"That Weed Smoking Nigga Ade" (Guatemala)

As I reread the title of this piece, I laugh at its inherent satire. I laugh at almost everything; even that which sometimes hurt, it is a method I use to enjoy my own reality and also to take away the power from those things that sometimes stings. Similarly, I’ll take negative situations and ask myself how I can reframe them to find the positive and then focus on said positive. I use the technique so consistently that I sometimes have to remind myself: "Ade you are not Buddha, its ok to be angry at times."

Take for example, back in college I was resident assistant…my neighbor a white “farm boy” from Brookfield, New York who had a confederate flag hanging on the wall in his bedroom. He would proudly leave his room door open for the majority of the day which annoyed the other Black students. Additionally, he had drawn a four feet confederate flag on his room door for a dorm wide decorating contest. I like the other Black students was uncomfortable with both of his decisions but what I did was to randomly go and sit in his room and chat with him. By exposing myself to something I was uncomfortable with I was taking away its power to affect me.

Ade the Weed Smoker

Fast forward approximately five years later, I grew locks/dreads, as a result people worldwide would automatically assume I am weed smoker. I have been mistaken for Bob Marley on a New York college campus, a Rastafarian in Suriname, Italy, and Barbados; as well as, I have been asked if I smoked, have, or sell marijuana on three of continents that I visited. The notion use to bother me when I first encountered it but I choose to take away its power. After doing so, every time it occurred there after, it became so hilarious that I reframed the situation and turned it into one of my most famous and successful pick up lines. I would walk up to a woman with cock-in-the-hand-confidence, pull her hair and before she could react, I’d say:

My hair is totally longer than yours. You know everywhere I go in the world people assume I am a weed smoker. Do I look like a weed smoker?
 And before she could answer, I start off with one of my wild adventurous stories; generally the one about the time I got off the plane in Ghana and soon as I stepped out the airport I and was offered to purchase marijuana. I'd imitate the Ghanaian drug dealer's accent and have her laughing. So what is the problem?

That Nigga Ade
The problem is when I have been called a nigga and offered marijuana all at the same time in a foreign country. No matter how hard I tried to take away the power from that particular word, it still stings a little. I once heard both Gail via radio and Oprah via television explained that when they were in South Africa, if I remember correctly, they went to visit Nelson Mandela and was called a nigga by one of his bodyguards. Both of them blame hip hop for the exportation of the term and for foreigners having no concept of its hurtful, orthographical, and developmental history. I partly agree and would like to add that the exportation of the word extends beyond hip hop. The exportation to Latin America, Africa and the rest of the world stems from television (movies, cartoons et al,) culture, art, US Supreme Court cases, and good ole’ White American racism etc. Therefore it is understandable why Americans encounter the term when travelling.

Niggas in Latin America

While backpacking in Nicaragua in 2008 a young boy approximately 11 years old, in a dingy white shirt rode by in the opposite direction towing a younger boy on a bicycle. As our eyes met he called out to me: "Nigga," smiled as if we had been best friends for years and nodded his head in acknowledgement. It was apparent that he meant it as a term of endearment. But guess what? That weed smoking nigga Ade, did not think or feel so. Not at all!

Recently (2010,) when I visited Guatemala, my travel companion Jamal and I sat outside on the curb in Antigua, while Zenobia stood in the street and Vivienne as well as Denevia (my other travel mates) were shopping in a bazaar. A young man in a blue shirt, who appeared to be in his twenties approached, trying to sell us something. As we had rehearsed many times before, if we did not care to buy what street vendors were selling, we simply said "no gracias." However, he was different from the other vendors, he spoke fluent English and was a little less pushy.

Dude: “you want to buy….”
Ade/Jamal : “no gracias”

I cannot remember how the conversation went at this point but I remember explaining something to him and he firmly replied that he was aware of what I meant. By this point the brief conversation had shifted away from Jamal and he focused directly on me.


Dude: “You want to buy weed?”
Ade [thinking in his head]: “here we go again.”
Ade: “Nah”
Dude: "I am just trying to help you out Nigga.”

At that moment Jamal and I locked eyes, both caught a little off guard and looked at each other faces and laughed. Zenobia in the moment captured the expressions on our faces using her camera. And by the time we looked back at him he stood there in our presence for about two seconds and left.

The troublesome term nigga/nigger as author and lawyer Randall Kennedy points out in Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word is protean in use and delivery, to some it a term of endearment to others it is device that carries with it a great lot history and hurt.

Black artist have used it to paint vivid pictures and racists alike to induce pain. Some non Americans having no idea of its etymology use it freely and openly and refer to themselves as such; take for example the Panamanian artist: “Nigga.”



My experiences and thoughts may get thrown in a pile with others who have made social commentary on the term, yet I am still thankful for young dudes right to say what he wishes. Though this reminds, of how Season 1, Ep#9 of the popular animated television show "Boondocks" begins, it starts with a quote from the Martin Luther King:

“I want young men and young women who are alive today to know and see that these new privileges and opportunities did not come without somebody suffering and sacrificing for them.” - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

And if those words are not remembered or taken seriously we can always focus on the next quote that followed in the episode:

“Whatever, nigga!”

…and so I laugh.

Reflections of a Stolen Passport (Costa Rica)

At around 11:30am, Dan my travel mate and I had left our inn and walked approximately two miles to Liberia’s main bus station to purchase our bus tickets back to Guatemala. We had recently came to Costa Rica by bus via Guatemala and our plan for that particular Tuesday was to get our return tickets and then take a bus to Playa del Coco (coco beach), located on the south coast of Costa Rica.

As we approached the ticket counter, we were told that we need our passports in order to purchase return bus tickets. The walk back to the inn seemed longer than it was because the sun felt hotter than Africa! Among inner city black folks we always describe hot weather as “hotter than Africa.” Well, I’ll tell you this, I went to West to Africa, and the weather is tamer in comparison to New York City but I digress. As we walked back to the inn to grab our passports, I dragged my dusty feet in my worn out beach slippers, carrying with me a Gap butt pack, in it my Visa Credit card, Nikon D50 with 5O mm prime lens and cash (Dollars, Cordobas, and Colons.) We returned to the inn, gathered our passports and then went back to the bus station.

So far Costa Rica had been a “ball”: the innkeeper laughing at me and refusing to take my United States Dollars because of its plummeting value, the foods, my new Saprissa soccer jersey, the exciting yet laborious trip across the Nicaragua/Costa Rican border, the two female tourist we met two nights prior and shared a hotel room with, the garden like inn in which we stayed etc.

By this time I was hungry and I settled for a plate of rice and peas with chicken which I took on the bus. Dan sat in the window seat and I on the isle. I prefer isle seats on any type of coach, simply because I may be a tad bit cluster phobic; additionally, I dislike having to swoop by the person(s) in my row when I have to go to the bathroom.

As I fumbled about on the uncomfortable bus ride, I placed my butt pack in the over head and begun to devour the overcooked peas and rice with tasty chicken. While the bus made designated stops along the way. At approximately 15 minutes out of town, I heard a loud banging on the back door and from the little I understood the person(s) was asking to be let off before we arrived at the next bus stop.

Never the less, the banging on the back door continued and the driver came to an immediate stop. No less than 40 seconds as the bus pulls off, I thought that my pack might have been stolen and climbed to the over head and checked. I then realized who so ever was banging on the door had made off with my bag. Immediately, I panicked, ran to the front of the bus and tried to stop the driver. At this point, I realized it might have been a good idea if I'd paid attention in Spanish class in college and high school. The driver did not understand what I was saying and someone in the front seat translated and he stopped approximately a hundred yards away from where they men had gotten off. I exited the back door and there was no one in sight. I got back on the bus, did some breathing exercises to calm down and immediately started trouble shooting.

I attempted to speak to everyone who sat behind me and who might have seen the person(s) who took my bag. A woman who I assumed was approximately 25 years old and spoke fluent English saw the entire situation. Thanks to all those spy movies I saw in the past, I grabbed a pen and had her write down a description of everything she remembered, then instructed her to tell the bus driver to take us to the nearest police station and told her to get off with us so I can file a report. She later told me that it was two male Nicaraguans. Whether or not the men were Nicaraguans, I was not concerned with their nationality. What I had previously observed as I was travelling into Costa Rica was that Nicaraguans were travelling to Costa Rica in large numbers to seek employment. As I was travelling to Liberia from Nicaragua, there were random stop and searches at various check points. I enquired and found out that police were looking for illegal immigrants entering Costa Rica.

Anyways, as we arrived at police station, in some tiny village in Guanacaste, this place and to be the smallest police station I ever seen. There was only one police officer with a woman, whom I assumed to be his girlfriend, a telephone, and television that looked as if it escaped from the 1980s crowned with a wire hanger antenna. The two people both look sweaty and bothered as if we were interrupting a love session. Never the less, the woman who exited the bus with us gave the information to the lone police officer and told us we would have to go to the main branch and file my report there. The kind young woman then gave me change to take the bus back in the other derection and went on her way. I pulled a cab over and tried to talk my way into a free cab ride to the station but to no avail. As we arrived at the Main Police station, there were two people spoke English and was delighted to help us. One, a tall stellar looking police officer and young female clerk who took the report. I gave details of what happened, and between my inability to speak any Spanish and her ability to speak some English we came up with a report that had a few missing details.


At this point Dan was surprised how calm I was. The reason being is that I knew there is a US embassy in Costa Rica and my passport could be easily replaced. Secondly, Ade is the kind of person who gets excited for about a few minutes then his brain calms down and begins to compute. What actually bothered me was all the photographs I lost, especially my art.

click here to read the full police report

Back in Nicaragua, I took photographs claiming a volcano, I woke up at 5 am to photograph a sail boat docked at a beach, pictures at the mall, photographs of Costa Rican and Nicaraguan daily life, photographs of Dan and I riding horses with a volcano in the back drop and the list goes on. These photographs cannot be be replaced and this is what was most upsetting. The camera and the lens could be but the time spent investing in my art was gone forever. I have zero pictures of Costa Rica and only memories of the country. So why was I complacent with passport? Simple, I was accustomed to the ex fiancée carrying it for me. I use to jokingly call her the passport Nazi. Because soon as a ticket agent had finished viewing my passport before they could fully close the book and hand it back she would grab it and secure it in her purse. Nevertheless, my passport was stolen and needed to get it back.
To be continued…

Travel Lite: a not so new plan

I am going to travel this world; I mean to, I will because it belongs to me. I recently placed a projection board on the wall at the side of my bed, written on it are a list of things I plan to accomplish. One of those goals is: "to travel the world extensively." Thus far, I've been to about 4/7 continents (Africa, North America, South America, and Europe) as well as Central America and a few islands: Trinidad, Dominica, Barbados et al.

...an experience junkie of sorts, if I hadn't had the experience, I want it.



One's life aligns with what goes on in one's head: the universal law of attraction. I believe I cannot sit still; therefore, I refuse to take relaxing vacations, peruse a beach, drink cocktails, and get massages. My preference is to backpack across countries' borders; photograph places, people, animals etc. as I go, drink the local ale, swim in different bodies of water, purchase embroidered flag patches for my travel pack, document my experience, learn, grow, and enjoy some time spent with the "locals." Dreams to reality...

My new dream destination as of recent is Turkey and India. And I will talk about travelling from California to Guyana via land another time--aaaahhh, that's therapy. For the past five years, on random days I find myself going to expedia.com to price check flights to random destinations, and believe it or not, those are some of the happiest moments I spend in front of my computer.



So where to, immediately? I'll be returning to my homeland in a few months; 'repatriating' for a week and then a border crossing to the country south west of home.

All while following the Ade travelling rule(s) of course i.e. travelling lite. So what does it mean to travel lite: a bag pack, few pairs of underwear, socks, few t-shirts, toiletries, my trusty pocket knife, iPod, 2 books, 2 SLR cameras with a variety of lens, slippers, and pair of hiking boots all on the back of one awesome dude.


Travel Lite

Caught with My Pants Off and A Camera in my Hands (USA)

the particular post has been edited and rewitten in retrospect.


Train Yard 2007

 I’ve been hunting photos and travelling across the North Eastern United States for the past year and a half and have found myself going to a multitude of off color places to get the shots I wanted: burial grounds, parks, trespassing on private property, abandoned factories, brooks, swamps, forests, urban spaces et al.

My gold mine for nature shots is (Bigelow Hollow State Park) off I-84. I’ve spent significant time at the park shooting flora and fauna, picnicking, as well as practicing portraits. The place has become my home base for nature photography.

One Friday, I arrived at the park and was immediately amazed by the insects flying and crawling about on the water plants in the pond, to get the best shot, I had to join the bugs and just dive in. The problem was I did not have a wader at that time and I was wearing jeans; and since my car seats are made of fabric, I had to lose the pants.

There was no one around except me and the animals, so off came the pants, then I rolled my boxers as far as they could go and got into the pond. The water came up to my mid thighs as I stood shooting wearing only a long sleeve shirt and my photo vest. 

Mating Dragons 2008



I had been shooting the dragon flies, spiders, dead bugs, and water lilies for about 40 minutes when I noticed a park attendant’s truck driving out the forest and towards me. The truck stopped, and two park workers (an old grey haired man and a woman in her early 20s) came out and started unloading a canoe.

“Good day,” said the old man, I greeted him and went back to work; a few minutes later I raised my head from behind the view finder and saw the young woman staring at my crotch. I began to wonder why the hell is this woman staring, "chick isn't it obvious that I have on underwear? W.T.F!"

As they loaded up their canoe and went further into the pond then disappeared, I looked down and noticed, my shirt had been covering my rolled up underwear and it appeared as if I were “commando” in the water. LML and travels!

It's December--I can't wait untill summer 2009.

Join me...