LIFE ON THE RUN
A TR AV EL MAGAZI NE.
................................ 2. . . . . . . . EDITOR’S LETTER by LAURI LYONS 5. . . . . . . . AFRONAUTS by CRISTINA DE MIDDEL 21. . . . . . . . THE SECRET THRILL by JEFF DIVINE 39. . . . . . . . MY DAKOTA by REBECCA NORRIS WEBB 59. . . . . . . . FREEDOM! NOW! by ANDRE CYPRIANO 77. . . . . . . . CIAO FROM ROMA! by JERRY ELLIS 85. . . . . . . . VIS -A- VIS by BARRON CLAIBORNE 93. . . . . . . . THE ALCHEMIST by MAHJOUB BEN BELLA 103. . . . . . . . A SIMPLE GATHERING by PENNY DE LOS SANTOS 111. . . . . . . . HANGIN’ OUT IN THE OUTER BANKS by LAURI LYONS 117. . . . . . . . RULES OF THE ROAD ................................ Cover photo by
FROM THE EDITOR
............................................. End of the spring and here she comes back Hi, hi, hi, hi there Them summer days, those summer days Thatâ€™s when I had most of my fun back High, high, high, high there Them summer days, those summer days I Cloud nine when I want to Out of school County fair in the country sun And everything is cool First of the fall and then she goes back Bye, bye, bye, bye there Them summer days, those summer days Hot fun in the Summer Time - Sly and the Family Stone
The heat of summer brings the crackling of barbeque on the grill, the taste
of salt from an ocean wave, and the barest of bodies walking down the street. It is this time of year that we have all yearned for, and never want to leave. As we attempt to make all of our summer fantasies come true, we shed our inhibitions, limitations, and fears, while attempting to make each day special and true.
For this issue of Nomads we bring you a delicious slice of earthly delights,
that transcends all boundaries. Rome, Croatia, Brazil, and some awesome waves all rolled up into one issue. We hope your hearts and minds are ready for a very sunkissed ride.
Live, Transform, Inspire,
- Lauri Lyons 2
LIFE ON THE RUN
A TRAV EL MAGAZI NE.
LAURI LYONS Founder, Editor-in-Chief. Lauri Lyons is a Photographer, Journalist and Creative Consultant. Lauri is the Founder & Editor in Chief of Nomads Magazine. Her photographic range has enabled her to shoot celebrity portraits, ad campaigns and global documentaries. Lauri is the author of two acclaimed books; Flag: An American Story, Flag International. She is also the exclusive photographer for the book INSPIRATION: ProďŹ les of Black Women Changing Our World. - www.laurilyons.com
MADANTHONY aka ANTHONY MARSHALL , Creative Director. Anthony is a New York based Artist & Brand Builder. He has designed for companies such as Nike, The North Face, Adidas & Momentum Worldwide. - www.madanthonynyc.com.
www.nomadsmagazine.com ................................................... for ADVERTISING, INQUIRIES & SUBMISSIONS contact: firstname.lastname@example.org email@example.com Nomads Magazine is a registered trademark. 3
........................................................ MAHJOUB BEN BELLA is a world renowned Algerian painter and mixed media artist. His work has been exhibited and acquired by numerous museums and collections. His commissions include a portrait of Nelson Mandela for Wembley Stadium, and Pacaembo Stadium in Sao Paulo, Brazil. - www.aramanegallery.com BARRON CLAIBORNE is a New York based photographer and ﬁlmmaker. His work has appeared in numerous publications including Interview, Newsweek, Rolling Stone, and the New York Times Magazine. His photographs and ﬁlms are collected by museums and private collections throughout the world. - www.barronclaiborne.com
ANDRE CYPRIANO is a Brazilian photographer based in Rio de Janeiro and New York. He is the author of several photography books: Rocinha, The Devil’s Caldron, The Culture of the Informal Cities. He is the recipient of awards from National Geographic, Mother Jones, and Photo District News. - www.andrecypriano.com
PENNY DE LOS SANTOS is an internationally published photographer. She has traveled on assignment for clients to over 30 countries and throughout the United States. She is the recipient of grants and awards from National Geographic, World Press and Canon USA. - www.pennydelossantos.com CRISTINA DE MIDDEL is a Spanish photographer based in London. She is the author of the book and app, Afronauts. Her awards include the ICP Inﬁnity Award and the Deutsche Borse Prize. She was previously photographing for Doctors Without Borders and the Spanish Red Cross. - www.lademiddel.com JEFF DIVINE has created one of the largest surf photography archives in the world. He is the author of three photography books, including Surﬁng Photographs From the Seventies. For the past fourteen years, Jeff has been the Photo Editor of Surfer’s Journal magazine. - www.jeffdivinesurf.com JERRY ELLIS is a Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award nominated author and playwriter. His books include Walking the Trail, The Boy With Giant Hands, and Native American Thriller - Part One. Jerry divides his time between Rome, Italy and Fort Payne, Alabama. www.tanagerretreat.com
REBECCA NORRIS WEBB, originally a poet, published her ﬁrst book of photographs The Glass Between Us (2006), and My Dakota (2012). Norris Webb’s work is in the collections of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and the International Museum of Photography, George Eastman House, among others. www.webbnorriswebb.co
EDITOR’S NOTE: Crystal Cartier was the photographer for the Global Food story in Nomads No. 3. View her work at - www.crystalcartierphotography.com
We’re going to Mars! With a Space Girl, Two Cats and a Missionary.
Below is an ofﬁcial letter written by Edward Makuka Nkoloso, that was published by TIME Magazine in 1964.
anticipation of the 1964 independence of Zambia (formerly Northern Rhodesia), TIME Magazine reported that the Zambia National Academy of Science, and Space Research was gearing up for missions to the Moon and Mars. The Academy’s self-appointed director, and grade school science teacher, Edward Makuka Nkoloso, was conﬁdent that Zambia’s galactic goals would be achieved by 1965, beating both the Russians and the Americans.
It is unlucky for Lusaka that I did
not have a chance to run for mayor. If I had been elected, the capital city of Zambia would have been another Paris, if not New York. If I had been mayor, Matero Kamwala and the Chilenje suburbs would quickly have been ďŹ lled with ďŹ‚ats and skyscrapers. Old houses would have vanished. But never mind, we will have our Paris yet.
I had my way, Zambia (formerly Northern Rhodesia) would have been born with the blast of the academyâ€™s rocket being launched into space. But the Independence Celebrations Committee said that would terrify the guests and possibly the whole population. I think they were worried about the dust and noise.
Itâ€™s a great pity, all is ready at our
secret headquarters in a valley about seven miles from Lusaka. The rocket could have been launched from Independence Stadium and Zambia would have conquered Mars, only a few days after independence.
Yes, thatâ€™s where we plan to go â€“
Mars. We have been studying the planet through telescopes at our headquarters and are now certain Mars is populated by primitive natives.
Our rocket crew is ready. Specially
trained space girl, Matha Mwamba, two cats (also specially trained) and a missionary, will be launched in our ďŹ rst rocket.
But I have warned the missionary he must not force Christianity on the people in Mars, if they do not want it.
The government must pass strong
bills to deal with the satanic plots of our enemies. I have known for a long time that Russian spies are operating in Zambia. Yes, and American spies are all over town too. They are all trying to capture Matha and the cats. They want our space secrets. These people must be dealt with immediately after independence, if I am to keep my space lead. Detention, without trial, for all spies, is what we need. 17
One other difďŹ culty has been holding
us up. UNESCO has not replied to our request for ÂŁ7,000,000, and we need that money for our rocket programme. Then we can lead world science. I feel the Zambian government should help now, if we are to become controllers of the Seventh Heaven Interstellar space.
I am happy with the government, but it must encourage youngsters to join the academy. At the moment, they have knocked down my academy building in Matero. That is not good. I hope they build modern ﬂats in its place, to provide more ofﬁces for us. The capital of the new scientiﬁc Zambia must look beautiful. People from afar must not see a slum as the capital of the worlds greatest scientiﬁc state. Zambians are inferior to no men in science technology. My space plan will surely be carried out. Almost ﬁfty years after Edward Nkoloso’s intergalactic proclamation, photographer Cristina de Middleton’s Afronauts series, is a re-imagining of the 1964 Zambia space program.
Our surﬁng world in the 1970’s was
pretty much a selﬁsh one of catching the next great wave during the next great swell. We didn’t care too much about anything else. Self centered, yes, stressed out, no. Social issues were raging in the 70’s. We were hammered by our left leaning college professors at the time, about all of the social issues and we were aware of the Vietnam war, Nixon, Kissinger etc.
We didn’t go with the ﬂow of society.
We came from a whole different outlook that was based on nature, the weather, chasing and riding the wave. We were hassled by the police at the beach because we looked like hippies with our long hair, psychedelia etc. But we weren’t hippies. We were inﬂuenced a lot by that world, the variety of religions to look at, the aspect that we were all one, our fragile mother earth, smoking weed, LSD, health foods and all of the rest that went with it. But, we were not politicized. We quit high school organized sports and just surfed. We were like hippie, athlete, outdoors men.
We were pulled by the weather and
the tides. Our world was one that most didn’t understand. We had names for beach areas and surf spots that were not on any maps. It’s like we had a secret language. Some in the media called it The Secret Thrill.
70’s photo work kind of documents or addresses the freedom that all young people yearned for. It was a window into a formerly hidden world that is now fully media tainted. A surfer today is like an American icon such as a cowboy or mountain climber, replete with an underlying 7 billion dollar a year surﬁng industry.
We grew up with the yoke of 1950’s
morays. Our parents we’re kind of the Frank Sinatra vibe, martinis, cigarettes and strict. In this bubble world you were meant to follow in your Dad’s footsteps, get a job, join the tennis club, buy a house and be happily stressed out for the rest of your life.
Surﬁng and the hippie inﬂuence of the
time, allowed us to see throughout all of that and call BS on it all. We took a right turn and went our way. We did become successful in all areas of life, but we came at it in a different way. We had our secret, the freedom of the ocean world, but still focused on getting ahead and could survive the curve balls of life.
the 1970’s we used to think California was the center of the surﬁng universe. And it was in a sense. All of the surf media was centered in Orange County along with all of the major surfboard manufacturers and a fledgling garment/lifestyle fashion industry. When surfers traveled, there were none of the modern conveniences such as online swell prediction, gps location ﬁnders, tour guides, surf resorts etc.
simple trip to Mexico was an incredible adventure. The Mexican cops would always arrive at the surf and with machine guns at hand searching every car for drugs. A trip to Bali, Indonesia was like going to another planet. Our local board carriers would panic at the thought of staying late at the beach, when the mythological characters from their Hindu religion, monsters and spirits, would come out at dusk to roam.
Where the waves were, tourism was
minimal so you were always directly interacting with locals in a noncommercial way. It was beautiful. Even France, Spain and Portugal were considered a long way to go and only a few friends had been there in the 70’s. Excluding the many surfers who bought brand new VW vans in Germany - drove through Europe, surﬁng their way to Morocco, ﬁlling up the voids with hash, shipping the van to Canada and then driving across the border and down to Southern California - there weren’t many who travelled.
There was no one to ask about where
to go for surf, who to see, and where to stay. You were on your own. You had to go see for yourself to really believe the fantastic stories you had heard. After my ﬁrst surf trip to Hawaii in 1971, I realized that the surf in California was a joke. Surfers in La Jolla would say that the wave called Big Rock was just like the Pipeline in Hawaii, They had no idea. Pipeline was like a steroid version of Big Rock.
We lived in a world of visual fantasy
that was presented to us through Surfer Magazine and some of the surf movies such as The Endless Summer. There was no other surf media. In the 70’s I traveled to Australia, Brazil, Mexico, Panama, South Africa, Mauritius, Reunion, France, Spain, Bali, Costa Rica and all up and down the California coast. All of these countries had better surf than California.
On return from these places your
friends could tell where you’ve been by the small regional amulet you might be wearing, or the newly displayed exotic art work, or the kind of spaced out vibe you projected, as you recovered from jet lag and culture shock. Your friends could tell that you must have really been OUT THERE !
At this time, Jeffrey’s Bay in South
Africa was the best wave I had ever seen. We dawn patrolled every day for a week of great, perfect surf. In the early morning dozens of workers with their kids would all be walking on the highway going to school and work. The kids would jump out onto the road and would start dancing as we approached. In Apartheid era South Africa, we were the only group of whites who responded to them with hooting and waving as we passed on to the nearby parking lot at Jeffrey’s Bay. The wave there was incredible.
The strangest thing that happened to
me in a personal sense from traveling at that time, was my attitude change, from being slightly anti - American to born - again patriot, when I crossed back into the USA. We thought the police were bad in the US but to witness what went on in Brazil and South Africa made our police look like boy scouts. Out of control parties in Brazil were simply tear gassed, surfers in South Africa and their US visitors stepped into a police state complete with integrated informants and police raids. I was detained and lectured about media, just for taking surďŹ ng photos.
surfboard industry friends in Brazil were being crushed by lawless commerce, stiďŹ‚ing taxes and inept bureaucracy. The military in Bali had just conďŹ scated all of the locals beach front acres, so the junta could build all of the large hotels. No court dates to argue about the cases, just armored vehicles, along with troops and threats, ended any dissension. So I realized that when it all came down to it, the USA was unique because we were a nation of laws that protected the weak. No where else I traveled during that time seemed to have that.
months after my brother died unexpectedly, it seemed all I could do was drive and drive through the badlands and prairies of South Dakota, often traveling hundreds of miles before stopping.
I Want to Drive and Drive
I remember coming upon this ﬂock
of some thousand blackbirds near the Missouri River. I was mesmerized by how they ﬂew through the stormy, unsettled Western sky as if they were one huge, dark, undulating, ravenous creature, picking clean the remains of the corn and sunﬂower ﬁelds in the last days of autumn. All week, when I’d least expect it, I’d see the blackbirds descend upon a ﬁeld. It didn’t seem to matter how quickly I stopped the car and raised the camera to my eye. Inevitably, the dark ﬂock vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
I Remember Wondering what Iâ€™d say to the Farmer if he Caught me Trespassing on his Land.
Suddenly, worried that the blackbirds
would disappear again, I stopped and clicked a few frames. Then something happened that I wasn’t expecting –– the ﬂock lingered in the ﬁeld. Were there more seeds than usual to feed on? Were the towering sunﬂowers hiding me from the skittish birds? Slowly and quietly, I inched closer until I was standing directly behind one of the tallest sunﬂowers in the ﬁeld.
The word quilombo has its origins in
the Banto language and is similar in meaning to words such as: habitation, camp, forest and warrior. In the central region of the Congo Basin, the word means â€œplace where one is with Godâ€?.
The traffic of slaves from Africa to
the Americas was, for almost four centuries, one of the biggest and most lucrative activities for European businessmen.
The commercial exchange established precise relationships between clients and suppliers from both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. As a result, the formation of some African cultures were materialized in various regions of the New World, including Brazil.
It is impossible to know the exact
number of Africans that were taken from their home country and separated from their culture, for the construction of a foreign reality.
quilombos in Brazil were geographic sites that expressed the fight between classes in the slavery system, and were geographically difficult to access, but the lands were gifted with fertile areas conducive to farming, hunting and fishing.
Quilombos served as a free territory
for the re-creation of the African culture and way of life. The communities were formed by a heterogeneous population, most of which were from African origin, indigenous Indian populations, mulattos and European descendents who felt themselves excluded from society.
People of African descent were vital
to the population growth of Brazil, as well as the slave labor that fueled the economic and developmental growth of the country. As a result of their efforts, Africans indelibly marked Brazilâ€™s cultural and social heritage, which through the centuries has been preserved and revitalized.
I leave Fabio at the restaurant and
In ancient Rome many women wore
It’s little wonder that a woman craved
walk the curved street to Good Café where he and I had met. I was sitting here several years ago when workmen carried items like chairs, tables and desks from Fabio’s church across the street. They dropped them into a huge dumpster. When a workman reappeared with a brilliantly painted and life-size angel I was startled that he dropped it into the dumpster. I hurried that way. “Can I have this?” I said. “Sure,” he said, “there’s another one. Want it?” took both angels to my apartment and stood them against the wall at the foot of my bed. I named one of them Michael in honor of the archangel and the character that John Travolta portrayed in the movie, Michael, where he was a dying angel that lived to ﬁght and loved to combat even a massive bull head on. Going to bed and awaking to two angels watching over me always started my day off right.
Today at Good Cafe Carlo, a waiter
is on his break and embraces those free minutes with theatrical ﬂair. Tall and slender and in a tight black t-shirt, he juggles four oranges as though it is as easy as me breathing perfume from the pretty and well dressed woman who strolls nearby with a poodle in her arms.
shawls that covered their heads and fell to their ankles. Females of means, however, sometimes wore exposed blonde and red beehive wigs with long curls dangling. Some even stacked wig atop wig to transform their heads into traveling towers. This also made them look taller. The average height of a woman back then was only ﬁve foot one and if she lived much beyond forty it was the exception. The average height of a man was ﬁve foot four and he often died in his thirties.
to look as beautiful and sexy as possible during her very short years on earth. She painted her face, and sometimes her whole body, a faint red. She darkened her eyes with roasted ants, crushed and applied by her slave from half a seashell. Those who could afford it even dusted their breasts with gold. Men were just as vain and covered their bald heads with wigs or painted their heads with lamp-black. Every wealthy man wore a very treasured ring that sported his ofﬁcial seal.
Carlo, yet juggling the four oranges,
doesn’t wear a ring. For several years now has gone every summer to circus school in Spain. His understandable dream is to dazzle crowds, taking away— at least for a little while—all their sorrows and worries. Jugglers and acrobats entertained the rich ancient Romans when they threw big parties that they called banquets, always ending with drinking games.
The juggled oranges squeeze sweet juice into my adventure through Trastevere, but here the fruit trees of life are plentiful and I have only to take a few more steps until I taste more. On my left is a barber shop with three men in their seventies who cut hair or shave heads with razors sharp enough to slice open a melon, in the beat of a human heart.
Ancient barbers, however, had only
bronze crescent-shaped knives to shave men. And get this: They didn’t have soap and the only way to soften whiskers was with water. The barbers then used tweezers to pull the stubborn hairs from a man’s neck. What did the barbers do to stop bleeding from nicks? They could use spider web soaked in olive oil and vinegar.
Next door to the barber shop houses
a dying breed of men. He’s in his eighties and cobbles shoes. In ancient Rome some women had high heels for special events but most people wore soft moccasins. When they arrived at someone’s elegant home they removed the moccasins and put on leather sandals. Legionaries, on the other hand, wore shoes with metal cleats for better traction and you could hear them marching before you saw them. Romans didn’t wear socks.
I open the cobbler’s door and stick
my head in. “Remember me?” I say. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses halfway down his nose, he sits at a table with his old and worn hammer tapping a tack into a sole. He glances up, searches my hopeful eyes, and starts tapping again. A couple of taps later he looks up. “I framed the photograph,” he says, “and hung it by my mother and father.”
The cobbler played an important role
in my life one season in Rome. I had the luxury of having a street level apartment with massive, black, barred, wrought iron doors. It was across the alley from the Cinema Café that was a bookstore celebrating ﬁlm. Directors and writers often gave evening lectures there and those that attended sipped wine, ate cheese and chewed the fat about the art of making movies or growled over the bones life had thrown them: They felt they had brilliant ideas for stories that would WOW the world, but without money to produce them they were but kernels of un-popped corn on the ﬂoor of some dark movie house.
probably questioning what this has to do with the old persistent cobbler. It was the day years ago, when I took him boots to be repaired, that he touched my heart so profoundly that I wondered what it would be like to make him a star for the day. Heâ€™s in his eighties and cobbles shoes.
photographed him tapping away with those glasses halfway down his nose and went to the print store to have his image enlarged. I then framed it and hung it outside on the wrought iron doors of my apartment. Above it I wrote in Italian LIFE IN TRASTEVERE.
Locals soon stopped and mused upon
the cobbler, discussing his life, when they ﬁrst met him, how hard he worked and what had become of his wife and children. There was a tightly woven screen over my doors and from inside the ﬂat I could see and hear those at my curious one photograph gallery but they could not see me. I was the American ﬂy on the wall.
became so aroused by people’s responses to the photograph that every day I took a picture of someone in the neighborhood, had it enlarged and framed for the very select gallery. Regulars started to come daily to see the new star and a few, hat in hand, knocked on my door. They asked if I might consider photographing them to be hung in the limelight. Oh, yes, I was more than happy to ﬁll their requests because every new image ﬁlled my heart, getting to know new Romans and see them become the man or woman of the well deserved hour. 82
One person came to see her framed
photographed three times. The last visit she paid was not what she had expected. The sun had set and I had just taken the photograph into my apartment. She stood looking at where it had once hung as though if she looked long and hard enough it might reappear. She ﬁnally sighed and walked away, groping with lost fame. “You do important work for the neighborhood,” I tell the cobbler.
When I return to Rosa’s apartment
three of us and I certainly don’t want to intrude on their privacy. “How long is he staying here?” I say. “He will be returning to Rome for a month.” “So,” I say, “you’re kicking me out on the streets to sleep with the dogs and the seagulls?” “I will give you a blanket and lower food to you on a rope from the terrace,” she says. Some elderly people who live on high ﬂoors often lower a rope with a basket to be ﬁlled with groceries delivered from a nearby store.
something in her eyes does not seem right with the world. “I made us a Sicilian treat,” she says. “Want to see?” Hmmmmmm, I’m questioning just what is going on with her, why her eyes are not carefree. She returns to the living room with a serving tray that holds a small chocolate cake, a slice of cantaloupe extending from each corner. “The cantaloupe pieces are legs. It’s a scorpion to represent Scorpio. “Rosa,” I say, “the cake looks great. But what’s really going on?”
The juicy legs of the scorpion having
She grips my wrist and pulls me to
Wait: Thinking of Cesira, I recall
sit with her on the couch. “You know me too well,” she sighs. “I got an unexpected call from my boyfriend Cosimo this afternoon. He’s not coming back to Rome in a few weeks as I had thought. His producer has ordered him back here to meet with a director.” She squeezes my hand. “He’ll be here tomorrow night.”
The apartment is way too small for the
vanished last night, I must start looking for a new place to live this spring. I could stay with my good friend, Cesira, and her boyfriend. They have a huge apartment with a grand terrace covered with ﬂowers and plants. But they live twenty minutes away by train, but I both want and need to stay in Trastevere, which is always thriving with people and places that feed my hungry soul.
Viviana who Cesira introduced me to a couple of years ago. She has a roomy and elegant apartment in the heart of Trastevere and sometimes rents part of it. I phone Viviana and the gods are with me because she’s eager to rent me a place to live with her and her daughter. Viviana is often hurting for money so my staying in her home will help both of us.
I feel new freedom and security to
have found a place to live so quickly and leave the apartment with a bounce in my step. I am closing the door behind me when my drive to hit the streets takes a backseat. I hear someone singing a song in Italian with such deep feelings that I freeze in my tracks. Only an arm’s length away is the opened window to the kitchen of the next apartment.
I want to know everything about her,
because I just might learn to better sing my own innermost song. Here’s hoping and praying, my precious beauties, that the scorpions you eat do not sting, that when you are kicked out from one home you quickly ﬁnd another, that you encounter a singing bird that gives wings to your heart, and that the bars before you are not a cage but a door to new and intriguing horizons. Ciao from Roma!
Black iron bars cover that window
and an elderly, short and plump woman sits at the table peeling an apple. The song drifts from her lips like a breeze from heaven itself and I am mesmerized by this angel wearing a wrinkled robe, a button missing halfway down. She catches me staring and I become a bit embarrassed. She, however, doesn’t seem bothered, as if I am a welcomed audience.
“You sing like a beautiful bird,” I say.
Her smile reveals a single tooth missing in the center of her upper mouth, and she comes from her chair, the peeled apple in her hand. Reaching the barred window, she has no reservation in searching my eyes. Then she says in barely above a whisper: “I am a bird of sorts.” She grips the prison-thick bars. “Are you in the cage or am I?” Then she laughs the laugh of a child and I join her in that world of delicate wonder, where on the rarest of occasions two strangers spontaneously skip stones over the pond of new possibilities.
nomads happily choose a lifestyle of uncertainty, other people become nomads because it is their destiny. For Algerian painter Mahjoud Ben Bella, destiny was manifested. Born in Algeria in 1946, his family fought on the frontline for France during World War II. As compensation for their services, the French military provided the Algerians with substandard treatment and living conditions during the war.
a hunger for freedom after returning from the war, the Algerian soldiers petitioned France for independence. Not surprisingly, the French declined their request. The year was 1956 and it was the beginning of the infamous French - Algerian war, which was spearheaded by Mahjoubâ€™s revolutionary uncle, Ahmed Ben Bella, and a well organized shadow army.
basically a bounty on their heads, Mahjoub and his family became war refugees for four years in Morocco. At that time a young Mahjoub began to study art. His desire to learn, lead him onto a boat as a stowaway passenger. The destination was France, where he was accepted into an art program.
It was not long before he realized
that he was unprepared for the harsh winter and even harder times that lay ahead for him in France. His school materials were donations and his diet consisted of french fries - without the luxury of sauce. Ben Bellaâ€™s art star career quickly landed him a job at a supermarket and teaching jobs.
His art work began as a constellation
of peaceful politics, astronomy, natural elements and paint. However, in the early 1970â€™s he took his message of Democratic Art to the streets. He literally started painting in the streets and transformed discarded cheap materials like wood, nails and mousetraps, into visions of beauty. Ben Bella became an alchemist.
settling down in Tourcoing, France, Ben Bella rarely travels. For him traveling was never a holiday. Each journey was a psychological trauma that inﬂicted pain. He prefers to travel the world via his art and love for music.
Over the past forty years Ben Bella
has created over 20,000 pieces of art that encompasses paintings, calligraphy, sculptures, printmaking, and international public art commissions. His philosophy of art is simple: He believes that the act of creating is an obligation. If he is not creating, he does not feel good. “It’s like if you want to pee, you just have to do it”.
As we all know, what will be, will
be. Mahjoub Ben Bella is now a highly celebrated and collected artist. His revolutionary uncle, Ahmed Ben Bella, became the ﬁrst elected President of Algeria.
It was written.
sun filled room, your favorite people, and a table full of freshly prepared food, is one of the best recipes for life. Donâ€™t forget to add the perfectly messy salsas, divine nectar from olive trees, vegetables from the yard, and char grilled seafood with a citrus twist. Mix, serve and chill. Does life get any better than this?
111 photo courtesy of Norâ€™ Banks Sailing
In The Outer Banks has the name
and allure of a place where people go to be outlaws and live by their own ideals and rules. It is the place where the legendary pirate Blackbeard called his home and ﬁnal resting place. The Outer Banks name beckons the call of the wild, mysterious swamps, and renegade communities. At least those are some of the ideas that came to mind when I packed a bag and headed south to North Carolina.
Whether by hook or crook I wanted
to ﬁnd out what all the fuss was about, and what makes the Outer Banks the must see destination, for people who want to get away from it all and tell a tall tale or two. What I discovered is that the OBX, as it is referred to, has a little somethin’ somethin’ for everybody.
First up, lets start with the past. If you
are a history junkie or a ghost story fan, the OBX is the place for you. This part of the Carolina Coast is notorious for the centuries of shipwrecks that rocked this part of the world. The deceptive coastline was notorious for beckoning ships and sailors to their deaths. This area became known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic, with over 2,000 shipwrecks to its credit. The sailors who didn’t perish in the wrecks, usually counted their blessings and set up camp as new residents of the OBX.
The Outer Banks is a 200 mile long
string of narrow barrier islands off the coast of North Carolina. The islands consists of Currituck Banks, Bodie Island, Roanoke Island, Ocracoke Island, Hatteras Island and Cape Lookout. Each island contains a few towns that range in development from rustic to luxurious. As you island hop, you can choose to have a variety of experiences to meet your tastes. 113
Speaking of tastes, if you have any
intention of being on a diet, stay out of the state of North Carolina! Upon crossing the state line, I had my ﬁrst taste of down home BBQ. Let’s just say I had a love affair with a pulled pork bbq sandwich, sweet potato casserole and a glass of sweet tea, of course. My food fest had only just begun at that point. For the next several days I indulged on lobster sandwiches for breakfast, creme brulee donuts, shrimp & grits, oysters and blue crabs. When I wasn’t going out to eat, I had the pleasure of experiencing Red Sky Cafe’s ‘Chefs on Call’ service, which brings a chef and all the ﬁxins to your house, to prepare a ﬁve star menu. Nice!
The lay of the land gives you a feeling
of being in wide open undiscovered spaces, pristine azure beaches, elysian ﬁeld golf courses, sprawling estuaries, and Elizabethian gardens. Add into the mix a diverse array of upscale spots like the Aqua waterfront spa and Sanderling Resort for luxury retreats. To my surprise the sound track to my trip was deep roots reggae, playing in most of the stores and resorts, courtesy of a new Jamaican population working in the area.
For accommodations my idea of a
beach house rental was a ramshackle wood house, reminiscent of a 1960’s beach movie. Well, Carolina Designs provides a 21st Century vision of all the tricked out beach house possibilities. The beach house I stayed in had eight bedrooms, two living rooms, a wraparound deck, billiards room, en suite bedrooms that included platform jacuzzi’s, and bay view windows facing the sand dunes and beach.
Once I was able to tear myself out
of my plush surroundings, I hit the road in search of some fun. One of the great things I love about the South are intriguing and sometimes crazy names of towns. The OBX did not disappoint, with communities called Kill Devil Hills, Nags Head and Duck.
The great outdoor adventures started
with four wheel driving over sand dunes, climbing the Bodie Island lighthouse, and pontoon boat rides. My greatest height was reached via parasailing. During my safety orientation with Nor’ Banks Sailing, I noticed the boat I was on was named The Icarus: the mythological ﬁgure that ﬂew too close to the sun and his wings melted. Nice...
a parasailing virgin, all was smooth sailing until my sailing partner notiﬁed me - at 1,200 feet that she was very afraid of heights... Once back on land, my next stop was Corolla, which has a 12 mile stretch of beach that is a home for wild Colonial Spanish Mustangs. The beach area is a conservation easement, which enables the horses to roam free and untouched by people.
A great family outing is the Wright
Brothers National Memorial which houses the Wright Brother’s history and ﬁrst airplane. The memorial is surrounded by the airﬁeld used for the brothers to make man’s historic ﬁrst ascent into air. For a more grown up approach to reaching heights, check out Jockey’s Ridge State Park, which includes the tallest natural sand dune system on the East coast. It’s a great place for hang gliding and sand boarding.
For a taste of the local culture, a
must do excursion is the Wanchese Fish Company tour. Here you get a true sense of what local OBX culture is like. You can stop by to witness and eat the catch of the day. However, what really captured my attention was not the ﬁsh, but rather the owners of the company, the Daniels family. They are a captivating group of holy roller brothers and sisters that have turned a family business into a local legacy.
you’re in the mood for a trip that feels both near and far away, I encourage you to get out, go south and run away to the Outer Banks.
PRICELESS TRAVEL TIPS from our contributing ROAD WARRIORS
Have cash. It’s hard to barter with plastic.
Bring a camera. Take many photographs of your globe trotting endeavors, in order to make your friends turn green upon your return. •
Pack patience, curiosity and a sense of humor. You will need them. •
• Once in a while take a friend,
or better, take a lover.
Eat things you can’t pronounce or recognize. •
-- Barron Claiborne
you’re in one city for several days pick your “spot” at a cafe or bar and get to know well those who work there. They will guide you with all of your questions. Leave good tips. Travel as light as possible. Weight on a trip is an elephant on your back in more ways than one.
I always, always, always, bring my own pharmacy with me. It’s horrible to get sick in another country and when you don’t speak the language it’s even worse. I have been horribly ill in hotel rooms alone and wishing I had remembered to pack meds. These are my must haves: Cipro, Benadryl, Advil and Imodium AD.
-- Jerry Ellis
..................... I don’t like to travel, but here is my list of places to be: Cairo New York, Rome, London & Algiers •
-- Mahjoub Ben Bella
I always bring adhesive tape, like McGyver.
I never book hotels.
I always bring a 2nd camera and a 2nd lens. •
I always forget my telephone charger. •
It is easier that I forget my passport at home, than my notebook and pens for drawing. •
-- Cristina de Middel
..................... Travel alone to be as free as the wind unless you journey with someone you love who knows the ropes. •
Leave your passport in your hotel if there is a safe spot there. Carry a copy of the passport when on the streets. •
Never carry over 50 dollars with you on the streets. Some pickpockets are slick. •
Bones tip for photographers: I travel with a power strip, always! At night after a long day of shooting, I have to recharge all my gear. So having a power strip to plug in everything saves me from searching the entire hotel room for every available power outlet.
Pack light. What I have realized over time is that I never wear all the clothes I pack. So I pack on the lighter side. It leaves room for me to buy stuff and allows me to save my energy for my real workmaking pictures.
-- Penny De Los Santos
Always carry on your luggage. I never wanna risk my bags and cameras getting lost, so I travel light and put everything into two bags.
• Keep in mind to look for small
I always travel with a scarf. Its multi-uses have saved me many times. Like when the temps dip at night, if I’m in a country where women cover their heads, when I’m photographing in a market or an open space that seems unsafe, and I want to conceal my camera, it’s a perfect cover. •
Zip-lock bags. I travel with them tucked away in my suitcase. They are perfect for keeping track of everything I don’t want to lose: receipts, batteries, and I can use them as sandbags when I need to hold a light stand in place. •
..................... • When you ﬁnd a place worth of
beauty and mystery, yes, spend money with a smart guide that can take you safely around and show you the hidden treasures. items to buy as souvenirs. At home they will look great at the right spot. If you can, travel during the low season. It will be all there for you and in a cheaper way. •
• Always ask permission before
taken anybody picture. It does not matter who and how. -- Andre Cypriano
..................... My must haves are: Mosquito net / Macks ear plugs / Imodium / Ambien Snuggle pillow •
-- Jeff Divine