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

Painting Over the Ego: Thoughts on My First Holi Phagwah in Suriname

          

In Suriname, nestled somewhere between celebrations marking the birth of Christ and the redemptive celebration of Easter, there is Holi Phagwah. A Hindu holiday brought to this region by Indian indentured servants more than 100 years ago, Phagwah commemorates the triumph of good over evil, and at its foundation lies a bedrock of love and acceptance. Phagwah, however, is not a time for private reflection or proclamations of faith. It is a time for right-action, manifestation, and rejuvenation. It’s also a time to throw ungodly amounts of neon colored powder on friends, neighbors, and absolute strangers without repent.

Phagwah is a nation-wide holiday in Suriname and is celebrated publicly by Hindus and non-Hindus alike. As is usually the rhyme and rhythm for national holidays in Suriname, Phagwah starts off with smaller, familial gatherings, and as the day progresses it blossoms into an all-out party on the government lawn, several hundred yards from Suriname’s White House equivalent.

From an American perspective, it was shocking to see how close the Phagwah party was to important centers of government. And yet there were no M-16 touting agents lining the perimeter nor was the event shrouded by paranoia or a feeling that Big Brother was watching. The energy amongst the crowd of thousands couldn’t have been more jovial. The only terrorist among us was a bass-bomb dropping DJ at center stage. You would be remiss to expect anything less from a country like Suriname, where diverse cultures converge to collectively weave their perspectives into a technicolor quilt that blankets this tiny South American outpost.

Phagwah finds its roots in the Hindu legend of Vishnu and Prahald defeating an immortal demon king by employing crafty and elusive maneuvers. The tradition of throwing colorful powder on one another during Phagwah comes from a separate legend involving Krishna. Concerned his lover would not accept his dark blue skin color, Krishna, following the advice of his mother, painted his lover’s face a multitude of colors. The result was acceptance and true love.  

Ego dissolution plays a major role in achieving clarity along the path to overcoming life's evils. Although the ego tends not to dissolve unless in the presence of something hallucinogenic or meditative, the ego definitely struggles to shine through skin painted pink, purple, green, and blue. Use of Phagwah powder is not limited to any one part of the body nor is it a matter of being painted and then rushing to wash it off. Playful powder fights erupt like pillow fights throughout the day, staining clothes forever and skin for up to three days.

The art of tossing powder on passersby is something perfected over a lifetime. Techniques vary from majestic tosses at close range to long distance throws that paint the sky and fall like multi-colored snowflakes on the intended target. My first few attempts at powder tossing were more reminiscent of a WWE wrestler throwing salt in an opponent’s eyes.  After-which, I incessantly apologized by repeating the mantra, “Sorry, I’m an American. I’m an American, sorry.” 

The willingness of non-Hindus to step out of their religious nests is probably the most progressive bi-product of Phagwah, especially in a world where Christian retentions run the table of holy observances. And while Suriname’s citizens approach Phagwah with varying degrees of depth, the fact is, they still participate. 

Whether they view Phagwah as just an excuse to party or they consciously use it as a day to defeat their own demons, they all embrace the feeling of looking a little silly in public. Even more surprising, they do it with never-ending, genuine smiles on their faces. Every city in the world needs Phagwah, and at the micro-level, every tribe of friends needs a day where the only agenda is forging new bonds while erasing negative vibes in plumes of bright color.

Words By Keoni K. Wright

An Unexpected Guest

Occasionally, I find it necessary to release myself from the locked cage of vibrational creativity that is my one-bedroom apartment on the edge of the jungle. Often, that just means running upstairs to the gym to have a punch-up on a pair of Thai pads that never retaliate. Other days, I am called to the hustling, bustling streets of Paramaribo’s city center to remind myself that I am not an island.

Despite the staggering economic recession, shops and shopping bags remain full around town. It’s a hearty soup of energy and attraction in Suriname's capital city. Strokes of humidity mix with the competing ingredients of material consumption and the eye’s consumption of human form. Women are prone to bat an eyelash in my direction, even while walking with their boyfriends. I’m prone to bat an eyelash at their boyfriends just to keep everyone on their toes. It’s usually a game of look and look away, but one recent afternoon the image of a woman emerged from the crowd like a sub-equatorial mirage to catch me in her invisible snare.

“She's looking at you?” My driver playfully mentioned in between sips of a Parbo tall-boy. 

“I noticed,” I replied while trying my very best not to notice. 

A month had passed since my Brazilian ex-girlfriend kicked me out of her house for reasons I will never understand. Mostly because I don’t speak Portuguese and she doesn’t speak English. It had been two weeks since I enacted psychic revenge by sleeping with her friend and co-worker; also, non-English speaking. I had all but given up on finding love in the jungles of South America, but I rolled my window down anyway.  

“Excuse me,” I said as the cab idled up next to her. 

Her strides were broken by my words. She seemed startled by my voice. Maybe she wasn't looking through me and not at me as the driver and I had suspected. Or maybe it was just the fact that the first words out of my mouth were in English. 

My driver rambled something off to her in Sranan Tongo (Surinamese).

“Hello. Don’t worry, I speak English,” she said with an inviting smile and a wave. Already, this was going way better than my last relationship.

“Would you like to come to my place to hangout tonight? Maybe we chill, maybe we go dancing?” I asked. 

She stood up straight, inverting her hands on her hips. She peered out across the streams of busy bodies navigating gaps in between stalled cars, as if to ask herself why this strange, bearded foreigner picked her from the illustrious garden of tropical chaos around us.

“Sure,” she said, leaning in again. The whites of her cat-like eyes glistened in the remnants of the afternoon sun. I wrote my address down on a piece of paper and handed it to her just as traffic started to move again.  

She eerily and unexpectedly sauntered up to my doorstep at midnight. Normally, this would be late, but nothing about my schedule in Suriname was normal. Midnight had become like “new-noon” as I struggled mightily to harness my creative energies anytime before sundown.  

She settled into a chair in the corner of my dimly lit kitchen. She crossed her legs, causing her black and white striped mini-dress to creep up her thighs, exposing naturally smooth skin that shimmered in the ivory moonlight trickling in through the open doorway.

The referee themed motif of her dress was particularly fitting. Every man’s attempts at turning physical attraction into deep, soul-enriching connection should be officiated by the woman he is trying to swoon.  And it helps if she has a collection of bright yellow bullshit flags at the ready. I tread carefully, but confidently after she broke our awkward silence with the question, “What brought you to Suriname?”

It’s a question I am often asked. Instead of a mystical re-telling of the harrowing experiences I’ve had in indigenous, psychedelic ceremonies; where I play the role of a knight in ever-thinning armor, slaying dragons and biting snakes in half to escape a fiery, personal hell, I normally just answer this way: “God told me to come here.”

“You know, before I left the house this morning, my mother told me that I needed to keep my eyes open because I was going to meet the love of my life. My mother is a very spiritual Christian woman. She said it came to her in a vision given by God himself,” she said.   

In this part of the world my spiritual intimations are not just received, they are often reciprocated. Thirsty souls are quenched in Suriname for reasons I am still trying to comprehend.

“Well here I am, the love of your life,” I said facetiously.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she said withholding a coy grin under sharp glances. “Do you have hash or wine?” she asked.  

“No, but I can get both,” I responded. I reached for my phone and sent a text to the only man I knew who could grab hash and wine on the fly at 1am and not seem bothered by such a request.

Twenty minutes later my mysterious night messenger arrived with a bag of hash and a bottle of cheap red wine. The girl took the hash and quickly set to rolling a tight joint. After a few re-affirming licks to seal the hash in the rolling papers, the three of us partook of the burning bush and intermittently sipped from the bottle of wine.

Satisfied, our shadowy delivery man departed, leaving my guest and I to sift through the compartments our souls in plumes of smoke and wine waterfalls.

“So, what’s your story?” I asked, sensing the hash had relaxed the tense energy between us.

“I came here when I was 17 from Guyana,” she responded. She tapped the ash off the end of the joint and into a coffee mug painted red and white. 

“Came here and got caught up with the wrong man; a wannabe gangster. He went to prison and left me with three kids.” 

It was hard to imagine such a tiny frame supporting a fully inhabited womb, let alone doing it three times over.  

“It’s always the wannabe gangsters that want me. I don’t know why,” she remarked, shaking her head and taking a heavy drag of the joint. “You’re not a wannabe gangster, are you?”

I took a moment to think about her question. Flashes of my previous life wrestling drunks outside of bars and throwing solid jabs in back parking lots rolled through my mind’s eye.

“Well,” I paused again. “I’d say, I’m more like a reformed gangster than a wannabe.”

She passed the joint and I sent those all too recent memories off in a purge of smoke that was swept away by a timely jungle breeze. Just as the joint burned down to the clutch, she began to roll another.

“Yeah, well I also found out he was sleeping with his sister,” she casually imparted.  

“His actual sister?  Like, his real sister?” I asked.

“Yep. Got her pregnant and everything,” she said keeping her eyes focused on the bits of hash she was organizing with the tips of her painted, white fingernails.

“So, what did you do after he went to prison? How did you support your children?” I asked.

“I worked the street. Men always found me attractive, and I knew I could make money. I worked the street for two years. Then one night, five years ago, this man came and took me to his house. He sat me down and cooked for me.” 

She paused to light the freshly rolled joint. She pulled hard and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, in the most gangster way possible. 

She continued, “He was a mysterious man. Kind of like you, but not like you. He served me dinner and told me that God told him to pick me up that night. The man said he had a vision that I would die working the street.”

“And you listened to him?” I asked taking the joint from her with a thumb and forefinger.

“I did. I quit immediately and got a job working at a gas station. For five years I provided for my children. Just me. No help,” she said confidently.

Her tale of courage, prophecy, and clarity put my past struggles into perspective. During my personal battles, I only had to worry about the face in the mirror, but in her darkest days, she sacrificed her body for the wellness of the three young souls she brought into this world. I cannot even begin to imagine having to breathe life into three children while you’re dying on the inside.  

“I appreciate you sharing your story. I’m stronger for having listened to it. You are a very strong woman,” I said. Her story was tragic, but her essence was reaffirmed by its ending, or what I thought was its ending.

Her orange, old school Nokia brick phone vibrated on the table in front of us. She snickered as she read the number on the lime green screen.

“That’s him, the first guy I told you about,” she said ignoring the call.

"The guy who slept with his sister?" I asked for clarity's sake. 

 “Yes. He still calls me from prison. Sometimes it’s to tell me he loves me, sometimes it’s to threaten me.” 

She put the phone back on the table face down. She grabbed the bottle of wine and took a hearty swig. With her free hand she scratched at the lower part of her stomach. I could tell she was uncomfortable.  

“You okay?” I asked.

“Surgery scar. Sometimes it itches from the inside. Sometimes it burns,” she said rubbing the area gently.

“That must be a pretty fresh scar if it’s itchy,” I said.

She signaled for the joint that had been lingering in between my lips for far too long. “We humans like to challenge God’s plan every chance we get.”

She went on, “Two months ago, I got greedy. For five years I was doing okay for myself but one day in December I decided to see what the streets had to offer. I went with this man back to his house. He promised to pay me well. He was a nice man, but he was very rough in bed. He was pounding, pounding, pounding me,” she said gently tapping a tightly clenched fist onto the table as she described the man’s relentless nature.

“I had to stop. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed for an hour in his bed. Eventually, he forced me to get up and leave. I was on a side street walking home and suddenly a rush of blood and fluid came from under my skirt. I miscarried right then and there,” she explained.

“What? You were pregnant?” I asked.

“I had a couple of boyfriends over the past year. One of them got me pregnant and I didn’t know it,’’ she said. “They had to perform surgery after the miscarriage. So, yes, it’s still a fresh scar.”

I took a much-needed sip of wine to wash down the unexpected doses of raw human experience my guest was serving up. I was not speechless, but there was no need for words. I could see that the recanting of her past was making her exhausted at a time when she was probably already tired. I took both of her hands in mine and lead her up on to my lap. She fit perfectly in my arms.  She rested her head on my shoulders and closed her dreary eyes.

Her phone vibrated again. She turned it over to reveal the same prison number strewn across the screen.

“It’s half past four in the morning. I should go. My kids will be up soon,” she said after declining the call. 

She rested in my arms for a little longer. I spread my fingers wide, putting one hand on her back. I closed my eyes and said a prayer for her. A prayer that also conveyed a certain level of thankfulness for allowing me access to the details of her sordid past. I prayed that I could find lessons in her past. I prayed that I could find lessons in our chance encounter.

“Next time we talk about your fucked-up life,” she said with an ear-to-ear smile. Moments later she left to catch a taxi. I locked my apartment door behind me.

While I had all but given up on finding the love of my life in the jungles of South America, my happenstance guest reminded me that I should not give up on loving life; not now, not ever. I opened my laptop and began to write.

Words and First Image by Keoni K. Wright

EXODUS - A Surinamese village struggles to re-gain its footing in the wake of a decreasing population

Jdjani (21) and Mayo (48) are bound by their allegiance to Witagron and the way of life the jungle provides

If you are confident enough to compete with logging caravans hogging narrow strips of loose sand, once city pavement ends you can make it to the remote village of Witagron in under five hours. Local guide Steve Oldenstam (“Steve O.” to his friends) travels this road often. He navigates the bumps, downed trees, and the seemingly magnetic lure of roadside ditches the same way a seafarer reads the open ocean. Steve-O has been taking curious tourists to Witagron and other off-the-grid villages in Suriname’s western rainforest for years.

“Witagron is the wild west, man. I want visitors to experience the rawness. Other villages play to the tourists’ expectations. Not here,” 28-year-old Steve O. says.

Aesthetically, Witagron is unlike other villages along the route. A red and white communications tower dwarfs the tallest trees and pulls the eyes away from an array of transcendently colorful flora. Nearby, a modern Bailey bridge connects Witagron to the fertile hunting grounds on the other side of the Coppename River. The tiny village boasts a school, a development center, and a medical building. Unfortunately, all in Witagron is not as it seems.

“No one is ever there; the medical center, the development building. It’s all bullshit,” says Mayo, a 48-year-old local hunter and boatman. He speaks Sranan Tongo, the local creole tongue, while Steve O. translates.

According to Mayo and fellow boatman, 21 year-old Jdjani, the medical building is never staffed which leaves locals without modern options for preventative or emergent healthcare. The communications tower is “too short” and provides such limited range that it is nearly obsolete. The bridge (an engineering marvel around these parts) is rapidly deteriorating under the 

Witagron's impassable Bailey bridge

weight of logging trucks. It is currently deemed impassable.

Instead of sending construction crews, the government posted two police officers at the ailing bridge on the eve of our arrival. A move that was probably more about ensuring the safety of aloof loggers than protecting villagers.

Witagron is the ancestral home of the Kwinti people. The Kwinti are the direct descendants of slaves who escaped the wrath of their Dutch overseers and returned to an African way of life in the extended Amazon rainforest. Of the six groups in Suriname descended from escaped slaves, the Kwinti have a reputation as the fiercest.

“The other slaves fled the plantations, but the Kwinti were known to stand-up to the Dutch. They fought for their freedom,” says Steve O.

In more modern times, Mayo called upon the righteous spirits of his ancestors during Suriname’s six-year civil war. The war pitted rebels from villages in the interior, fighting under the moniker “Jungle Commando”, against government forces lead by Suriname’s then dictator, Desi Bouterse.

“I once defended Witagron from an ambush with seven other men. They [government forces] came with bazookas, helicopters, and planes,” Mayo says proudly from behind a very calm demeanor.

Jungle Commando fighters surrendered in 1992 after Bouterse promised a return to democracy. Ironically, Bouterse was democratically elected as Suriname’s president in 2010, a position he still holds. While the raging sounds of automatic gunfire have been replaced by the echoes of shotgun blasts from local hunters, younger generations of Kwinti, like Jdjani, are embroiled in a war against the lure of the city dollar.

Once a thriving village of over 500, Witagron’s population has dwindled to just 50 as more young people leave the rainforest for what they hope are greener pastures in Suriname’s capital, Paramaribo. Those who leave tend to ditch their cultural identity once the dirt hits pavement.

“I will never leave. I could probably go to the city and make more money but I feel healthy here. I feel strong,” Jdjani says.

Mayo echoed his younger counterpart’s defiant stance and claims the city is a place he rarely travels to.

“It’s nicer here than in the city. I can live without spending much money; living off the nature. I only occasionally go to the city to get luxuries like sugar,” says Mayo while rolling a joint on a silver-plated platter.

Jdjani believes the exodus to Paramaribo is one that stems from a lack of local employment and education.

“If there was more work young people would stay, but if you can’t find a job logging, working a gold mine, or being a boatman, like me, you have to leave,” Jdjani says.

The school in Witagron only provides children with an elementary level education. They must board in Paramaribo to complete further studies. In Paramaribo, young Kwinti are thrown into a materialistic stream of consciousness where city dwellers are prone to openly dismiss traditional means of living. Those who return to Witagron after high school do so with a greater sense of monetary value that sometimes contradicts the natural wealth provided by the jungle.

A local woman preparing vegetables outside of her home was quick to relate the story of her two sons - one who stayed in the city and the other who returned. The son in Paramaribo is unemployed, caught up in drugs, and living like a “street person.” The son who returned to Witagron feels “stuck” and struggles to find purpose after attaining skills and insights that do not directly translate to village life.

The problems in Witagron are further compounded by a lack of representation. Unlike most villages who have one captain, Witagron has the supposed luxury of having two. One captain resides locally and the other who lives in the city. Captaincy is a bi-product of post-slavery, Dutch colonial rule which sought to give remote villages a representative voice in Paramaribo. 

“The captain who lives here, in the village, listens to us. The captain that lives in Paramaribo is just about the money and doesn’t care about us. He never comes here,” Jdjani says.

Some villagers optimistically contend both captains are relaying the needs of their village properly. They feel the real problem lies in the nation-wide recession; a recession the government is trying to combat through exploitation of natural resources. In the eyes of the government, the land in Witagron is worth more in the hands of corporations than under the feet of villagers just trying to survive.

“The friends of the President, the gold and wood companies, will take over if people continue to leave,” Jdjani warns.

While other villages are accustomed to underground plumbing and uninterrupted electricity, Witagron is left with a crumbling water tank and mineral water fountains that no longer work. Residents are allowed four hours of electricity each night from 7p-11p. Electricity restrictions mean a greater reliance on gas and oil which puts further economic strain on villagers. Disconnected ice boxes, relics of more prosperous times, are used as dry storage for locally harvested rice.

When asked what they would discuss if given a private audience with the President, two local women emphatically responded, “Water!” An opening to the river at the back of the village is used as a boat launch and a communal watering hole.

The effects of neglect on a dwindling population filter all the way down to Kwinti spiritual practice. African groups in these jungles use ceremony to transform themselves into their individual spirit animals. The most powerful of which is the Jaguar. Kwinti Jaguar-men (those born with the spirit of a jaguar) are heralded as problem solvers, healers, and mediators between the realms. However, there are no Jaguar-men currently living in Witagron.

“The elder Jaguar-men passed away, and those who are alive moved to the city,” Jdjani says.

Visions of Witagron’s future differ generationally. Jdjani believes his village’s survival hinges on Paramaribo committing to infrastructure projects in time with initiatives making Witagron more attractive to merchants and investors. Mayo, on the other hand, cautions against giving control to outsiders in bed with big government.

“If they [merchants and corporations] are interested, they need to invest and communicate with us directly, not with ministers in government,” Mayo says. Steve O. believes the key to Witagron’s future is conscious tourism.

“The easiest way to make people aware is through tourism. Witagron’s residents can make more money introducing people to the trees than by working for corporations that cut trees down,” Steve O. says.

The dusty path leading to the center of Witagron

Although their reputation as no-nonsense warriors often precedes them, the Kwinti are an inclusive and accommodating people. Mayo feels his way of life holds invaluable lessons that can benefit the global community at-large. He uses the example of an American couple who came to live in Witagron for two years during the 1970s.

“They learned the language, how to plant, how to drive boats, and set nets for fishing. By the time they left they could do everything just as well as us.”

Words & Photos by Keoni K. Wright