"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

Sometimes It's Hard

waiting for my flight and a second glass of wine

I would be remiss if I made it seem like moving around and travel is all fun and games, because it's not. For a plethora of reasons, sometimes it's really hard. Sometimes you see things that are hard to understand and digest, like violence, and I'm often reminded of how fucked up and unfair the world is. Usually when I am confronted with the world's injustices, at home or abroad, it makes me really upset.  

Here's an example.  

In my travels recently, the premium that exists on light (AKA "beautiful") skin, a standard that applies primarily to women, has been blindingly apparent in every country I've been to in Africa and Asia. While I think that many of us who are interested in race and oppression would read that and say "of course," there is a different application and expression of this globalized racist norm from what I observe in the US. I hate seeing every facial product in the drug store promise whiter skin, and women wearing make-up three shades lighter than their natural skin tone, and billboards of blondes in countries where blondes are not native, and women and children telling me that my skin (but even more so than mine, which is a little tan, white folks' skin) is pretty and theirs isn't, because it shouldn't be that way. But it is.  

I work actively to be aware of how individuals manifest systemic oppressions, so when I speak of getting upset I do not want to give the impression that I feel bad for or pity a woman in Cambodia or Senegal who puts her arm up to mine and tells me mine is prettier, because it's not really about them. For me what's upsetting is the ways that some people in the history of our world have imposed standards on everyone that are only beneficial to a few, at the expense of many. At the same time, I also know that my skin color, mannerisms, and most importantly, passport from the USA (AKA privilege) are hugely influential in my ability to even get around. My experiences with movement just illuminate how complicated life is, and that there are no easy answers. But it's OK because I like learning about and trying to understand complexity. On occasion I attribute Why I Travel to an addiction to new experiences. It's like I can't stop putting myself in new, challenging environments, seeing how I hold up and then come out on the other end. It's some kind of personal test I do over and over and over again.  In spite of and because of the hards times.  So far I think it's made be a better person, and lord knows I can't stop yet.

How Many Faces Do You Count?

sunrise seminar under the gaze of the Bayon temple

Angkor Wat is all it's cracked up to be.

"Anyway, so the pilgrim learns how to pray the way these very mystical persons say you should -

- I mean, he keeps at it till he's perfected it and everything.  Then he goes on walking all over Russia, meeting all kinds of absolutely marvellous people and telling them how to pray by this incredible method.  I mean, that's really the whole book."

"I hate to mention it, but I'm going to reek of garlic," Lane said.

"He meets this one married couple, on one of his journeys, that I love more than anybody I ever read about in my entire life," Franny said. "He's walking down a road somewhere in the country, with his knapsack on his back, when these two tiny little children run after him shouting 'Dear little beggar!  Dear little beggar!  You must come home to Mummy.  She likes beggars.'  So he goes home with the children, and this really lovely person, the children's mother, comes out of the house all in a bustle and insists on helping him take off his dirty old boots and giving him a cup of tea.  Then the father comes home, and apparently he loves beggars and pilgrims, too, and they all sit down to dinner.  And while they're at dinner, the pilgrim wants to know who all the ladies are that are sitting around the table, and the husband tells him that they're all servants but that they always sit down to eat with him and his wife because they're sisters in Christ."  Franny suddenly sat up a trifle straighter in her seat, self-consciously. "I mean I loved the pilgrim wanting to know who all the lades were." She watched Lane butter a piece of bread.  "Anyway, after that, the pilgrim stays overnight, and he and the husband sit up till late talking about this method of praying without ceasing.  The pilgrim tells him how to do it.  Then he leaves in the morning and starts out on some more adventures."

From Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger, which I read for the first time today.  I liked it very much, and not at all just for the passage above.

Watch the Movie "Burma VJ"!

The Moei River looking over to the Burma side.

Jika and monks crossing the Friendship Bridge linking Mae Sot, Thailand 
with Myawaddy, Burma.

When Jika and I traveled after finishing work in Cambodia, we spent the majority of our time in Mae Sot, Thailand.  I have so many thoughts and emotions about my time there, because being there struck me faster and harder than any place I've been in recent memory, that I haven't yet figured out how to share the experience in written words.  When I talk to friends and family about being there, it all comes out in a jumble about "former political prisoners" and "underground journalists" and "refugees" and "resistance" and "ethnic hill tribes" and "economic migrants" and and all the stuff that people that know me know I am really into.  In an effort to be succinct, I will essentialize and say that Mae Sot:

• is not only on the Thai border with Burma, but also has a formal crossing point with the Burmese town of Myawaddy.
• hosts a large population of Burmese refugees and migrants.
• is the hub of political and democratic resistance activities against the Myanmar junta.  

Jika and I met a lot of inspiring people there, Burmese and foreign, and we also went into Burma one day.  One of the guys we met works for the Democratic Voice of Burma (DVB) and filmed a lot of the footage for the 2010 Oscar-nominated, best documentary feature film, "Burma VJ."  The movie is about the 2007, monk-led Saffron Revolution, and comes from footage shot by Burmese undercover reporters.  You can watch the movie in increments on youtube, the trailer is here, and the first part is here. Having dinner with someone who, for over 20 years, has been involved in this movement against an oppressive regime was...  um, yeah I still don't know how to even describe without a parade of trite adjectives. One day I will find the words, but in the meantime, with the Oscars coming up on March 7, I wanted to share this and maybe people will have a new movie to root for.  

(P.S. Has anyone seen another movie nominated in this category, "Which Way Home?" about kids from Central America riding trains up to the United States?  Know where I can watch it?)

snOMG

It was very wonderful to walk around in the first snowstorm of the 2009-2010 winter season here in DC, the one back at the end of December.  It made everything different.  People were friendlier (while it was actually snowing, at least), people were putting on skiis outside their front doors, there were no cars and you had to walk in the street.  It felt quiet and slow despite there being a good amount of people out, and I felt a different interaction with the same places I've been walking to and past my entire life.

sledding and skiing at fort reno

taking the (invisible) dog for a walk

my street

Walking around also reminded me of possibly my favorite "Boondocks" comic strip of all time:

AND I learned, the very hard way, the lesson that you should never, ever wear liquid eyeliner in a snowstorm.  But I don't have pictures of that.

High (Line) Times

You don't have to move far in order to see dope stuff, and that's particularly true if your movement is transgressive.  A couple of times a few of us went up on the High Line, not on the new fancy-pants part (though it's nice over there too) but on the side where you're not allowed.  Getting off of ground-level in NYC always provides a vantage point for mesmerizing views, and this was no exception.

The first time I went we were looking for remnants of a (mostly) bygone time, the era of hobos and tramps, riding the rails and jungle camps.  We did see some hobo signs, which was pretty cool.

As well as some markings from more recent passers-by.

But most interesting was the home that we came across.  It was located under the High Line and over a building, where me and Melicious are squatting (no pun intended) here:

The guy that lived here had a lot of stuff, including a copy of Dark Days.

I'm not going to post other pictures of his home because, well, it's his home.  Meredith left a note for the guy and ended up talking to him a couple days later.  This whole excursion was pretty fantastic and beautiful and a bit surreal, and came about with none of us really knowing what we were getting ourselves into.  For me it really highlighted how much there is all around us that we are not aware of, but can catch a glimpse of if we pay attention.  (And maybe trespass a little too.)

Thanks to Tyler S., believer in creative appropriation, for the photos.

Border-(S)hopping

Borders fascinate me. 

The Senegal River is the natural as well as official border between Senegal and Mauritania, and in this panoramic picture between the small city of Matam, Senegal on the right and the village of Tofunde Cive, Mauritania on the left. Along the beach on the Mauritanian side is a row of small shops selling goods such as tea, fabric, personal care products and cell phones. Senegalese shoppers cross the river in pirogues to shop in the boutiques, which exist in Mauritania almost primarily for Senegalese consumption on the other side of the river.

I made the pirogue trip across the river on three occasions. I went the formal route, taking the government-sanctioned pirogue seen above, as opposed to one of the many informal, smaller pirogues that make the 10 minute journey throughout the day. On two of the occasions, I too was going to do a little shopping, to check out the boutiques and to buy some fabric. While the trip across is pretty seamless for the Senegalese, not so for a Toubab like me. I did not have a visa to enter Mauritania*, you see, and there is a border agent that sits in a hut on the beach to check for this documentation. Now, I wasn't really that pressed to go into the shops, and even less interested in paying a couple dollars bribe in order to be allowed to walk 100 feet, so when I was rebuffed on my last trip I just went back across the river.

While I did not get very far onto Mauritanian territory, I was amazed during these brief excursions how different this side of the 250 meter-wide river felt from the other. But then again, despite some strong similarities that exist between Senegal and Mauritania at this little crossing, the two countries are very, very different places. That is part of why borders fascinate me, because despite the often arbitrariness of their creation, their impact is real and can mean everything depending on who you are, what you look like, where you come from, and where you are going.

*I have a fascination with Mauritania too, which emerged after reading Kevin Bales' Disposable People: New Slavery in the Global Economy. During my time in Matam I had a few encounters with the continuing practice of slavery that exists in Mauritania today.

Traveling is Fun...

Traveling is fun because sometimes you learn about new ways of getting old things done...

And because sometime you may be in Phnom Penh but suddenly feel like you are in Oakland...

And because sometime you may be in Siem Reap but suddenly feel like you are in Northwest DC in 1993...

And that can just make you feel like a kid in an ice cream shop!

The Work of Art

I am no kind of photographer.  The act of taking pictures makes me uncomfortable, and I am awkward when having my picture taken.  But I also get very taken by conversations and debates about photographs and photography and (in particular) photographers, (e.g. the boundaries and overlap between pictures vs. art vs. documentation) in part because I don't have the sentiments, convictions and investments into the practice that many, many people do.  And I always take mental note when the rare urge emerges for me to reach for my camera (I finally transitioned from film to digital 2 months ago) to capture an image or a moment.

This urge struck while visiting the Landmine Museum in Siem Reap, which is already a riveting place (to say the least) given that Cambodia is the most land-mined country in the world, on top of the fact that it is also the most bombed country in the world (good old US of A secretly dropping over 250 million tons of bombs on Cambodia between 1969 and 1975). When I turned a corner and saw this painting hanging, unframed and unsigned, I was arrested.  I stood for a while staring at him staring off, and then went for my camera.  I don't know exactly what it is about this painting that made me want to have an image of it; the ubiquitous krama, the sense of resistance, the brown skin, the contours and shading of his face, the Khmer features so similar to the people that I was now surrounded by, the fact that the art I had seen until this point memorialized the Angkor Wat more than highlighted Cambodian people, because it was just so unexpected in that moment, in that place...  In any case, I found that I wanted him, and maybe part of that was so I could share him with you.

Cambodia is...

Last month I was in Cambodia for three weeks working as an Experiential Learning Coordinator on an undergraduate study abroad trip for students from Lang College at The New School.  The students were required to journal extensively while there, and I too tried to be intentional about finding time to fit in my own writing, while essentially working around the clock.  I wrote this piece for our last seminar together, where we were all prompted by Prof Timothy Pachirat to begin and end our writing by completing the sentence, "Cambodia is..."  

Cambodia is moving.

Oftentimes the quickest and best route between two points is not a straight line.  In Cambodia's urban areas, movement on the roads is markedly different from the parallel and perpendicular lines and 90 degree angles characteristic in the US.  There is minimal stopping and waiting, but rather a coordinated dance with personalized choreography wherein each individual, be they on foot, bicycle or moto, or in a car, truck or tuk tuk, pursues their own steady progression to their destination.  It is not as chaotic as it may sound, the pace and speed of local movement is slower than in the US.  To cross the street, the worst idea is to stop and wait for an absence of traffic.  That will not happen.  The best method is to walk at a slow, steady pace on a diagonal, coming into close contact with but never touching the other dancers as you weave in and out.  This dance is beautiful and I admire it often.  I appreciate it even more because my body doesn't know how to move in that way, doesn't know the choreography.  I liken this dance to my own life, my own winding journey of things experienced and understood.  To have an answer means that there is a question, but for me, I just want to understand.  But what can I understand?  Just the tiniest fraction of the people, culture and environment where I find myself.  I am confident, however, in my answerability to provide a few constants that I know to be true.

Like that almost always a smile begets a smile.

Like that what's coming is already on it's way, I only need to figure out how I will play my role.

Like that there is no one I can control or change but myself.

Like that whenever our words are aimed at others, it's not really about them but rather a small opportunity to understand our own shit.

Like that there are recognizable moments where it does nothing to think and ask but means everything to simply do.

Like that everything in life is a gift, and that includes myself, which I am often remiss in remembering.

Like that life really really sucks, but I can't help to love it anyway.

And so Cambodia is...?  Like me, with the acknowledgement that what's happened has happened, and in taking winding and diagonal paths, Cambodia is keeping it moving.

Traveling in Style

I think that Thailand's buses rock the hardest (click the pic for the full effect):

Just looking at that is a party.  Not to mention that they are also staffed with the equivalent of flight attendants (road attendants?) who bring you beverages and snacks and moist towelettes at the beginning and end of the journey, and the seats recline until you are basically lying down.  Also, check out the inside:

What more could you ask for?  For me, not a damn thing as Jika and I were trying to get out of Bangkok as fast as we could, and this little gem of road-based transport took us to Kamphaeng Phet in 4.5 hours and for $10 each.  After a hellish 7 hours in BKK, this bus was heaven. I love when it turns out like that, completely surpassing the expectations that you didn't even have.

Taking My Time

A friend of mine, Robert "Tres" Trujillo asked me to write something for an artist zine/blog that he puts out called Come Bien Books .  Since I learned about Come Bien Books I've been really into the intentionally collaborative nature of the work, and was very excited when he asked me to contribute words to the "In the Wind" section, which is geared towards people of color sharing their experiences with travel and encouraging young people to travel as well.  You can read more about Come Bien Books here, with a blog post about the blog, written by my friend Allie for The L Magazine.  I encourage you to peruse the previous entries, as I've been checking out the site for much longer than I've been a contributor, and I find the space pretty unique in the work that it's doing.  And so, here is "Taking My Time" by me and Robert:

What is it about movement that enraptures me so?

en route

While I have spent much time ruminating about this question, my first and last and simplest answer (though certainly not only one) is that I have to move.  Quite honestly, I can not stay in one place.  For me, being in motion is its own destination, and movement is an essential and core component of my existence.  My movement is an indicator of my strength, and because of it I am stronger through the experiences I have had, the things I have learned and the people that I have met.  I love being in different places, and if I could I would be everywhere always.  I can't do anything else but keep it moving.

And so, in this space I will share with you images and musings of my travel and movement, and in this way I will share with you my life.