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