Stirring Point

For the next 3 months, my wayfarer spirit has been given carte blanche to run amok. I’ll start in the Maghreb–a region in Northwest Africa–where I’ll explore Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia. Each country promises distinct Saharan flavors, unique in their folds of culture and history. Next, I’ll traverse the rich landscape of Ethiopia within the Horn of Africa, before finally traveling north to Pakistan in South Asia. 5 countries, 3 months, 2 continents, 1 bag. Exotic cultures will feed my days with vibrance, while steely characters will undoubtedly unveil themselves with nefarious intent–usually by night. The purpose of it all? A search for voices within communities I want to understand. Jiu jitsu communities to be exact. 

For 20 years, travel has been my universal solvent for dissolving ignorance. It strips the varnish of illiteracy–removing residue from the surface–and leaves fresh, raw material to fashion new perspectives. It takes prejudice to task and humanizes foreign faces. We’re pummeled daily with misinformation, spraying like fire hoses from the mouths of con artists and shysters. Travel introduces nuance to our view, a suppleness to our thoughts, and a critical lens to filter out the nonsense. I need that right now. Don’t you? 

So where does jiu jitsu enter the picture?

Stories will follow as my travels begin. I’ll include vivid descriptions of having the hell beat out of me, and when I do the beating, I’ll be certain to let you know. In each country, I’ll visit jiu jitsu gyms to train with local practitioners, allowing our shared sport to function as my entrée into their community and culture. For the uninitiated, grappling (ground-based sports like jiu jitsu/wrestling) is a perfect expression of human effort. Like a marathon runner closing in on their last mile, it requires a depth of physical and mental fortitude absent in most modern activities. Training often feels like being plopped into a mortar and pestle, while someone attempts to grind your muscles, bones, and sinew into a fine paste. “It’s folding laundry with humans inside,” as a blackbelt recently shared with me, after folding me like a fitted sheet against my best defense. 

The growth of our sport has been meteoric: from its humble origins in Brazil–by way of Japanese introduction–to the far reaches of every continent, sans Antarctica. To be clear: I’m no authority on jiu jitsu, and it won’t be the sole focus of my writing. I won’t suggest ways to enhance one’s technique, nor will I offer instructional content. I won’t evangelize the benefits of jiu jitsu, as there are loads of public voices already leading the charge. Simply said, I’m a purple belt of average skill training under the Atos lineage, and with my travel background, I believe I possess the credentials to tell the story of few jiu jitsu communities found generally outside the Western worldview. I train hard and often, and find profound merit in how the sport consistently requires me to walk beyond my physical thresholds. I travel this way as well, searching for locations guaranteed to confront my sense of comfort. I want countries and regions that’ll tangle me up, toss me around, and spit me out the other side with a new sense of understanding. Bangladesh? Check. Kashmir? Check. Palestine? Lebanon, Iran? Check, check, check. Why? My best guess would be the glistening gems these places offer once one takes the time to untangle the knots surrounding their surfaces. 

 So I’m off to record the voices of the jiu jitsu community in Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Ethiopia, and Pakistan. My hope is to earn their trust by sweating with them, bleeding with them, and if all goes as planned, grinding each other to a blistering pulp while I write my best attempt at their stories. Jammed fingers, black eyes, cranked necks, staph infections: I expect them all.  I’m hopeful my commitment to the practice will grant me access to raw, vulnerable, and honest conversations within each community–offering me glimpses of their purview. I may be wrong. Arm’s length may be the closest I get, forcing my original project to pot. I’ll only know how my plan is received when I show up on the mats. And when the grappling begins, I’ll gladly share every disgusting little detail. 

My journey ahead presents risks and challenges, both of which stoke unease and consternation. When it comes to comfort on this journey, it’s of no consequence. I’ll sleep anywhere, eat anything, and walk in any shoes I’m given, especially if it brings me closer to each community. But fear drapes a heavy shadow around our necks and forces us to drag its dead weight. Injuries are a serious concern. In select locations, I’m likely to see hostility from governments or individuals/groups. I can’t be reckless. What am I scared of? Perceived dangers of the unknown. The stirring in my viscera when I find myself in “what feels like” unwelcome territory. If I’m there, and it’s real, then fear is justified. But if it’s a distant projection based on illiberal perception, and not a reality, then it’s misguided. Honest fear is healthy, yet fear born of ignorance is not. It’s time to meet my fear, strip it bare, and face it with a clear mind. Relentless forward progress. And so, I’m off to search for clarity.