regulated border control process, was in 2001 when I went from Spain to Morocco. "Spanish Morocco" consists of the cities of  Ceuta and Melilla, and the Moroccan government sees Spanish control over these areas as foreign occupation. We took the highspeed ferry from Algeciras on the Spanish mainland to Ceuta, and then crossed the border into Morocco. The actual crossing was fascinating and terrifying, terrifying mostly because the experience was such a completely new one that no imagined expectations could have prepared me for the reality.

My memories of the crossing are hazy, though interspersed with distinct images of what we saw and experienced. I don't really remember leaving the ferry and getting to Spanish immigration, but I clearly remember walking from the Spanish check point to the Moroccan one. Until this lived experience my mental image of walking across a border meant simply stepping over a line drawn in the sand; now you're here and now you're there.  This walk, however, was long. It took at least 7 full minutes as we moved, packs on backs in true Western Adventurer style, along a wide dusty road with fences on either side. On the other sides of these fences were dusty mountains, and I vividly remember watching people scurrying to and fro with all manner of goods on their backs and in their arms. Of course, the scurrying went more in the Morocco => Spain direction as opposed to vice versa.

When we reached the Moroccan check-point we were let through easily, and I'm sure ahead of other non-Americans who had been waiting. In fact I don't remember other Americans or Westerners crossing at the same time we did, and Christina and I definitely stood out. Once in Morocco I remember moving past immigration and into a field of taxis, all ready and waiting to take us to wherever. The process of getting a taxi, explained so simply in Lonely Planet, was scary. There were at least 7 drivers vying for our business, we tried to barter, the drivers were aggressive and loud and handsy, their friends joined the commotion, two men were starting to fight, and so we stopped trying to be nice and just hopped into a car and went. Bartering the price from within the taxi was a pain in the ass and we paid too much. The language barrier, wherein the drivers were speaking Arabic (I spoke French and Christina spoke Spanish, both languages that are somewhat common in this northern region given the history of colonization) coupled with the gender differential between us and them also contributed to a sense of having no idea what the hell was really going on. But it all ended fine, and we made it to Chefchaouen, a beautiful mountain city of blue where we commenced our Morocco adventures.

I don't have pictures of the border, but I have many memories of that crossing and the ten or so days I spent in Morocco.  I remember hiking (and perspiring) in the summer heat to here,

and looking out to this,

and hearing the enormous wall of noise Chefchaouen projected in front of me, collide with the silence filling the space behind me.

I remember starting at the top of this waterfall,

and hiking down its several steppes to the pool below

and trying my competitive-high-school-swimmers-best to get under the fall, but the impact of it hitting the water was so strong I could not get within 50 feet.  I remember watching as adventurous boys climbed the rocky cliffs and jumped into the water, and making sure that I was not inadvertently exposing too much skin from under the t-shirt and shorts I wore over my swimsuit. 

Going to Morocco was travel of many firsts for me.  It was the first time I went to a Muslim country and the first time I set foot on the continent of Africa. It was also the first time I saw landscapes like in the first  picture of this post.  It was the first time that I felt really, really, almost fundamentally culturally different from the people I was surrounded by. It was the first time I road-tripped with some locals, and the first time that while in a foreign country, I felt that my movement and choices were restricted because of my gender. I was often uncomfortable in Morocco, because it was the first place where I was conscious of the fact that I did not know the rules, but as I've learned since, that's what happens when you cross borders.

Traveling is Fun...

Traveling is fun because you might happen to see yourself

in places and things you least expect.

"The Comfort of Ducky" by J Asher Lynch from CA, $1,500

Home Sweet Home

While I try my damnedest to be as many places as possible, there is a place that I call home. There is one place, and in particular one house, to which I always return. My home is Washington DC, Chocolate City, the nation's capital. I have returned to live here after running around for over a decade, and I love it. 

DC is important to me because I was born, raised and politicized here. Becoming reacquainted with this city I used to know, this city that provided the soil for my roots of consciousness to grow, has been a lot of fun. We are both very different from before, from the last time we lived together. We've both grown, and changed, which is simultaneously sad and infuriating and exciting. Many aspects of us are also the same, which is comforting and disappointing.

The DC I have been in for the past month most immediately strikes me as political and artistic. There is a lot going on around town. Second, it strikes me as proud. Most cities and its inhabitants are proud, full of boast and swagger, but after living in NYC and SF/Oakland, places that are bigger, flashier, and unencumbered by the association of being the seat of federal government, I was surprised about how hard DC reps itself. The DC flag and its three stars are omnipresent.

On walls:

On license plates:

In crosswalks:

In tattoos:

thanks marco 

In art:

At coffee shops:

And even in the form of star-shaped gummies that have been liberated from its box and fallen to the sidewalk:

I am so excited about this reunion and return, for rediscoveries and revelations, and am not only proud to be from here, but to be back again.

   

I walked into an elevator and saw my life

at g40 in crystal city

Traveling is Fun...

Traveling is fun because of MOTOS! (click for close-up)

going to the Kampong Khleang floating village in Cambodia

Since always is a good time to read June Jordan

and because keeping it moving is as much a mental and emotional philosophy as it is a physical one for me, a poem:

Why I became a pacifist and then How I became a warrior again

Because nothing I could do or say
turned out okay
I figured I should just sit
still and chill
except to maybe mumble
'Baby, Baby:
Stop!'
AND
Because turning that other cheek
holding my tongue
refusing to retaliate when the deal got ugly
And because not throwing whoever calls me bitch
out the g-ddamn window
And because swallowing my pride
saying I'm sorry when whoever don't like
one single thing
about me and don't never take a break from
counting up the 65,899 ways I talk wrong
I act wrong
And because sitting on my fist
neglecting to enumerate every incoherent
rigid/raggedy-ass/disrespectful/killer cold
and self-infatuated crime against love
committed by some loudmouth don't know
nothing about it takes 2 to fuck and
it takes 2 to fuck things up
And because making apologies that nobody give a shit about
and because failing to sing my song
finally
finally
got on my absolute nerve
I pick up my sword
I lift up my shield
And I stay ready for war
Because now I live ready for a whole lot more
than that

"Traveling makes men wiser, but less happy."

"Dear Peter,

Traveling makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country, but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret—their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects, and they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home. Young men who travel are exposed to all these inconveniences in a higher degree, to others still more serious, and do not acquire that wisdom for which a previous foundation is requisite, by repeated and just observations at home. The glare of pomp and pleasure is analogous to the motion of the blood—it absorbs all their affection and attention, they are torn from it as from the only good in this world, and return to their home as to a place of exile and condemnation. Their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, and its recollection poisons the residue of their lives. Their first and most delicate passions are hackneyed on unworthy objects here, and they carry home the dregs, insufficient to make themselves or anybody else happy. Add to this that a habit of idleness—an inability to apply themselves to business—is acquired and renders them useless to themselves and their country. These observations are founded in experience. There is no place where your pursuit of knowledge will be so little obstructed by foreign objects, as in your own country, nor any, wherein the virtues of the heart will be less exposed to be weakened. Be good, be learned, and be industrious, and you will not want the aid of traveling, to render you precious to your country, dear to your friends, happy within yourself. I repeat my advice to take a great deal of exercise, and on foot. Health is the first requisite after morality. Write to me often, and be assured of the interest I take in your success, as well as the warmth of those sentiments of attachment with which I am, dear Peter, your affectionate friend."

Written by Thomas Jefferson in 1787 to his nephew.  Found here: http://www.laphamsquarterly.org/voices-in-time/stay-home-young-man.php

Traveling is Fun...

Traveling is fun because you get to see visual evidence of people living their protest:

nyc

from the train in portugal

coimbra, portugal

So this deer followed me into a store...

miyajima, japan