The Doorman and the Shaman

I told myself that I loved the calamity; that the chaos was a necessary fruit in my garden. I needed it like I needed fried chicken and jerking off, maybe even more so. 

My calves were tangled in female hair. Faces couldn’t be seen and all that could be heard were screams, grunts, and exclamations like “BITCH!”, “CUNT!”, and “FUCKER!”.  Female bodies were at my feet, strewn along a Chinatown thoroughfare, clawing at each other like ferrule cats in spaghetti straps. A thud reverberated throughout the hollow concrete whenever a skull hit the sidewalk.  

This orgy of horizontal violence twisted my bearings like I was standing in rushing rapids. Occasional glimpses of my red kicks through the sea of locks and flailing arms kept my balance in check; kept me from being swept down river. My colleagues were somewhere close, I could feel them, but none of them joined me in the thick of it. I looked up to see the newest guy in our crew standing at the edge of the crowd. The reflections of wrestling drunkards danced in his unblinking, virgin, Filipino eyes. 

“Call the fucking cops!” I shouted, breaking his trance.

One of the girls at my feet, an acquaintance and local DJ, started to take more hits than she was dishing out. It became clear that she was losing this battle. A chubby Asian girl in a red dress ended up spooning my DJ pal. She grabbed her hair and yanked back with vengeful force while a white girl in a black dress threw down a karate chop across the DJ’s neck. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She momentarily writhed in pain before regaining her laser-like bitchiness.

I had seen enough. 

I picked up the DJ, threw her over my shoulder, and ran her to the other side of Hotel Street, but not before she used a free hand to slap some guy in the crowd across the face. I set her down on her own two feet - a position she hadn’t been in for quite some time. She started to cry.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she pouted. “I’m so drunk right now, but I know this is going to hurt in the morning. Shit!”

I chuckled at her uncanny sense of self-awareness. Her opponents found their way off the sidewalk and were conspiring with a slew of buffed looking local guys who seemed keen to play the role of Captain Save-a-Ho. Hoping to avoid any further altercations I hurried the DJ around the corner and put her in a taxi just as Pacific blue police lights crawled up the block.  

Soon, beams from police flashlights mixed with those from my fellow bouncers who were still trying to disperse the crowd. The energy generated from a gaggle of girls, practicing their catty kung fu, subsided. 

I reclaimed my spot at the door to the club. I greeted a group of patrons with a smile, and politely told them to have fun as they scurried past me into the club. 

It was midnight on the dot. Two more hours until closing. 

****

Sean knelt before me in the dark. He cleared his throat and gathered himself before starting to sing an Icaro. I still had the events of the previous night on my mind, and I’m sure I still had some poor girl’s hair attached to my body. I was dealing with a certain level of achievement that my ego wouldn’t let go of. It was another victory; another notch on my belt of Chinatown street cred. Last night I saved a DJ’s life. But as the deep tones of Sean’s ultra-rhythmic voice eclipsed my spatial awareness, my ego dissolved quickly in a sea of visions. La medicina was taking effect.

Sean’s singing voice was an intense departure from his overall demeanor. Although men like Sean operate in a shroud of mysterious trickery, he presented himself as a very relaxed and humble Canadian dude under sunlit skies. But at night, in ceremony, in complete and total darkness, he transformed into a singing jungle cat with the healing larynx of God. His sound was a technology all its own. 

Almost immediately, I could feel Sean’s song interacting with the medicine. Gentle quakes rocked my stomach back and forth as though a small tree boa were slithering around my intestines. I was being transferred into another dimension. Like an infant ape sitting before a symphony I clenched my fists and swam in the Amazonian rhythms filling the empty space around me. My whole body began to move in a seated dance. My arms moved like they were beating invisible drums. The backs of my eyelids become other worldly.

The culmination of sounds, sights, and lights in the darkness acted on my soul like an ancient language that I somehow was able to interpret, though, not through my five senses as I knew them to be. 

A voice from my subconscious, Mama’s voice, told me to open my eyes. I did as I was told and shuttered at the sight of a fully-grown jaguar draped in Sean’s clothing singing to me. His song became more powerful; like his voice was chipping away at everything I had ever known. Suddenly, the memories I held of me as me completely disappeared and were replaced by an uneasy familiarity. I was being returned to the place where I was created.

This, in part, is the magic of Ayahuasca when taken by a wayward man with a soul whose intentions are good.

Lessons Learned on the Way to My First Film Festival

I’m not at a point in my adult life where my scant wardrobe is organized behind the golden doors of a spacious, walk-in closet. Actually, I often brag about living out of two suitcases. But since moving to Brooklyn a year ago, my clothes are in a constant state of limbo. Somewhere between cheap luggage and cheaper, off-color hangers.

Rarely does my morning routine require much consideration when it comes to which outfit I wear. Like a contestant on The Prince is Right, I blindly reach into the orgy of clothes on my floor hoping to grab something to cover my torso and a lil’ something to cover my pelvis. A loose sock or two rounds out my ensemble. It’s hard not to go home a winner.

When I received news that my first film, ReleaseD, had been chosen as an official selection at the 2019 Trinidad and Tobago Film Festival CARIFESTA Edition I unexpectedly became extremely fashion conscious.

For the first time in a long time (read: ever), I would be traveling with a purpose. Throughout the entirety of my life, minus my travels as a Navy man, I glided into tropical locales without much of an agenda other than rascality. 

When it came to how I would dress for my first film festival, I wanted my attire to reflect the inner rebel; the outlaw storyteller, filmmaker, and capturer of time, place, and soul that I so yearn to be.

I decided to take a page out of M.I.A’s handbook on righteous glam and went digging for my coveted green, camouflage t-shirt. As soon as I popped my big head through the shirt’s hole, the un-holy war against commercialism, in the name of rugged individualism, was on.

My affinity for rebel-artist M.I.A might be the genesis of this whole experience.

The immigration line at Trinidad’s Piarco International Airport crept along like a cumbersome python; one scale at a time. It was Trinidad, though, and I knew not to expect anything less than island time – my favorite kind of time. I waited for my turn at the immigration counter with my scraggly chin held high, projecting every ounce of my renegade nature through the forest green scheme on my form fitting t-shirt. (Nothing hides the imperfections of a 35-year old’s “dad-bod, but no kids” frame than Army issue camo.)

Although, it seemed as if my camo was working too well. No one was picking up on my artsy, sniper vibe. No curious onlookers. No small talk. No, “So, what brings you to Trini?”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to find an airport attendant looking up at me.

“Sir, would you mind stepping out of line, please, so that I can talk to you privately,” the rail thin, male attendant said from behind a pair of glasses.

I obliged without question, hoping that maybe this would be my big moment. Maybe the airport staff had picked up on my aura of importance and decided to rush me through the line.

The attendant brought me around the corner, well away from curious ears.

“Well, Sir, you see, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago.”

“What?” I asked, thinking I misheard him.

“Everything is okay, Sir, but the shirt is illegal. It’s not allowed here. Maybe the immigration agent will make you take it off at the counter when you get there,” the attendant said.

“Look, if there’s a bathroom around here I’ll gladly change into something else,” I said motioning to my suitcase.

“No, no, no, Sir. That is unnecessary. I’m sure everything will be okay,” the attendant said. He escorted me back to my spot in line.  

My egocentric wish for attention was suddenly being fulfilled, but not for the reasons I hoped. Everyone around me was wondering why the bearded, tatted, ruffian-looking fellow in camo had been pulled out of line. Years of working as a seedy bouncer in seedier nightclubs didn’t exactly give me the look or feel of a doctor from Medicins Sans Frontieres. I’ve been told that I have a serious case of RBF (Resting Bouncer Face).

The immigration line moved a few inches. Yet again, I felt another gentle palm on my shoulder. This time it was a grandmotherly woman in the Navy blue uniform of the immigration authority.

She leaned in to whisper. “Sir, has anyone talked to you about your shirt?”

“Yes, actually,” I responded.

“You know, camouflage is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago. My God, why did you wear that shirt? They’re going to give you grief at the counter,” she imparted in strange rhythms. 

“Is there a bathroom or a changing room I could duck into quickly? It’s no big deal. I can put on another shirt,” I said. I rolled my suitcase in between us.

“No, no – just stay in line. Maybe they won’t notice. If they do, they’ll confiscate it, surely. What are you doing here anyway?” She asked with a slight snarl on her face.

“I’m here for CARIFESTA. I’m a filmmaker,” I said just above a whisper, hoping someone might hear and actually care.

“You’re an artist? Why the hell are you dressed like a bank robber, then?” She wandered away shaking her head.

More eyes were on me now, and the stares were wrapped in gossipy chatter about what I might be guilty of. A fashion violation was the furthest thing from their minds.

Cocaine trafficker. Arms dealer. Male sex worker.

I continued to inch towards my impending showdown with an immigration agent who may or may not want me to take my shirt off; may or may not fine me for dressing like a criminal. A stern masculine voice cut through the line behind me.

“Sir! Sir!”

I looked back and saw a crew cut, chiseled, immigration officer motioning for me to leave the line.

“I know, I know, my shirt is illegal.” I stopped him in his tracks and continued in a tone that revealed my state of frustration. “Can I just change somewhere, please?”

“Sir, camouflage is prohibited in Trinidad and Tobago. People might think differently of you with that shirt on. Please go change. There’s a bathroom over there,” he said, pointing me in the right direction.

A few moments later, I returned to my spot in line dawning a plain, blue t-shirt. Tourists and returning citizens burned holes in me with their eyes.

“Made you change your shirt, huh?” The extremely perceptive woman behind me asked.

“Yeah,” I responded with a wry smile.

“That’s a shame. The other shirt looked a lot better on you,” she added.


Needless to say, I’m ready to submit two films for TTFF20 consideration, and I already have my outfits laid out:

My humorous debacle at the airport was in no way foreshadowing for things to come that week. TTFF19 CARIFESTA Edition was an amazing experience for this first time filmmaker. It was an honor to sit amongst some of the most far reaching imaginations in the Caribbean film and art world, and I continue to be thankful for the response given to my film, “ReleaseD.” Aloha. 

Words by Keoni K. Wright
www.keonikwright.com

Obeah-Man, Suriname: Spiritual Snippets from Under the Jungle Canopy

The Obeah-Man’s house was a collection of cement walls. Some walls met to form corners, some didn’t. Sheets of corrugated metal spanned certain sections. The trees happily played the role of the roof wherever necessary.

Angelo thought that, as an American, I might be quick to judge this humble abode or, better yet, post photos on social media so that Western eyes could gawk at an impoverished scene.

“Please don’t take photos,” he kept reminding me on the ride from the city.

My first impression of the Obeah-Man’s house was steeped in envy not disgust. A house that intruded gently into the jungle, with just enough protection from rain, and just enough privacy to perform rituals in peace and quiet was a manifestation of my wildest desires.

Angelo’s offer to take me to the Obeah-Man was impromptu. He knew that if I was given time to ponder the offer I would surely choose sleep over awakening. Angelo knew a lot about me – all without knowing much about me. Ultimately, that’s why he took me to see the Obeah-Man. He knew.

Angelo is a kickboxing trainer and a world-renowned one at that. He makes his living equipping everyday people with the ability to find their fighting spirit. He understands how the fight so often occurs outside of the ring, on a multitude of planes, in just as many realms.
  
Only a man reared in the magic of the extended Amazon rainforest could, so confidently, acknowledge the invisibilities of the fight without fearing intellectual recourse. Maybe that’s why Angelo chooses to ply his trade in the tiny South American/Caribbean nation of Suriname rather than compete with spiritless streams of consciousness abroad. Angelo recognized the fight I was engaged in well before I did.

“I normally don’t do this kind of thing with foreigners, but I feel like you understand. I feel like you will benefit,” Angelo said while steering his sedan through Paramaribo’s dusty streets on the way to see the Obeah-Man.


Suriname is utopian. Sure there’s crime, but it's the kind you expect in a country with a struggling economy and corrupt government. It’s the kind of crime that a little common sense can counter. No ATMs after dark. No befriending international cocaine dealers.

Otherwise, Suriname presents itself as a colorful, cultural quilt that extends from the densely populated coast to the rugged and remote rainforest interior. A synagogue, the oldest in this part of the world, stands next to a mosque in Paramaribo’s city center as a testament to Suriname’s knack for embracing cultural differences.

Suriname is a place untouched by excess commercialism and tourism; where the concept of one love survives in its purest form.

The easygoing vibe purveyed by locals might be a byproduct of their staunch belief in an ability to perform good and bad in realms unseen. So much so, that the only thing left to do in the physical realm is smile, laugh, and be cool. If ever there was a fertile training ground for inviting good spirits and thwarting evil ones, Suriname is that place.

These beliefs and powers are not restricted to society’s whacky outliers lost in plumes of their own self-fulfilling, pseudo-spiritual admixtures. The Obeah-Man I was about to encounter, and those like him, represented the fully engrossed and embattled of Suriname’s spiritual crop. In Suriname, one quickly learns that the butcher, the banker, the lawyer, and the maid (especially the maid) are all in on it.

I walked to the back of Angelo’s gym one morning to fill up my water bottle before another of his grueling training sessions. I found the gym’s cleaning lady yelling at the wind off of the veranda.

“What’s she doing?” I asked Angelo upon re-entering the gym.

“She’s just telling the bad spirits to go away,” Angelo replied.

If you stay in Suriname long enough, you begin to realize that what seems like nothing, often, is something.


Due in large part to slavery and international experiments in indentured servitude, Suriname is like a metaphysical United Nations. Hindus, Africans, Javanese, Jews, Muslims, and the Indigenous are all casting spells and sending up prayers from the bushy shadows; engaging in the constant push and pull of light and darkness, good vs. evil. Christians are not exempt, although they like to think they are.

A few weeks into my second trip to Suriname, an elderly Indian woman appeared on my doorstep under the cover of darkness. She was hell bent on convincing me to attend an Obeah-like ceremony where participants summoned spirits and transformed into their respective spirit animals. Part of her pitch was to tell me about her experience at such a ceremony. 

“I’m a Christian. My belief in Christ was too strong for their magic to get me. But they got my European husband. He transformed. My belief in Christ is just too strong,” the frail woman attested. None of this explained why she, as a Christian, attended the ceremony in the first place. Nor do I have any idea why she sought me out as a prime target. (Or do I?) 

On a return flight from Suriname, I encountered a Surinamese mother and daughter wearing large Coptic crosses around their necks. They were traveling back to Boston after visiting family. The crosses covered most of their bosom and almost reached the edges of their shoulders. They were ornate, intricate, and looked like artifacts taken directly from Anthony the Great’s tomb. The duo wore them like chest plates of armor.

“We have to wear these for protection against red-eye (evil-eye), white magic, and black whenever we visit home,” the mother explained after I inquired about their distinct religious jewelry.
  
As we drew closer to the Obeah-Man’s house, Angelo touched on the matter of black magic, but offered little explanation.

“Some Obeah-Men turn to black magic; to evil. They dedicate their lives to doing harm. I can’t tell you why. That’s just the way it is,” Angelo said with a cryptic air.


The Obeah-Man was in his mid-to-late 40s with a clean-shaven head and an athletic build. He was dressed comfortably in loose pants and a dashiki – a sign of his African connection. He emitted a strong, deep tone when he spoke English; emphasizing syllables as though he were speaking Suriname’s unique Dutch dialect. The passion in his voice trumped his awkward cadence.

Although he had been blinded in a car crash some years ago, I could still feel his eyes on me through his dark sunglasses. I caught a glimpse of his wayward, brown pupils and the scarred whites of his eyes whenever his shades fell down the bridge of his nose.

The janky, four-legged table between us was a resting spot for his sacred leaves, bottles of alcohol, tobacco, and the other instruments of his profession. A woman, likely his wife or occasional lover, tended to Angelo and me. Once she was assured of our comfort she disappeared.

The Obeah-Man lit a cigar and smoked it up-right like a Sadhu puffing on a chillum. He did this to keep the ash from spilling. When the cigar was nearly finished, the ash resembled a mini monument sitting in between his thumb and forefinger. He flipped the pile of ash and the last bits of burning cigar into his mouth. He took a swig of alcohol to wash everything down.

“Send me a picture of your father so he can see me,” the Obeah-Man requested. “You hear me? Send me a picture, so he can see me.”

Where Angelo knew, the blind Obeah-Man could see.

“You have a coin?” The Obeah-Man asked holding out his palm.

I reached into my pocket and gave him what he wanted. He wrapped the coin and a small charge of gunpowder in a leaf. The Obeah-Man said a prayer for my prosperity and held a flame over the concoction on the table before him.

BANG!

I jumped out of my seat, taking the next few moments to pull myself out of temporary shell shock. Angelo burst into schoolboy-ish laughter.

“What the fuck did you think was going to happen?” The Obeah-Man asked shaking his head with a sinister grin painted on his face. “My God, man. Even I could see that coming.”

The laughter waned and Angelo transitioned into playing a drum that was lying next to him. He played rhythms that had been passed down to him from his African ancestors. The Obeah-Man sang and prayed in time with Angelo’s cosmic flow.

When they finished, the Obeah-Man enriched my understanding of how so many of Suriname’s slaves emancipated themselves and disappeared into the jungle to start communities of their own; communities which still exist today.

“They sang to the spirits and they were given the ability to fly. They did not run off of the plantations. They grew wings. They flew.”


Therianthropy is a fancy, less-spiritually-rooted, word for a human’s ability to transform into his/her animal equivalent or gain animate qualities. I prefer to use the term shape-shifting. Shape-shifting is a common, ritualistic thread amongst the many groups inhabiting Suriname’s rainforest, which happens to be the densest in the world. If there’s one place where spirits prefer to hide, frolic, and plot – it’s in the jungle.

In 2018, I traveled seven hours into Suriname’s western rainforest to visit the Kwinti people (one of six Maroon groups in Suriname) and their ancestral homeland, a village called Witagron. A young Kwinti man named Jdjani gave me a tour of Witagron. Sensing that I was a judgmental, spiritually backwards American, he quickly glanced over the ramshackle house at the back of the village where they performed spiritual ceremonies.

“That’s where we turn into our spirits. The greatest spirits are the jaguar-men,” Jdjani said with a look of coy embarrassment eclipsing his face.

Fortunately, at this point in my life, I had been witness to many spats of shape-shifting in the form of a jaguar-man leading Peruvian healing ceremonies in Hawaii.

“Yes, I am very good friends with a jaguar-man in America,” I said confidently. The embarrassment left Jdjani’s face and gave way to a look of surprise, and finally, trust. It was the kind of trust I would have been hard pressed to gain with a suitcase full of cash and bags of sugar from the city.

From that point on, Jdjani introduced me to the other villagers as a man who was friends with a jaguar-man.


The Obeah-Man asked if I could stay the night, but Angelo had other plans for me. We had to rush back to the city for a kickboxing session. The Obeah-Man blessed me with these parting words.

“Remember, you are the shaman. You already know this, but you are the shaman.”

While the All Blacks Played Dead in Perth…Sonny Bill Played Park Rugby Against Players Not in His Tax Bracket

Sonny Bill Williams earnin' it with Counties Manukau in the Mitre 10 Cup

Steroid addicted baseball players aren’t the only sports entities worthy of asterisks next to their names. Rugby teams who pull off famous victories on the cusp of the World Cup appear to be asterisk worthy as well. 

After Australia’s 47-26 win over the All Blacks in Perth last weekend, it was difficult not to be happy for the Wallabies’ cooler-than-cool coach turned chemist, Michael Cheika. 

Like a modern witch-doctor, Cheika daringly fielded a team that mixed the nearly extinct with up-start youth, and included a doubt-ridden NRL convert for good measure. He also managed to craft a heartwarming come-back story for the sake of ratings. The only thing missing was a greedy grubber from the ghost of Quade Cooper to make this rugby fan feel complete.  

The Wallabies’ dominant performance made it increasingly harder to believe that the ABs (1-1-1 in the Rugby Championship) are merely struggling to adapt to a new system, as Coach Steve Hansen wants us to believe. Six weeks from the RWC and we’re talking about a “new system.” You’ve had four years, Mate. 

Unfortunately, this win, or a win in the upcoming Bledisloe Cup decider, won’t mean much in the wake of the RWC. This time of year, with the RWC looming, it’s a struggle to make these matches seem like more than asterisk worthy warm-ups to the big show. 

One man avoided last weekend’s struggle against Australia, but continues to be on the ABs radar. That man is Sonny Bill Williams. 

Plagued by injury, SBW has only played a handful of test matches for New Zealand over the last four years. He continued that trend on the weekend, however, he still managed to play some footy. While Australian winger ‘Murica Koribete was picking and going like a Fijian Johnny Appleseed against a soft ABs defense, SBW was playing for Counties Manukau in the Mitre-10 Cup.


SBW’s inclusion in Counties’ starting XV is an attempt at active recovery in time with getting him into “match shape.” 

The following sequence best describes the SBW-Mitre-10 experiment: 

SBW jogged into place as a first receiver inside the opposition’s 22-meter line. The Counties’ scrumhalf, who probably works three jobs in addition to playing rugby, passed the ball to SBW (a millionaire), who then threw a no-look, out the back, pass to his No.13. The pass was as magnificent as it was totally unnecessary.

SBW jogged to the next breakdown and scooped up a wonky, loose ball wandering away from a messy contact area. With his right leg heavily bandaged, he jogged through a few defenders, well past the gain-line. The way the defense avoided him, it was as though he was whispering “I’ll double your match fee” as he carried the ball. 

Finally, an Otago player with a sense of financial security wrapped SBW around the legs, but before hitting the paddock, he threw a lazy version of a classic SBW offload. Again, the defense looked too afraid to touch the ball. As such, that pass found a support player within a meter of the try line. Counties scored on the next phase. 

SBW is an icon for both athletes and opportunists. He is an NRL convert, former NZ Kiwi, French rugby superstar, Super Rugby stalwart, Japanese rugby’s million-dollar man, NZ boxing champion, Olympic 7s player, and, of course, an enigmatic All Black. He’s done most of those things by simply - being himself.  

In an era of the collective, SBW is a rugged individualist who morphed into a brand all his own. To his credit, coaches and selectors continue to turn to that brand in uncertain times, even when sleeker, sportier models are available. Dare I say, he is a Ford truck amongst Teslas. 

If I were a betting man, I’d go all-in on SBW featuring, quite predominantly, for the ABs in six weeks’ time. His inclusion in this RWC will usurp his 2016 Olympic 7s selection as the biggest head scratcher of them all. For those who need a reminder - SBW played awfully in his trial matches, but his brand was still attractive enough to find him on the Olympic roster; thus crushing the dreams of several up-and-coming players who were far more deserving. 

The next young man in line to succumb to the SBW monopoly is ABs reserve back, Ngani Laumape. Laumape provided one of the few bright spots in the loss to the Wallabies when he channeled the seven’s spirit, and scored off of a highball at the re-start. That play all but earned him a shift from the No.22 jersey to the No.12 shirt. But not so fast young man! – SBW is slated to make his return to the ABs in the upcoming Bledisloe Cup decider at Eden Park. 

Although, it should be mentioned that SBW isn’t a lock to start that match. (And speaking of locks, I wouldn’t put it past the selectors to make concessions to get SBW into the side even if that means playing him in the tight five.)

In true opportunist fashion, SBW has avoided being attached to the ABs recent woes and, at the same time, remains highly attractive without having played much rugby. And even more puzzling, he’s clearly not a remedy for New Zealand’s troubles. 

In short, I’ll have what SBW is having and up the Spring Boks! 

If anyone needs me during the World Cup, I’ll be lifting weights with Ma’a Nonu in his back yard next to a few dogs on a smoky grill.

Viewing the Soul's Battlefields from a Creative Perch

I am a highly functioning artist, highly motivated by my constant battle against depression. My depression is just as deep as the depths I seek when swimming to the bottom of my mind’s meditative ocean. The deeper my depression, the deeper my meditations. The deeper my mediations, the more my demons poke and prod at my soul, but I swim on, unflinchingly grabbing the ends of spears with bare hands.

Being a warrior on internal battle fields comes with little in the way of memorials. There will be no statues erected in my honor or medals hung around my soul’s scarred and charred neck. Battling depression is a full-time job, where a knife can turn into a scalpel at a moment’s notice. I’m warrior and medic all at the same time; fighting while simultaneously wrapping wounds. Although I will not truly meet my end until the end, I suppose I also play the role of a Father on the front lines; administering first rights rather than last. And the only right I am concerned with is my right to wage war on behalf of myself, within myself.

Somehow, on good days and bad, idea agents make it across enemy lines and fill my imagination with inspiration often sent through the medium of dreams. I dream a lot here in the jungles of Suriname. I assume every dream impacts me, whether consciously or subconsciously, but some of my dreams come with a little voice employing me to bring those visions to life. In the face of my depressive forces, I readily accept those missions as they are doled out.

It’s a mystical cycle of depression, meditation, dreams, and inspiration which fuels my essence. Of course, there was a time in my life where I assisted the chaos raging inside of me by living a chaotic life. I thought I was resting in the palm of God, but, in truth, I was living life on a high wire spanning canyons, hung over hungry, jagged rocks. The wind blew often, and I am very lucky that I didn’t fall any further than I already had. 

My influences are many, as are the teachers who assisted in my ascent to more positive peaks. No longer do I assume I am with God. All l know is that I am on a path of seeking. Those influential teachers I spoke of, led me to love’s river and while my ego howled at the moon, I consciously decided to drink. Eventually, I immersed myself. 

It used to be about suicidal day dreams precipitated by nights where something invisible paralyzed me until I screamed. Now, thoughts of monasticism have replaced thoughts of suicide. Whether things work out or not, I’m sure I will see my last days from the comfort of a habit, an orange dhoti, or maybe from my seat at the foot of a raging fire, in-between an arrangement of sticks and branches assembling an open-air monastery all my own. There’s never a need to end it before it ends. 

In some ways I am already there, living in a tiny apartment silently involved in my creative toils driven only by the will of God. I still have a long way to go within the realm of discipline, but my surroundings are the beginnings of a rainforest Gethsemane. Creating the space to create seems to be essential in all of this, just as set and setting are important to psychedelic journeys. And much like a trip into the forests of the unknown I meet mysterious helpers and guides at every turn.

Do I find them, or do they find me?

All I truly know, is that I am closer to finding myself.

Planes, No Trains, and Pooled Uber Rides: Pilgrimage and Finding DJ Harvey

You might be in the wrong profession if you spend forty-five minutes staring at the ceiling every morning trying to muster up enough fortitude to shower, put on clothes, and drive to work. This was my daily exercise in existential examination, and it usually meant I arrived at the job site very late, even on days when showering seemed like a task too tall. Of course, I had the perfect excuse for being late to my construction laborer day job. I spent most nights moonlighting as a rugged doorman with a fair bit of party sense in an artsy enclave of Honolulu called Chinatown.

One late November morning, my night owl spirit guide instructed me to shift my focus from the mosaic of cracked paint on my ceiling and onto DJ Harvey’s tour dates page at ResidentAdvisor.net. My favorite DJ would be in LA the next night, co-headlining a Thanksgiving-eve party at a club called Union with another of my all-time favorites, Seth Troxler.

Partying and working in Chinatown, I was always within three degrees of DJ Harvey. When I first came to Hawai’i in 2009 I spent many nights dancing at his club, 39 Hotel. However, I never saw him behind the decks or otherwise. I knew many of the eccentric, local DJs who had reaped the benefits of his influence. As a doorman, I treated his oft quoted line “good clubs should have courteous, friendly security staff” like gospel.

To keep my sanity in the intellectually and spiritually draining world of commercial construction, I usually popped in my earbuds and listened to lectures from modern spiritual masters at my day job. This made digging ditches and offloading drywall seem less demeaning. As such, I had listened to enough lectures from the American Buddhist Jack Kornfield on the importance of pilgrimage to know that I must fly to LA to find DJ Harvey.

With no wife, no kids, two forms of income, and a sexy but lesbian Puerto Rican roommate who only had emotional needs, my responsibilities were few. I was optimistic that my bank account could survive a lone night of partying in LA. I left my boss a weak voicemail laced with carefully placed coughs and sneezes. After which, I threw a bunch of random clothes in a knapsack and headed to the airport. 

Five hours later, I touched down at LAX. Prior to leaving Honolulu, I did myself a slight favor and booked a room at a Holiday Inn Express that was within an earshot of the airport. When I arrived at the Express, I was shocked to learn that the hotel's computer system was down and I couldn't check in. Nor could the dozen or so proper vacationers around me who were losing their minds. People who probably didn’t cry at their grandmother’s funeral were lost in deep emotional turmoil.

Amidst the Y2k like chaos, I grabbed the attention of a slick staffer named Mario. I slid him $150, had him draft up a hand-written receipt, and within minutes I had a key. Once in my room I tossed on the television and kicked up my feet. There were no seedy pay-per-view options, so I put the Lakers game on and attempted to figure out where I was in relation to Union nightclub. At about the same time, I received a text fom my cousin, Eddy. He let me know that he was staying in LA’s Koreatown. Although I was pressed for time and still very unaware of where I was in the world, I made plans to see him before the show.

When my Uber arrived, I was surprised to see three other male passengers in the car. My first experience riding in a pooled Uber was cramped and strange, highlighted by sitting bitch in between two Asian men with thick thighs while the punkish guy in the passenger seat bobbed his head to music that didn’t exist. I expected our driver, who was dressed for a night of clubbing in Marrakesh, to make a few stealthy left turns in his fancy sedan and, in an instant, arrive in Koreatown. Instead, it took 28 minutes to drop off the first passenger and ultimately 45 minutes to get to Eddy’s doorstep.

LA is not a walking city...

My cousin Eddy was an off-the-grid character who dated recording artists, took jobs as a marijuana trimmer, and was known to do some underwear modeling on the side. So, I wasn’t surprised to find him shacking up with three very attractive Red Bull promo girls in a two-bedroom apartment. Probably at no cost to him so long as he didn’t wear a shirt or cut his shoulder length hair.

No one in the apartment knew of DJ Harvey, but then again, most Romans of the time were largely unaware of Jesus. One girl in Eddy’s harem was keen to get out of the house and offered to be my party pal for the night. Eddy gave his blessing with the sign of the cross. Within minutes we were on our way to Union which, rather miraculously, was just a few blocks away. Everything was coming together with a strong sense of divine intervention.

Like Puritans fleeing persecution, my party pal and I scurried up Union’s steps and onto the shores of the warehouse-like main dancehall. Neon lights and flashing signs with slogans like “ALL YOUR DREAMS FULLFILLED” greeted us. Through the healthy stew of psychedelic color, I caught a glimpse of the DJ dancing over the controls in a mystical haze. He was kitted out in leather pants, a leather vest, and he dawned a full-on leather gimp mask wrapped in metal buttons and zippers. It was DJ Harvey in the flesh.

His BDSM themed get-up was fitting. With each turn of a DJ Harvey-selected-record I found myself bound by ecstatic sound quality. Harvey collectively cracked us with his love whip, leaving me with no choice but to dance under the cocoon of soul-sonic vibrations pouring down on the dancefloor like hot wax. Each step was like someone had taken a feather to the soles of my feet. There was no need for a safe-word; we submitted to Harvey’s will and all he really wanted was for us to get lost in the dance.

5am came in a flash. I skipped back to the Express to grab my scant personal effects. Fortunately, my Uber to LAX wasn’t pooled. Once in the airport, the TSA agents were kind as I dragged my happy ass through security. Although, the drug dogs licked their chops. I began to repeat the mantra “it’s illegal to have drugs, not to be on them.” 

Seven hours later, I was back in Hawai’i sleeping on a Samoan friend’s couch during her family’s Thanksgiving brunch.

“Why is he so tired?” My friend’s concerned mother asked.

My friend put down her drumstick and responded, “He went to LA last night.”

Words by Keoni K. Wright
Images Courtesy of DJ Harvey's Instagram @djharveysgeneralstore

EMERGING FROM HER ROOTS AND LOVING IT: Surinamese kickboxer Chavella Lee is ready to take on the world as long as home remains home.

For Surinamese kickboxer Chavella Lee nothing is guaranteed except her mark on history. The last three weeks of her life were a testament to the unpredictability that comes with being a fighter. 

In late March, Lee was scheduled to fight as an amateur in New York City. Several days later, the fight was upgraded to a pro match, her debut, but the American opponent pulled out for unspecified reasons. Promoters in Holland then booked her for a pro debut in mid-April that was eventually moved to April 21st. And just three days ago, Lee received news that her opponent was changed from a fellow debutant to a fighter with two professional fights.

Lee’s response – “There’s no pressure. If my trainer says we are going to fight in April, then we fight in April. We just stay ready for everything. I am calm.”

Armed with natural athleticism, sheer work ethic, and a keen sense of awareness well beyond her 20 years, Lee is the epitome of a contender. Watching her train, it’s easy to see that blood, sweat, and tears are her preferred currency. With her pro debut looming, she has earned the right to call herself Suriname’s first, home-grown, professional female fighter.

The magnitude of her ground-breaking pro debut is something Lee uses as fuel for the soul. It also helps to validate her vision of not just fighting for Suriname but fighting from Suriname.

“I like traveling to other countries and seeing new things. It’s exciting. But if I stay too long I start to miss home,” Lee says.

Her last trip into the great expanse of international, amateur kickboxing came in October of 2017 when she and coach Angelo Simson traveled to NYC to face a highly touted Manhattan native. New York and Suriname are on opposite ends of the world’s spectrum. NYC is a concrete jungle where people, cars, and buildings dominate the landscape. Suriname, however, is home to the world’s most dense rainforest, where remote tribes and a relatively small urban community combine to make-up the country’s population of 550,000.

“New York was a great feeling. You see New York in movies and TV and then suddenly you’re there in Times Square. It was a big moment for me,” Lee says.
 
Lee’s humble persona does not exclude her from enjoying the ride she’s on, even if that ride happens to be the “L” train from Manhattan. After dismantling her opponent, Lee and trainer Simson rode the subway back to their hotel with trophy visibly in hand.

“So many strangers were so excited for me. A group of people stopped to give me a round of applause and wanted to take photos with me. Of all the moments I had in New York those were the best. I really loved that,” Lee says.

New York’s allure was fleeting and failed to diminish Lee’s commitment to Suriname. According to Lee, Suriname is essential to her fight prep. It is where her battery fills with the necessary nutrients to wage battles at home or on foreign shores.

“When I fight in Suriname I feel stronger. This is the country of my ancestors. This is the country where I was born. When I fight in other countries I take that power with me, but I have to come back to Suriname to re-charge,” Lee says.

Lee’s allegiance to Suriname puts her at the forefront of a new era in Surinamese kickboxing. While the impact of Surinamese kickboxers like Tyrone Spong, Ernesto Hoost, Remy Bojansky, and Illonca Elmont is undeniable, they did not hone their craft in Suriname. Spong and Elmont, for example, started kickboxing in Amsterdam as youths and represented Dutch gyms during their pro careers.
 
Lee’s home stable, Simson Gym, is a modest rooftop shed that juts out of the bush in a quiet neighborhood bordered by tropical mangroves and lush rainforest. It is thousands of miles from the kickboxing epicenters of Holland and Thailand, but the training regimen is more than comparable. Lee trains twice a day, six days a week.  You can catch her sneaking into the gym on Sunday mornings through the fire exit with male and female sparring partners in tow.

Thanks to her coaches, Lee claims her pre-training anxiety is far greater than anything she feels moments before a fight.

“The night before my last training session, my coaches told me they were going to be really hard on me. I was so nervous all day. I was very shaky, but I ended up confronting my fear and I killed the workout,” Lee says.

On fight night, it’s more about internal dialogue than managing nerves. “I try to talk to myself; to tell myself I’m going to do this.” Lee normally makes good on that promise. Her last loss was two years ago in nearby Brazil. Since then she is a perfect 7-0.

“I’m really glad I lost that fight. Before that, I was beating up a lot of girls and that loss really helped to bring me back down to earth.  I never want to experience that feeling again,” Lee says.

When the stresses of life in and out of the gym become too prevalent, Lee seeks the services of Suriname’s most heralded therapist, the jungle.

“Because I’ve been busy with school and training the jungle hasn’t seen me much, but when I go there I feel very calm, stress-free, like myself. I love the trees,” Lee says. 

The serenity of the Surinamese rainforest lies in sharp contrast to the treacherous economic climate in South America’s smallest country. Vast sectors of Surinamese society are struggling to stay afloat in a nationwide recession as the winds of modernity transform the jungle from a place of refuge into a tradeable commodity. Lee is aware of the glaring issues facing her fellow citizens. She sought ways to help the less fortunate well before she inked her first pro contract.

“My boyfriend and I volunteer at one of the orphanages helping kids. I can’t do much now and I know I can’t help everyone, but it’s important I do something. You have to start somewhere” Lee says.

The means to attract more attention to Suriname's internal issues might come sooner than later. Unlike men’s professional kickboxing, where it can take 30 fights to gain notoriety, a girl with Lee’s pedigree can easily become a superstar in less than ten pro fights.

“If she can entertain audiences and impress top match-makers then Glory will be calling sooner than later. I guarantee it,” coach Angelo Simson says of Lee’s chances of signing with top promotion Glory Kickboxing. Simson dreams of returning to the Big Apple with his star pupil to fight under the Glory banner.

Just ten days before her debut in Holland, the World Kickboxing Network confirmed Lee’s inclusion in a K-1 style tournament in Bulgaria in late June. To claim the tournament’s top prize, she will have to fight and win three times in one night. When Lee returns to Suriname in late April, she will immediately start an 8-week training camp in preparation for Bulgaria.

“When you see her in that tournament in Bulgaria she will be in the best shape of her life, but first things first, we need to stay focused on Holland,” Simson says.

While her predatory ring presence is reminiscent of feasting jaguar, outside of the ring Lee is vibrant, almost always smiling, and appreciative of her opportunity to leave an indelible mark on the world of kickboxing.

“I’m writing my own history and I love it,” Lee says.

Words by Keoni K. Wright
Images Courtesy of @chavellalee via Instagram