It's Feelgood Friday, even if you're not a rabbit

I get pretty down on corporations. When they are legally bound by the rules of corporate charters to do whatever it takes to maximize shareholder earnings, with no regard for ethics or morals (unless you can convince them it’s relevant to their profit margin), and when they own the political process, it’s a big scary world. And it’s no surprise that “The corporation” is an easy and believable default villain in the movies, now that we can’t just blame Russia (for the moment). Or did you think it was only Avatar?

This makes it extra precious, and extra important to note, when a corporation does something right, even if it might cost them moolah. And the world’s rabbits agree with me.

What, you think I'm above putting cute bunny pictures
on my blog?

I have no experience with angora sweaters. To be honest, if you’d asked me yesterday what they were made of, I probably would have guessed...uh...alpaca fur? Penguins? Angolans? But it’s bunnies! And it’s unbelievably awful! You can research the process if you don’t believe me (but I recommend you take my word for it, those images are truly nightmarish).

Bunnies!

So when Inditex, the world’s largest clothing retailer, agreed to stop selling angora products, it was beautiful news. And when they made the decision effective immediately, meaning they’d decline to sell about $900,000 worth of garments, I was impressed. And when they instead took those garments, and sent them to Syrian refugees freezing in the camps? I was speechless. (But luckily not text-less. You can send them a thank-you note here too.)

It always feels good to send positive feedback.

(Which reminds me, somewhere I heard the suggestion to make your first email of the day a positive one. I’m going to give it a try. You? I’ll be curious to hear how it goes.)

Loving the forests of my homeland, Mt Tamalpais yesterday

Home sweet home. Cool shade, soft air, and damp earth, beside flowing water, under patient boughs, and between sagacious trunks. Jungles are great, but I never appreciated the particulars of my homeland forests until I’d seen their contrasts. In my native woods, you can see more than a few feet, you don’t drip sweat unless you earn it, and you can touch, sit, and rest as you will, pretty much unconcerned that something awful is going to bite you. Want to touch that tree as you go by? Go for it. No bullet ants, here.

I cherish my memories of tropical jungles and rainforests, but the single greatest difference between them and my spirit’s primordial stomping grounds is that after a few days in the jungle, I’m exhausted. Tired from sweat, heat, humidity, and the constant watch for venomous (or simply belligerent) beasties, as the monkey within me worries about being eaten. But when I emerge from even a few hours in a redwood forest, lordy lordy, you could build a domino castle on my equanimity.

So when a friend asked if I wanted to head up to Mount Tamalpais yesterday, just across the Golden Gate from San Francisco, the answer was clear, and my gratitude assured.

And better yet, he’s one of the more talented photographers I know, AND has a tripod he can loan me, for a certain sudden trip, which begins a week from Wednesday. Not sure I’ll use a tripod in those dancing streets, where only the cigar smoke stays the same, but it’s nice to know I have the option.

Note, I’m also editing-challenged, and suspect this Bangkok-mall-discount-laptop monitor is hardly precise, so if you have any feedback (on any aspect), y’all photographers out there, let me know. And also, I bracketed most of my exposures, but came home to remember that I ain’t got no HDR software, and this tired old hardware probably can’t manage the sophisticated editing software… Anyone know of a smallish but reliable HDR program?

(The rest of the gallery from yesterday is on the vagabondurges.com version, here.)

And finally, I’m going easy on y’all with the wordcount this week because that last one was a bit long, but I’m hoping you’ll read it (here) anyway.

Happy trails!

The "Spanish Robin Hood" is just the beginning; Feelgood Friday

Ready to feel good?

From this report

Unemployment in Spain right now is 37%, and over 55% among the 16-24. Banks are foreclosing on people right and left, and when this happens in Spain, you still have to pay the bloody mortgage. Suicides by overwhelmed ex-homeowners are becoming common, and in some cases while the bailiffs are coming up the stairs, the homeowners jump off the balcony. The international banking mafia has pushed the Spanish government to pass laws making it even easier to fire employees and pay them less severance when you do it, so unemployment is only increasing, while the masses see the political and economic elites as hopelessly and unapologetically corrupt, in the country with the worst income inequality in Europe (though still not as bad as the US, apparently).

Feeling good yet? Wait for it.

All these problems are at their worst in the south (a global trend that may seem familiar), which in Spain’s case means Andalucia. I remember beautiful Andaluz mountain towns where not much was going on, and I fear for the people now. But not all of them. Not the ones in Marinaleda.

In the late 1970s, when Spain was roiling after the death of Franco, trying to catch up to a world from which they’d been isolated for 35 years, Marinaleda elected a mayor named Juan Manuel Sanchez Gordillo. A very different 35 years later and he’s still in office, elected with overwhelming majorities in every election. Why? What has he been doing?

I saw this on a wall in Bogota, Colombia in 2012, before I'd
ever heard of Marinaleda.

They started with a “hunger strike to end hunger” and multiple occupations of large estates under the slogan “Land for those who work it”, alternating with legal appeals within the system. After twelve years of this, they gained control over a stretch of farmland, and now roughly 2,650 of the 2,748 people in the town are part of a farm co-op on it. They work up to six and a half hours a day and are paid twice Spain’s minimum wage, while all profits from the farm are reinvested to create more jobs. Use the profit/product of the land to help people, instead of enriching the 1%? What an astonishing idea.

From this excellent article in The Guardian: “‘We believe the land should belong to the community that works it, and not in the dead hands of the nobility.’ That's why the big landowners planted wheat, (Sanchez Gordillo) explained – wheat could be harvested with a machine, overseen by a few labourers; in Marinaleda, crops like artichokes and tomatoes were chosen precisely because they needed lots of labour.”

From a NY Times article on Marinaleda

The crops they chose required “the creation of a processing factory that provided a secondary industry back in the village, and thus more employment. ‘Our aim was not to create profit, but jobs,’ Sánchez Gordillo explained to me. This philosophy runs directly counter to the late-capitalist emphasis on ‘efficiency’ – a word that has been elevated to almost holy status in the neoliberal lexicon, but in reality has become a shameful euphemism for the sacrifice of human dignity at the altar of share prices."

I don’t know about you, but I get a big ol’ ethical boner when I read those paragraphs. Feeling good yet? Want more?

Remember those evictions? Marinaleda bought and expropriated thousands of square meters of land, and now returns it to the people, along with building materials, labor, and architectural plans through public grants. Homeowners pay 15 euro/month for the rest of their lives, and cannot sell their homes (to prevent speculation).

People in Marinaleda like their mayor

More feelgoodery? Last August, Sanchez Gordillo led supporters into a grocery store, loaded up basic foodstuffs, and took them, without paying, across town to donate to a food bank. “There are families who can’t afford to eat. In the 21st century this is an absolute disgrace. Food is a right, not something with which you speculate.” Of course, if everyone did this, we might have a problem with the people we depend on to transport our food, but the statement, and its willingness to act on behalf of what’s right, are powerful things, a powerful call for higher standards than profit for the few.

The town has no police (and no crime), everyone shares in cleaning and maintaining the community, and they spend the money they save on free internet for all and heavily subsidized childcare. While the neoliberal world decays in entrenched systems of exploitation and corruption, disenfranchised and segregated, apathetic or angry, in Marinaleda co-op members are part of the town’s workings, have a voice, and participate in their community. Private enterprise is absolutely allowed, but exploitative mega-chains are not welcome. Sorry, Walmart, but vete al carajo.

I remember back to the Occupy movement, the indignados in Europe, and all the world’s people who recognize that a system that sucks the blood from the masses to fatten the 1% is not the best we can do, and I can hear the opposition and critics who said “Okay, unfettered rapacious capitalist greed doesn’t work for you, but what do you suggest?” Occupy didn’t seem able to produce a clear alternative, but 108 kilometers from Sevilla, I know where you can find one.

Just put it down. Or not?

My camera was making me growl. Even though I knew better. Everyone knows that taking a photo from a moving vehicle is bound to fail. So just sit back and enjoy. But Cambodia wasn’t cooperating.

Missed him

A monk in brilliant orange robes stood in front of a humble house, waiting for the bus, and I wanted the image. Women in colorful skirts stirred steaming pots of soup while egrets posed, poised, in the background, and I wanted to record it. Children laughed as they rode bicycles far too large for their sapling legs, then turned around to do it again, and I knew the photo would make me smile for years...if I could just get it.

But the monk was a blur, the woman was too small, and the children fell half out of the frame. So I was growling. Lydia was patient, and helpful. “Or, you could put the camera away and just enjoy it,” she offered.

Wait, what's going on over there? Move, you stupid tree!

I knew she was right. I remembered all the commuters I’d marvelled at, faces in phones, ignoring gorgeous sunsets out the window. And backpackers by the kiloton, iFaces in iMacs while the irlWorld went on outside.

I could remember these images just fine in my mind. I counted them on my fingers as we went, to make sure I wouldn’t lose one. Eight fingers. There was the monk, the woman, the kids, the….um….

My mental memory card has a leakage problem. Or rather, it’s working perfectly, since remembering everything would be a useless skill, once you went insane after a week. That’s why god invented kodak.

How could I let these moments slip away? Perhaps my soul’s memory is better, and even if the images are forgotten, their calming beauty remains. I could live with that. I would live with that. In gratitude and satisfaction.

Okay, so I didn't entirely miss the morning soup, but still
not the image I was trying for.

We rode along one of Angkor Wat’s massive reservoirs, which stood for the world’s oceans in the physical portrayal of Hindu cosmology that Angkor Wat represents, and allowed Angkor Wat to become the largest pre-industrial city on Earth, roughly eight times as large as its closest rival, Tikal in Guatemala.

And what do they do now, besides serve as marvelous photographic elements for zigajillions of tourist photos? The afternoon had reached a fine, calm old age of softer sunlight and gentler warmth, when skin felt embraced instead of assaulted, and the reservoirs were hosting groups, cliques, and packs of Cambodians, who lounged on the walls, nibbled snacks in the shade, and laughed above ancient waterways.

It was the sort of communal public space that I envy in countless places around the world, where the population is not willingly confined in their separate bubbles, captives to their flickering blue screens and “social” media. It felt like a privilege to see, and a gift to my spirit.

And I wanted to take its picture! But no, I had put the camera away, I could just enjoy it. Breathe it in. Witness and appreciate. Screw that, I want a reminder to hang on my wall. I ripped the camera out of its bag, flicked it on, lifted it to my face-

Just this one, hurried and blurried, over my shoulder as
we drove away

And the road curved and we headed into town. Growl.

Love for the old and the young, America to Myanmar, on FeelGood Friday

Let me be clear: I love the 92 year old man. Born in 1921, Ronald Read walked to school every day, served in WWII, then worked as a janitor for 42 years, first at a gas station then the local JC Penney in Brattleboro, Vermont. Married only ten years before his wife died, he was known as a frugal man, always wore a flannel shirt and baseball cap, ate off paper plates at the American Legion Christmas breakfast, and died last June. I already love him. Oh, but also, he was really good at picking stocks, and when he died he left $4.8 million to the local hospital, and $1.2 to his local library. And now you love him too.

So I love Ronald Read and would happily talk about how he demonstrates the answer to humanity’s capacity for altruism without personal reward, but for these FeelGood Friday posts, I want to go right up into the horrors of the world today and find beautiful things in them.

Bagan was beautiful, even when I hadn't slept

This week I had the privilege (and I use that word deliberately) to work a little bit with some refugees from Myanmar. Rampant in my privilege (there’s that word again), I hear “Myanmar” and remember Shwedagon Pagoda’s golden buddhas, Bagan’s misty morning zedis, and the rich sauces of streetfood vendors in Yangon. Their memories of Myanmar are very different.

What happened to them, there? Language barriers meant I couldn’t ask them, and I would be hesitant to pry anyway, but it had me thinking about that beautiful, but strife-ridden country. Myanmar’s improving, and I hope the corresponding tourist boom is pressure to continue forward progress, but I don’t measure real change by the statements of the government or GDP growth, I measure it in the lives and experiences of the people. So what’s happening to the most vulnerable people in Myanmar?

"Before this, we never talked to the
other girls in the camp because they
came from different villages and we
were too shy, but now, wherever we
go, we have friends who know us so
we don't feel so scared."

“In traditional Burmese culture - where men are considered superior to women and young people are bound to defer to their elders - adolescent girls are widely expected to keep their thoughts, feelings and opinions to themselves. As a result, abuses go unreported and many girls remain ignorant of their human rights or potential.” Doesn’t sound very FeelGood at first, but you need to read the rest of the article. Because the program run by Girl Determined, where these vulnerable adolescents are learning "issues such as decision-making, self-confidence, girls' rights and planning for their future" will make you smile, and make you FeelGood on this beautiful Friday.

Reverential expression of the divine, or just obsessed with boobs?

“Ugh. Great. Tits again. Cuz that’s all women are. I am so sick of that.”

“No way! Look at the care, the precision, the ornamentation and dignity of the carvings. And the serene smiles, delicate hand mudras, and lengthened earlobes of enlightenment. These are demonstrations of reverence for feminine deities, or femininity itself as divine.”

“But why do they all have to be bare breasted? The dudes get to cover their junk.”

“Maybe they didn’t see boobs as nudity, maybe that’s just how women dressed. Lots of cultures are like that, hence National Geographic’s popularity among boys.”

“So why are they so big? This isn’t Sweden. Men are depicted pretty normally, so why are all the ta-tas supersized?”

Lydia and I had different responses to the ubiquitous boobage of Angkor Wat. In the mass of carved curves, one of us saw a monotonous obsession with female bodies, and the other saw the meticulous expression of their sanctity.

What do you think?

Do the multitudinous bare breasts of Angkor Wat reveal an obsession with one aspect of female anatomy, with an emphasis on exaggerated, even unnatural dimensions?

Or do they reflect a culture that revered femininity as a goddess, an apsara or devata?

Is it artistic license and style, or another oppressive patriarchal hypersexuality?

Or is it both, a fascination that was both sexual and respectful, boobcentric reverence?

Or are we missing the point entirely?

Feelgood Fridays, how much can one man do to heal Cambodia?

After my post about Tuol Sleng, a friend asked “Did you find yourself looking at Cambodians of a certain age differently after visiting those sites? I found myself wondering what side people were on. And wondered how on earth you manage to put a population back together again after something like that.”

A Cambodian elder we met near Chi Phat,
I would have loved to hear his story

The answer is yes. Or rather, yesses. I did find myself wondering about people’s past in the Khmer Rouge years, and was stunned by both the challenge, and apparent success that the country has had, in healing from such astonishing trauma. But one does not just ask “So, were you one of the victims, or one of the murderers?” Besides, as with nearly all of human existence, that dichotomy is false. Things are much more complicated than that.

Take Aki Ra. On paper, you could read that he was part of the Khmer Rouge, and planted an unknown number of landmines, the same mines that are still killing and maiming Cambodians today. Bad guy?

But Aki Ra was a child soldier, a 10 year old forced by the Khmer Rouge to do these things. Some might say that deeds are deeds, and karma is karma, but I challenge anyone to blame a 10 year old, whose family was just murdered, to stand up against armed thugs with the blood of millions on their hands.

But perhaps the more interesting part of the question, the “How do you put a country back together?”, focuses on what people did after the war. What did Aki Ra do?

I can't imagine looking for landmines in a jungle like
this one, which we found near Chi Phat

Landmines. Only now, removing them instead of planting them. I would think mine removal would be more difficult than installation, so how much can one man do?

How about 50,000 mines?

There’s a problem with modern reality, in that any number over a couple hundred is basically unimaginable, in a real sense. 50,000 land mines. I try to picture them, spread out on a football field, and the stadium of people whose lives and limbs he has saved, but I’m not sure my imagination can really suffice for understanding what this man has done, to help his country, to help his people, to heal this planet.

He is clearly a hero, and fortunately, CNN agrees.

And just in case his bravery and dedication are not enough? Aki Ra has founded an orphanage to care for children who have lost their parents to these mines. He is one man, making an incredible difference.

(This is the first of my Feelgood Fridays posts. Looking for positive things to talk about is a pleasure, but if you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them. Share the joy, no?

And thank you to Lydia for bringing Aki Ra to my attention.)

What if Angkor Wat sucks?

Be honest, though you’ve heard it all before. The Mona Lisa...looks like it’s supposed to, and is surprisingly small. The Coliseum? Sure, you feel like watching Gladiator, but mostly you’re just waiting for your next gelato. The Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur? Yup, really tall, pretty. Now what’s for dinner? The Panama Canal...is impressive as hell on paper, but outside the window it’s the world’s most boring river.

Now that I’ve offended a few million people, I should clarify that all of these places are still worth seeing. Lordy knows I’ve sought out my share of postcard sites, and smile at my inner version every time I see their iconic images. But in the end? They can be a little underwhelming.

There are exceptions to this. Machu Picchu is stunning, even with the crowds. I hear the Grand Canyon is the same, though I shamefacedly admit I’ve never been. Which category would Angkor Wat fall into?

When we pulled up along the reservoir outside the iconic triple-tower-temple, there was a bit of a “Yup, there it is” first impression. But Angkor Wat is much more than a first impression.

It is cool hallways filled with the soft tranquility left by centuries of people relaxing in relief from the sun. A visceral tradition you’re now part of. Then you’re humbled by the massive stone structures, an achievement in any century. Where did they get the stone? How many people worked on this? For how many generations? My mind felt fragile with admiration already, when I noticed the carvings. Unimaginable, incredible that humans did this. The sheer volume of artistry made me want to shake the nearest Cambodian hand.

Entire armies marched down walls, identical and detailed in an age before mechanized reproduction. Elephants reared and kings balanced, chariots raced while horses pranced and archers took aim. But apparently the ancient Khmer and I have something in common. Because as well and good as war is, sure, whatever, there are more beautiful things in life.

Namely? Boobs. Lots and lots of boobs.

Women danced on walls, watched from doorways, and made mudras in alcoves throughout the temples, hallways, and galleries of the ancient complex. Subtle smiles of feminine wiles that predated and predicted Mona Lisa’s secret by centuries, inspiring craftsmanship and care that has stood the test of time. And they all had knockers to die for.

(See the additional 6 image gallery on the vagabondurges.com post)