fnbs

Like, when I say that the power is in our hands, I really do mean it. Probably the best thing I can do, what I want to do with this blog, is inspire someone to solve a problem themselves. I hope someone reads my posts and decides that their city government is useless, and that one weekend they should just get some friends together and patch their street up. I hope someone reads my posts and decides that they can’t trust the cops to defend them or their friends, and forms an antifa crew. I hope someone reads my posts and realizes that with just a handful of friends they can put an oil pipeline out of commission for hours, days, weeks at a time, and that they go and do it. I hope someone reads my posts and gets a few hundred friends together to shoplift as a black bloc, stealing food and clothes and whatever else and distributing them to people that need them, because welfare doesn’t come close to replacing what capitalism takes.

I hope someone reads my posts and squats a building, organizes their apartment complex, joins a radical union, forms a bike collective, tables with FNB, tags their neighborhood, shuts down a pipeline, smashes a bank window, terrorizes some gentrifiers, fights the fuck back and grows the new world from the ashes of the old.

I hope someone reads my posts and finds that all they have to do is begin.

10

Here I am in Mozambique, at the End

Today is my last day in Africa. If you consider Madagascar as part of Africa, which it technically is despite its geographical isolation, I have been in Africa for about two and a half years. Tomorrow I hop continents and fly to Thailand!

I’m at the end of a road here. As a kid I always dreamed of spending time in Africa because I was certain there was more to the 54-countried continent than the media showed. My assumptions were beyond correct. Africa is a luscious and thriving part of the world. There is SO much more to it than the sad ball of skewed crap we see represented in the western world. That skewed crap doesn’t even come close and it’s a damn shame.

I have never felt at risk. I have been surrounded by colors and culture and warmth and love and hospitality. I have also been engrossed in my own internal conflict. Africa doesn’t need my help. It doesn’t need anything from me or the west except for respect and an open mind. For that statement I am using the blanket term of “Africa” even though I have only been to 7 of the 54 countries.

Respect and an open mind, that’s it.

Of course Africa isn’t lacking of country specific political and racial issues… but where in the world doesn’t have these problems? Especially as an American in the Trump Era… I can’t say ANYTHING about other places having political issues.

Here I am in Mozambique, at the end. This isn’t the end, though. Mozambique will always be here and nothing will change when I leave.

I have only spent a few days in Mozambique because I have gotten tired. I’ve been traveling quickly these past two months, since I left Madagascar, and it’s caught up to me.

After roaming through Namibia-Zimbabwe-Zambia-Botswana, I took a long break in Pretoria, South Africa with one of my good friends from Afrikaburn.

It was a surreal experience. I slowed down, and sat down on one of the most comfortable couches I had experienced in 2 years and it was hard to remove myself. My South African friend was living her normal life, as a recent graduate of university she was surrounded by social activities and work. It was a lifestyle I hadn’t touched in years and it gave me culture shock. I was in it, but I wasn’t IN it. It was only temporary.

In South Africa I caught a cold. I was supposed to go to Swaziland, then head to Mozambique in time for my flight. I had time for it all but it would be quick. Moving pretty much every day, like I had in the other countries. I have trouble staying put when I am in Travel-Mode.

My friend’s mom was shocked. “You should take a break. You look exhausted. Skip Swaziland! Come stay with me! Use wifi! Relax!” She was the sweetest.

I wasn’t going to. I knew I had to keep going. But then I started to have stomach pains reminiscent to the flu. My body wanted a break.

So I caved. I spent 5 days sleeping, cooking vegetables, drinking wine, cuddly with a cute dog, and watching BBC Earth and war movies with my friend’s mom as I prepared to head to Mozambique.

Here, at the end, I present to you the most African experience one could have. It is a journey of uncertainty, complications, complete kindness of strangers, and everything magically working out after all:

Getting a visa for Mozambique was a nightmare! To get a visa at the consulate ahead of time I needed “proof of accommodation.” To get “proof of accommodation,” I had to contact a place to stay in Mozambique and have them fill out paperwork for me. Most cheap places I found didn’t have emails. The one I did find, Fatima’s Backpackers in Maputo, required “proof of transport.” Since I was originally planning to take local, unpredictable transport from Swaziland to Maputo, I couldn’t acquire “proof of transport.” (You book things like that in person, on the spot).

When my plans changed, I still was hesitant to book transport because buses that counted as “proof” refused to take someone who didn’t have a visa ahead of time. BUT I didn’t want to book transport until I had a visa in my hand and knew when I could leave!

It was a cycle of crap. A cycle a cycle a cycle.

After a few days of suppressing the issue and relaxing, then thinking about it with no real solution, I finally decided to book transportation for a night bus from Pretoria to Maputo for the upcoming Monday. I was hoping over the weekend I could get my “proof of accommodation” then go to the Consulate and hope they could process my visa in one day.

After many harassing emails to Fatimas (their server was down apparently), I got my “proof of accommodation” Sunday evening!

Monday morning I went straight to the consulate. The woman there was much kinder than the first time I’d gone. She said I could pick up my visa between 2:30 and 3:30 pm, but I had to deposit 750 Rands, approximately $50 to the consulate’s account at a First National Bank.

I called an uber ride from the consulate and told the driver I needed to go to the mall near where I was staying. I asked if there was an FNB bank there. He said no. He also told me I would need my passport to make a deposit…which I’d left with the Consulate. Since I have a second passport, I decided to have him take me straight home and I’d leave early to pick up the visa, stopping at the bank on the way.

I shouldn’t have listened to him.

Around 1 I made my way to an FNB in the neighborhood.

Their system was down, but “maybe I could deposit in an ATM” they said!

The ATM ate my money and processed nothing.

Time was ticking away.

A teller went to get someone to get my money back from the ATM. During this time, the line at the bank expanded to 30 angry people. Most things weren’t working and I was on the verge of a panic attack. I was so close!!

I’d used the last of my cash for the deposit so I’d need to withdraw more for my uber ride, but the line was out the door. So while I waited for the teller to return with my eaten money, I tried to change my Uber settings to use a credit card so I could race across town the second the deposit went through.

But Uber wouldn’t take either of my credit cards. It was confused with the zip code versus the country I was in. Nothing I tried would take.

My throat was getting tight. I was SO close to getting this damn headache of a visa!

2pm.

The teller returned with my money and brought me to an ATM to try again. The manager of the bank asked the group in line if I could go first since I was in the middle of a hassle and a very angry man yelled “Hell No!”

So I got in line as my stress level mounted.

Eventually the deposit went through and I was on my way out the door towards the other side of town to get my visa!

I tried to call an Uber but it didn’t work.

“Verify your credit card” It said.

“Use Cash as Payment” I pressed.

“Verify your credit card” it insisted.

It would not let me order a car.

Time was passing and I was stuck. Panic revved up inside me. No! I’d made it this far. I was going to Mozambique that night! I was going to get my damn visa!

I screamed at my phone each time Uber refused. I needed an alternative. I asked people nearby where I could find a cab.

No one knew.

A girl saw me in my fit and came over as I slumped in the shade next to a different bank to try and think. She offered to find me a cab with a different app.

A well-dressed man came up to us and said “Hi girls, I work for the Ghanaian Embassy and I was robbed here last week. You need to put your phones away.”

The kind girl said “Embassy? Is that near the Mozambique Consulate? This girl has an emergency and needs to get to the Mozambique consulate by 3:30.”

The man replied, “I think I know where that is. My driver will take her.”

I looked up in disbelief.

He guided me to his car and told his driver where to go and to collect him at the bank in a hour.

What?!

I got in.

The driver was excited to see me. He was from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. After asking me what I was doing, he promptly asked if I would marry him. I told him I was already engaged.

He then asked how I felt about Donald Trump. I told him he was a terrible con man causing a plethora of trouble. The driver said “No honey, I do not believe you. He is not that bad. You are being narrow-minded, you must forgive him!”

I told him he didn’t understand. Trump was cutting every program I believed was progressive blah blah blah all of my thoughts…

Driver: “No, God doesn’t want you to hate Donald Trump. You must forgive him.”

I huffed and said never mind.

Then the driver asked “you do believe in God?”

I told him I was not religious.

This greatly offended the driver.

“Oh no dear! You see how you needed a ride to the Consulate!? You were desperate, but God brought me to you! You must appreciate what God does for you.”

I told him I greatly appreciated the circumstance and his God for helping me. This answer wasn’t enough. We spent the rest of the ride arguing about how he believed my life was nothing until I found God and I told him my life was full and wonderful in its own way even though it was different from his.

I was SO CLOSE to getting that visa! So. Close.

Finally we arrived at the consulate. I told him I didn’t have a phone number he could call when he asked, but I told him to thank his employer profusely for letting me use the car. He told me to thank God instead. I shut the door.

I collected my visa in the office right in the nick of time and I almost cried. Since Uber wasn’t working for me anymore, the woman called a cab for me.

That night I said good-bye to the pet dog and my cushy, relaxing life in Pretoria and hopped on a night bus where I promptly passed out.

By 4 am we’d reached the border but had to wait until it opened at 6 am to cross. It was the most hectic border I’d seen yet. Lines of minibuses packed to the brim with goods, people meandering, goats sifting through trash. There was a heavy mist blanketing the eerie yellow lights of the cars in line.

Finally I crossed the border’s mess. I probably could have gotten my visa AT the border because so much was going on and the bus would have never known, but oh well. I had it in advance and hopped on over to Mozambique with ease.

I’d made it to my last African country as the sun slowly rose in the heavy fog.

In Mozambique I have been tired. It’s the end of Africa for me and my body knows. I took a chappa from the hostel in the capital to a beach town up north called Tofo at 5am the next day. I spent two days relaxing in Tofo.

I didn’t do much. One night I skinny dipped with some Estonian guys I’d met as the full moon lit the surprisingly warm water. It was euphoric thrashing in the waves.

Tofo is a great place for scuba diving but I’m getting certified in a few weeks in Malaysia and I also have a new tattoo so I didn’t want to spend too much time in the water.

Mozambique looks like Madagascar. The palm trees, fields of corn (instead of rice), grass huts, stands selling tomatoes, women in colorful fabric carrying goods on their heads. There was a Peace Corps Youth Empowerment Camp taking place at the place where I was staying. It felt like home. But it wasn’t. It was a parallel universe to Madagascar. It all looked the same, but I was an alien. I don’t speak a word of Portuguese.

After two relaxing days in Tofo, I returned to Maputo and here I am, mentally preparing for the end of my time in Africa and my next adventure in Asia.

Whew. It’s been a long road. Almost 4 years abroad. I think this new phase will be reinvigorating! A change of scenery and huge cultural jump will be fun.

Thank you for all of the love, Africa, especially Madagascar. I wouldn’t be the women I am today without all of these crazy experiences.

33. for Mike’s 75th:

His foreign accents.

“El Nesmito”- Mexican

“Colossal Mozzarella”- French (I think?  I thought mozzarella was Italian.)

Some people shouldn’t do foreign accents.  (lol)

But on the other hand, in song, Mike does Spanish much better:

(Some YouTuber had a sense of humor, I see.)

As for French:

“Grae-und Ahwn-wee.”  Yee-haw!  I love the way he says that!

But he IS surprisingly good at a Cockney accent (or is he trying for Manchester? anyway, it’s British):

Sorry I couldn’t find a video clip, but y’all remember the line.  “You’re the only one qualified.”

He’s so talented.

instagram

Scenes from the #longisland #foodnotbombs #huntington #foodshare happening right now. #fnb #volunteer #dogood #solidarity

Made with Instagram

We as anarchists need to start getting organized. Like, a lot of us are involved in various disparate groups (FNB, antifa, a local housing collective, a clinic or safe injection site, a DIY space, Black Rose, the IWW, maybe a left-wing gun club), but I feel like at this point we really need to coalesce into a more cohesive group. We need to federate under one name, even as our groups maintain their autonomy and new ones spring up, if we’re going to present an effective force for anarchism.

Like, the anarchists in Spain were all CNT-FAI, the anarchists in Ukraine were all Black Army, the anarchists in Chiapas were all EZLN, and the anarchists in Rojava are all YPG. We (western anarchists) need to be organizing similarly.

46. for Mike’s 75th:

The 33 1/3 version of “Listen to the Band.”

How come Mike puts more feeling into a live performance than his LP’s?  Some other good examples:

The live version of “One and Twenty” vs. the single version

Circle Sky

The whole Drury Lane concert

Everything in “Live at the Palais”

Any Monkees concert that he did


It’s like he’s scared that if he’s himself, he won’t sell records.  But I guess he figures, when he’s on stage, “Well, they’re here.  If they don’t like it, oh well, but I’m gonna be me just this once.”

Like/IM/Message for a reverse starter call. I’ve got lots of delectable boys and girls needing some attention fcs of which include Jeffrey Dean Morgan, KJ Apa, Dylan Sprayberry, Rose Leslie, Dianna Agron, Arden Cho, Karla Souza, Anna Kendrick and more~

I won’t lie to any of you. Tonight was a big deal for us and what you’ve done tonight has meant so much to us. We love you
—  Harry Styles at FNB Stadium 28.3.15