VOLUME 1 - WE GO TOO
CONTENTS 7
Editor’s Letters
10
The Black Travel Movement
23
A Memoir & A Musing
26
Travelling West-Africa
32
Bear Girl
54
Patrick Aryee
62
‘It’s not just jollof ’
72
Solo travel in Jamaica
82
Black Travel History
97
Stranded in Paradise
102
Black travel family
104
Timeless 4
5
32
“BEAR GIRL” Words by Ella Paradis - Photography by Alexandra Keeling
Or how psychedelics opened Alexandra Keeling up to a whole new world of adventure, going with the flow, connecting with the divine in all of us and discovering the adventurous side of a family member she never suspected.
Were you always an outdoorsy person? I’ve never been a super outdoorsy person no. I grew up in Michigan, and funnily enough, when I was a child, my parents bought what used to be a farm with 40 acres of land attached to it. We had horse stables, rows and rows of Christmas trees because part of the land was used to cultivate Christmas trees. So I grew up with a lot of open space, and tons of land to explore literally in my backyard, but I would never wander further than the pond and always stayed pretty close to home. Then in high school, I met my best friend, and she ended up encouraging me to get out more. We would go up to the dunes in Michigan, she would take me skiing and gave me my first taste of that adventurous life. She ended up marrying pretty young, so I didn’t have a travel companion as such anymore, and without her, I didn’t really feel the urge to head out on my own.
So where did the adventure bug come from? It came from quite an unexpected place, to be honest. Back in 2017, I went to a music festival with some of my white friends, and that’s where I ended up taking psychedelic drugs, and it completely blew my mind. This triggered an intense spiritual awakening and a complete shift in the way I viewed the world. Right then and there I decided that as soon as I got back home, I’d quit my job and start to live my life to the fullest. >> 33
THE OBVIOUS AMERICAN by Jeremiah Pittmon
W
e all can stand out in a crowd. We may feel unremarkable, ordinary or average, and therefore not think of ourselves as standing out in a crowd. The thing is, it all depends on the setting you find yourself in as I found out on my first trip to Rome.
During our trip, my wife and I would encounter guys on the streets selling souvenirs and trinkets. They were obviously drawn to tourists in their effort to make a quick and easy sale. Most of them were African. They immediately noticed my wife who is from Ghana and seemed able to identify her immediately as a fellow African. As for me, they identified me as well. How? I’m still not sure. It’s probably something exceedingly obvious that I’m overlooking, but haven’t picked up on it yet. And it happened every time. And this is how things would unfold. We’d be walking down the street, one of the vendors would spot us and walk up to us. Immediately they would enquire with my wife about where she’s from. They would guess (often correctly) or ask and note that she’s their sister. After a brief conversation with her, they would turn to me and say “and you’re American, right?” At first, I was a little taken aback. Was it that obvious? It didn’t bother me and I definitely wasn’t trying to hide it, but it was curious. It happened twice on our first day. How in the world did they know that I was American just from looking at me? What was it? Later that night, I played back the interactions in my mind. I realised that I might have spoken just a word or two when they approached. Maybe I said “hello”, and they picked up on my American “accent”. Even now it’s funny to think that I have an accent. In your mind, it’s always other people that have accents and not yourself. But that’s another beautiful thing about travel. I thought to myself that had to be it. They heard my voice for however brief, but my accent stood out even in that short time just as a British, Italian or Ghanaian accent would catch my ears. But was that really it? I didn’t remember saying something every time before they made their prediction. The more I thought about it, the more I started to consider that it might have been the shoes. In my reading before our trip, I came across the fact that white sneakers are a distinctly American fashion choice. And indeed I was rocking my beloved white shell toe Adidas with red stripes. So it very well could have been that. I also noticed a lot of men wearing their pants rolled up at the cuff. That was interesting and kinda cool. My pants weren’t like that. So it could have been that as well. Still, I remained super curious, just what was it that identified me as an American? I could’ve been French, from the Caribbean Islands, from some African nation or even Canadian. But no, I was identified as American. I had to figure this out. So I had made a plan. The next day I would be sure not to say anything at all when approached. I rolled the bottom of my pants up just as I saw many of the Italian men do and I pulled out my brown loafers and left my Adidas in our apartment. 94
I was certain that my beloved Adidas had betrayed me, and it was time to find out. I’m going to figure this out. The second day came and out we went to explore the magnificent city that is Rome. And sure enough, we saw the vendors, they saw us, and they were quick to greet us. Just like the previous day, they happily approached my wife first and with a hearty “SISSSSSTAHHH”, a brief conversation about where she was from and then turned to me. I had consciously remained silent the entire time, waiting for the moment. And then turning his attention to me, ”...and you’re American, eh”. Wait! What!? How did he know? How could he possibly know? What was it? He didn’t hear my voice; I wasn’t wearing my American identifiable white sneakers. I even had the bottoms of my pants rolled up. Despite it all, he still identified me! He wasn’t the only one. The same scenario repeated itself about five times that day. Every time it was like a script in a play. Every time we had the same exact roles and the same exact script. The only character that changed was the vendor. And every single time, I would be identified as an American. It wasn’t just the African vendors; there were several Italians that identified me as an American as well. So whatever gave me away was a pretty universal signifier. But each time, I had really lovely interactions and even some cool conversations with the people we met. So what was it, you ask? I still don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. Actually, your guess is probably better than mine. My only regret was not asking any of the men how they knew that I was an American. The obvious American It made me realise that the phrase “stop acting like a tourist” is pretty unproductive. There is always going to be something that identifies you as a person who’s not from there. Now you don’t want to be rude and offensive or put yourself or others in any danger, but being overly worried about trying to fit in or dress like the locals shouldn’t take away from your experience. No matter what you do, you’re going to be different. But that’s one of the inspiring things about travel. Being the “other” person in a foreign city or country and interacting with local people. Seeing what it’s like to be the foreigner with the accent. I can say that I was intrigued by the experience and appreciated the different perspective. One day though, I’m sure that I’ll crack the mystery. But until then, I’ll just keep travelling to places where I stick out as the obvious American, and I think that I’ll even keep on wearing my Adidas. 95
FIT FOR THE PATH YOU CHOOSE
More comfort. More traction. More performance. TERRADORA II HIKING BOOT
www.keenfootwear.com
114