Movement Unbound

Not Everyone Is A Fan Of Movement...

2010-06-01T20:29:00.002-04:00

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...

2010-05-12T23:08:00.003-04:00

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?

2010-04-26T14:18:00.000-04:00

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...

2010-04-22T12:39:00.008-04:00

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

2010-04-18T14:22:00.000-04:00

"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"

2010-04-13T17:59:00.000-04:00

"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

2010-03-28T14:57:00.008-04:00

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

2010-03-22T21:03:00.003-04:00

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...

2010-03-19T10:36:00.001-04:00

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

2010-03-15T21:55:00.008-04:00

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

2010-03-13T18:18:00.000-05:00

at g40 in crystal city

Traveling is Fun...

2010-03-12T12:09:00.002-05:00

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

2010-03-09T11:45:00.001-05:00

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."

2010-02-28T13:32:00.003-05:00

"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...

2010-02-26T13:09:00.003-05:00

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...

2010-02-25T17:50:00.002-05:00

miyajima, japan

Sometimes It's Hard

2010-02-24T16:58:00.004-05:00

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?

2010-02-24T09:05:00.014-05:00

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 -

2010-02-23T18:53:00.005-05:00

- 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"!

2010-02-23T11:37:00.007-05:00

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

2010-02-22T13:37:00.004-05:00

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

2010-02-21T12:37:00.006-05:00

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

2010-02-20T12:39:00.001-05:00

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...

2010-02-19T11:19:00.001-05:00

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

2010-02-18T17:26:00.002-05:00

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...

2010-02-18T12:08:00.011-05:00

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

2010-02-18T10:57:00.007-05:00

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

2010-02-17T21:24:00.005-05:00

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?

2010-02-17T21:05:00.001-05:00

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.