---------------------------------------------------------------------- CRASH Your guide to travel thru the underground May 1993 EXPATRIATE ISSUE plus... Monoculture Gypsy lore and a trip to Nowhere in Disturbia "The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land." -- G.K. Chesterton ---------------- EXPATRIATE GAMES from the Crash Crew This issue is about the expatriate experience. It's possible to achieve it without ever leaving... Pretend you're in a new city and don't know any friends even though you've lived there forever. Go out and make sure no one knows where you went. Pretend you don't understand the language and your skin's a different color and your nose is shaped a little bit funny. Eat at an ethnic restaurant for a week straight; order something new each time. Go to the places where the lights and action are, even though you stopped hanging there long ago from boredom. Make yourself meet someone by telling yourself that you're new to this city and don't know anyone and have nothing to lose. Walk around all day one day and try to find a section of the city you've never seen before. Think of where you live as a temporary dwelling and consider the reasons that keep you there. Buy something in a touristy shop for yourself. Rent 3 videos in a foreign language and watch them all in a row. Spend one day just looking at the people on the street and how they dress and how they walk and think about what they are doing. Go completely outside the door and turn around and look back in. Become an outsider. A stranger. Stop yourself and stare for a while. ------ DEBRIS Networking and information * BOBBY, 18-year old kid, needs warm, gentle punkers to give me a place to sleep. I will become homeless as of July the 1st, so send help soon. I can let people stay with me until then if needed. Bicycle Power! Write Bob, P.O. Box 280, Poway, CA 92074 USA. * ATTENTION ATHEISTS! I am looking for material for a new zine for and by atheists. It has yet to be named. Please send any atheist, animal rights, pro-abortion, poems, fiction, anti-death penalty, etc., material by atheists. Pen pal ads are welcome. First issue will come out in June '92 and will be free. Zine ads also welcome. Send everything to: Freedom, RD3 Box 665, Camden, DE 19934 USA. * WE WANT YOUR SOUL. We're looking for sharp, witty, bawdy and smart- alecky essayists, columnists and fiction types as well as cartoonists and artists who want to air their absurdist views, poke some fun, and maybe milk a few sacred cows. Send a sample of your stuff or write for further details. All types of humor considered. Write to Chain Letter, P.O. Box 72671, Las Vegas, NV 89170-2671 USA. * FREER PLACES describes 20 areas having fewer taxes and restrictions, more tolerance, much cultural variety, and low-cost housing options. Most are in or near OR, MT, or NH (states without sales taxes), and have sizable cities close to sparsely-populated hills, forests, and brushlands with various local climates. This 1993 report (40+ pages) also gives practical tips for living freer most anywhere. $1 postpaid. Write to Abapa Freer, P.O. Box 759, Veneta, OR 97487 USA. * TRAVEL VIEW 1 is a worldwide penpal club. Our aim is to create a broader awareness of the world around us; to support understanding between the different peoples of the world, their customs and cultures; to help you contact other collectors. For more info, contact Linda Yurkosky, 531 Edmonton Ave., Penticton, BC V2A 2H1 Canada. * LEARN SPANISH THROUGH TOTAL IMMERSION. Not only do you attend classes, but students are provided with friendly homestay families who make sure to initiate conversations with students, especially at mealtimes, when the entire family eats together daily. Families participating in our homestay program provide students with a private room, three daily meals and hygienically-prepared food and beverages (vegetarian food available). Write La Casa del Nahual, 2a. Calle 14A- 32 Zona 1, Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, Central America or call 011 (502) 961-2149; in the US, write La Casa del Naual, 422 Meridian St., East Boston, MA 02128 USA or call 617/567-6867. * THE RIDE-LINE / RIDEXCHANGE announces an automated service to search to passengers to share the direct operating expenses with private pilots and car drivers/owners. Ride-Line has been in operation since 1982 and covers all USA, Canada, Mexico, and other international locations, for private cars, planes, and yachts/boats. Free to riders and drivers and pilots or aircraft owners or aircraft owners who are offering seats available. No screening of passengers or vehicles. Call 301/217-0543 or write The Ridex Corporation, 100 Park Avenue, Suite 260, Rockville, MD 20850-2618-00 USA. * HOW TO GET FIRED SO YOU CAN TRAVEL: Read SABOTAGE IN THE AMERICAN WORKPLACE, a controversial expose of the way America works. Anecdotes of dissatisfaction, mischief, and revenge. Write Pressure Drop Press, P.O. Box 460754, San Francisco, CA 94146 USA. ---------------------------------- MONKEYS WITH NEW SETS OF REALITIES by J.B. Monkey For about 60 years I've been away from my "country of origin" (as they sometimes call it on forms the authorities make people, who are not from their country of origin, fill out). I suppose 60 years is something of an exaggeration, but after one has been away for a certain length of time it does seem that long. Just what that length is must be different for each person, but with a whole new set of realities, the old set is bound to lose its primacy in one's mind, and drift back into a distant place in one's consciousness. Being an alien -- now, isn't that a horrible, unfriendly word. It also has a racist smell to it, but its being the legal term of choice takes some of the bite out of it. Then we have "foreigner" -- this word also emits a racist odor at times, so I would rather not use it. How about "expatriate" -- another word which is something short of friendly, but it does put the power in the hands of the named rather than the namer. I have yet to come across anyone exclaiming, "Those no-good expatriates!" or, "Get the damn expatriates out, they are stealing our jobs!" So for want of something better and lack of desire to employ an inane acronym like "FAP" (from another place), "expatriate" will have to do for now. Obviously there are differing degrees of difficulties one encounters as an expatriate. For example, if one finds oneself in a land where homogeneity is thick, one is going to be seen more readily as an outsider than if one were in a land where there were many folks from many places living with the same borders. First, there is the immediate visual level of discrimination. It is not too pleasant to have children looking at you and blurting out, "Foreigner, foreigner!" or have adults looking at you and thinking, "Foreigner, foreigner!" Having such an influence on people, one could get to feeling like a monkey in a zoo. But thankfully not all minds are so simple, and there are those who understand the concept of acceptance. And then again, there are advantages to being a monkey (without the cage, of course). Ms./Mr. Monkey is not expected to conform to the norms of the land they are living in as closely as the "natives" (I won't even begin to go into the connotations of that word; I'll just use it for the sake of convenience.) If Ms./Mr. Monkey wants to walk around without a hat when it is socially unacceptable, Ms./Mr. Monkey can, because she or he is an outsider. The natives think, "Oh, that is what they do in Monkeyland." While being an expatriate (in certain places) may make one stick out like a sore thumb, at the same time one can also live fairly anonymously. There is this seeming contradiction of being conspicuous and inconspicuous simultaneously. The expatriate is easily noticed because of her or his physical appearance, speech, dress, mannerisms, etc., but can be an unknown, mysterious presence. Some expatriates seem to appreciate this anonymity, especially due to the face that they are in a sense hiding. There are those hiding from emotional ties, others from past disappointment, some from expectations they or others would have for them if they were in the country of their origin. A place where no one knows or expects anything of you may be very attractive for some, although there are dangers. At first one may have a great sense of freedom, but this sense of freedom could transform itself into a heavy weight of alienation with the passing of time. Then there are those expatriates who couldn't make it in films, so they go to other lands to become stars. They enjoy being noticed, like to be seen as unique, and get substantial ego nourishment by being the center of attention. They seek out natives (although for some, even fellow expatriates will do) who are courageous and curious enough to appreciate them. They love being asked questions about their amazing, interesting lives, because they are their own favorite subjects. For them, experiencing a new culture holds little value when compared with acquiring a solid following of natives. A fair amount of expatriates do end up in countries out of genuine interest in the culture and people of their adopted countries. This is something to be commended, so long as it is accompanied by a decent level of awareness. Of course, we should be able to be what we want wherever we are, but for one to think she or he can become a native just by wearing the native garb or talking the native talk is culturally insensitive. Without a decent level of awareness one may be rightly viewed as a pretentious Ms./Mr. Monkey. If one becomes an expatriate with an awareness and a sensitivity for their new place, their existence in that place can be both interesting and satisfying. If one can live without the comfort and security of familiar surroundings, and welcome the challenge of a new environment, one will find more fulfillment in their new place. Ms./Mr. Monkey learns to live without the bananas that were once such a pleasure and finds new fruit which becomes more delicious each time it is eaten. One may even find their ability to adapt becoming greater through the trails of their new environment. The bureaucratic nightmares encountered as a "resident alien" can create frustration handling skills of the highest grade. Customs that once seemed odd may in time be followed without a thought. A sense of humor will also make things easier (but doesn't it everywhere). It is better to deal with the universal situations one may encounter as an expatriate with a laugh than with an increase in stress level. A sense of adventure is also handy, but one probably wouldn't end up in another country if they didn't have some sort of adventurous desires. -- Mr. Monkey is presently residing in Kyoto, Japan. --------------------- THE BLACK EXPATRIATES: A STUDY OF AMERICAN NEGROES IN EXILE BY ERNEST DUNBAR a review (sort of) by Miles Poindexter "There is a simple fact here that Europeans just accept: you are a different person, you are a Negro. In America, nobody wants to face that fact and this makes for much confusion...on both sides." -- Gloria Davy Who am I to write this review of a book that interviews 16 Afro- Americans who left the U.S. to experience a new life without the constant problems and set-backs inherit in a racist society. Who am I? Just a 27 year old white male son of a Protestant Dutch and Scottish family descent who was inspired by their exploits. This book was written in 1968. I was only 3 years old then. Many of the interviewees had left a segregated America in the 1950s before the Civil Rights movement. So why did the bittersweet success stories of the 16 black American expatriates in this book affect me so profoundly? Because they did what I've always dreamed of doing. They went to another country to live, not just visit. Several had lived for a year or more in many different countries. All had managed to find good work, too. One of my main fears was that I would not find a job abroad. A few of the artists had gone to Europe for school. Some were diving into entrepreneurial projects like a night club or restaurant. A few had married a native of their adopted country. Reading each interview I felt more trapped in this country. I had been too stupid to leave when I was younger. I remember when I was 21 and my girlfriend and I had just gotten back together and we were crazy in love and she looked in my eyes and said lets go to another country and just get lost there and get out of here (which was in New Jersey). For a moment I wanted so much to just do it. But then I started thinking about all these trivial reasons why I should stay. "I'm in a band," I said, "I can't leave those guys. I have a really good graphic arts job, blah, blah, blah." Maybe I was also scared that she and I would break up again after our departure and I would be left alone in a strange country, as if that would be a bad thing! So later the band broke up, Kerry and I broke up, and I quit my "really good graphic arts job" to move to San Francisco. Now I am working at a pizza shop because the job market sucks out here. But I still won't move back to New Jersey because I like it here. If the slightly more liberal, open-minded attitude that I sense in this city makes me more at ease, imagine what these black expatriates felt like when they entered a country where racism is virtually non existent? What happened to them is what happens to everyone on some scale when they live in another place long enough to absorb the culture. They realize they were a victim of mono-culture. This is a powerful realization for the black American whose ancestors were whipped and beaten until they stopped remembering who they were. Even the native people of North America still have their culture, though they live like expatriates in their native land. People from Central and South America, India, Asia and other countries who immigrate here always retain the memory of their country of birth. This becomes the other half of who they are. This memory of another culture helps them analyze and compare customs here. They adopt what they like and ignore the rest. If they don't like American music, art, language, philosophy, etc., they bring their own and retain it. The Africans brought here in the slave trade were not allowed to keep their old culture. So the modern black American has trouble critically analyzing what's wrong in this society, until they go abroad and immerse themselves in another. And here's where the book started to affect me. I realized that I've been stripped of my "other" culture too. Even though my ancestors did it voluntarily; they left everything behind, even their names, to start again in the "new land." Everything about this country, good or bad, was accepted. And now I have as much trouble analyzing what's wrong with this society as does the Afro- American. It didn't matter whether these interviewees went to Africa or Europe, which were the only sections of the world this book dealt with. What is referred to as "the problem" or "that pressure" that black people grow up with here was non-existent in either place. In fact, many of them were shocked by the level of adoration they received. In Scandinavia in the early 1960s, the 2 expatriates living there were followed around by Swedes and Fins, most of whom had only seen colored people on TV. They thought that dark skinned people possessed a certain primal sexual and emotional energy that white people had lost. At first Mattiwilda Dobbs and Arthur Hardie were bothered by this reaction everywhere they went, which was sort of an ignorant fascination. Then they learned to appreciate it and later to ignore it. Arthur said he thought all Afro-Americans should have the chance to experience this popularity once in their lives. He related one time that a Swedish girl that had come home with him from a party had asked him if he would do his "tribal sex dance" before they went to bed. The French considered dark skin the most beautiful and exotic. French men were too confident in their own sexual superiority to feel threatened by black men, as many American males seemed to be. Gloria Davy, Reri Grist, and many other black expatriates singing opera in Germany were treated like royalty. Dean Dixon, a conductor who'd emigrated to Stockholm, was being invited to country after country to conduct major orchestras, but was still ignored in his home country of America. Charles Nichols, a professor who had only been able to get jobs teaching at all-black colleges here, was teaching at a major university in Berlin. He was also given V.I.P. treatment in public places, as were all professors in Germany where education is highly esteemed, and had no trouble buying a house in an upper class neighborhood which he knew would have been impossible in America. The Italians were the most relaxed about skin color. Clebert Ford, who lived there, and others who had passed through thought that skin color had no bearing on their relations with Italians. The Italians seemed to understand the best that black people really didn't want to be just like white people. They appreciated the negro culture and accepted it as equal to their own. Like other Europeans they also loved jazz, Negro spirituals and blues and appreciated it as a legitimate expression of musical and artistic brilliance. These art forms were largely ignored by white people here where they had originated! These black expatriates were quick to recognize that prejudice was not absent in Europe; it was directed at other peoples. In Germany anti- Jewish remarks were sometimes made in their presence, and in Italy, Sicilians were treated like the negroes in America. It was strange to have an Italian take one of his black American friends aside and talk about "those Sicilians and their knives" because it showed the American the other side of the racism dilemma. He finally experienced it as an outsider. Many of the interviewees missed things about their place of birth, but felt they would not go back again. Whenever they went to visit, they would take offense at the oppressive atmosphere of racism here which they had learned to live without. Even though I haven't felt this oppression anything like a black person or other minority does here, I know that I am suffering from mono-culture. And the only way I'm going to cure it is to escape it physically, and then let it go from inside me. It's like if your regular doctor says you're sick. And because of this, you start to feel sick. Then you decide to get a second opinion. And this second doctor says you're not sick at all, and within a couple days the symptoms of illness you had start to go away. But it takes a while before you realize that neither doctor's opinion is important and you become truly healthy. ********** POSTSCRIPT We must all realize that the Europe talked about in this book was a Europe of the late 1950s and early 1960s. There were fewer blacks living there. Europeans saw blacks simply as darker skinned human beings, and viewed American racism from an outside, almost innocent point of view, and could not understand it. With the current influx of immigrants to Europe, and partially due to economic woes, reports of racial intolerance are rising. I am curious how the lives of the people mentioned in this article have been affected -- if at all -- in the 1990s. ---------------------------------- THE GYPSIES: THE ANCIENT TRAVELERS by Miles Poindexter "We must be careful not to think of the Gypsy as a 'homeless' wanderer. They have a home, and it is the whole of the earth." -- English gypsiologist I don't claim to be an investigative journalist or nothin', but I recently read some books on this and wanted to share some knowledge (before I forget it). The Romanies have fascinated historians for centuries. They are surrounded by mystery wherever they roam. Even the name we commonly use to refer to them is a misnomer. The word "Gypsies" is a disdainful version of Egyptians, since they were thought to have come originally from Egypt. Actually, the Romanies are now believed to have come from India nearly 1,000 years ago. There are many different tribes of this people living in most every country. Each may appear very different from the others at first glance, because they tend to accept superficial aspects of the culture of their host country. They will conform in many ways to the customs and even the religion of whatever region they are in, but only to "fool" the local people into accepting them and to not hurt business interaction. But deep down and unknown to anyone but their own, they hold steadfastly to their ancient beliefs and to certain traits of their tradition. One belief prevalent among all tribes is that once a Romany or "Rom" marries an outsider or "gauje'," as we are called, they are no longer to be trusted, and can even be banished from the tribe. This harsh practice is a result of centuries of persecution everywhere they have gone. A Romany can only trust another Romany. Many outsiders who have tried to learn more of their secrets have been greeted with disinformation and a polite blank stare. Attempts to integrate Romany groups into society are met with quiet resistance. They don't appreciate the lifestyles of "sedentaries" and the pressures that come with it. Taxes, property, houses, identification cards...these things are not for a gypsy. They are wanderers at heart, and prefer an existence of travel, singing and relaxation. They do not use watches and have no interest in schedules. While we would see their life as harsh and primitive, it is rare to find an unhappy Romany. The negative images of thieves and beggars has plagued the Romanies throughout time, for the Roms are fond of jewelry, trinkets, and bright clothes, and the act of secretly taking something beautiful from a rich gaujˇ is not considered a crime to them, as long as there was no violence. Often overlooked is the peaceful nature of the gypsy people. They go out of their way to avoid conflict of any kind. Begging is looked upon as an honorable tradition. In their ancient homeland, a penniless beggar was almost holy. When a gypsy group reaches a destination, usually a city, they set up camp outside of city limits, where there are as few people as possible. They usually sleep till noon. Then, after a big meal around the campfire they head into town. The women and children make money by fortune-telling and begging. Incidentally, many "gypsiologists" have realized that the Rom do not believe in predicting the future. They never tell fortunes to their own kind, only the gauje'. A Romany woman learns to judge the character of the customer, then makes up a suitable prediction. Women are also known for their knowledge of herbs. The men are known for their knowledge of horses, and now-a-days cars, bicycles and any form of transportation. They are usually expert tinsmiths and metalworkers. Gypsies have also been adept at many forms of entertainment since the days when they were performing for kings. The Romanies have refused to develop a written language. When they write, it is in the language of whatever country they are in. They believe a legend that states they lost the right to a system of writing due to a curse left after the ruin of an ancient Gypsy king named Pharavono. Though the Rom have no written language, their spoken language is very similar to Sanskrit, an ancient Indian language. Stories, legends and laws have been passed down by word of mouth. A few of their customs seem outdated, like their marriage custom. They are arranged by the parents. The man's parents must present a suitable amount of money or gifts to the woman's family before the wedding can take place. After the ceremony, the wife goes to live with the husband. Many times they are complete strangers since dating is not allowed in their culture. There are also strange traditions surrounding childbirth. The actual birth must take place on the ground outside the wagon. The wagon, or "vardo," is the home of a typical Romany family, though some only have tents. If the baby is born in the wagon, everything in it becomes "unclean" and must be either burned or sold. If a Gypsy dies in the wagon everything is also unclean or "ma'rime" and must be gotten rid of. When a Rom is close to death they are brought out near the campfire and everyone sits around talking and carrying on as if everything is normal. After death occurs the person is buried with all personal belongings. This is to prevent jealousy over who gets what. As a people the Romany rely on improvisation for their existence. They are always finding new ways to survive outside the system. No one is more knowledgeable in the means of survival, or quicker in thinking their way out of trouble. Many seem almost impervious to sickness of any kind. The Romanies are filled with a quiet pride. In their eyes the Rom are superior to all other people, and this pride is what makes the idea of serving a government or country loathsome. They are truly independent, and in the midst of our highly conformist and regimented societies, the Gypsy remains a comparatively free person. ********************* LORDS OF THE UNIVERSE An old Gypsy speaks of his People... With our laws and statutes we Gypsies take care of ourselves and live happily. We are the lords of the open country, of the crops, woods and forests, of the wells and rivers. The forests proffer us wood free of cost; the trees, fruit; the vineyards, grapes; the gardens, vegetables; the wells, water; the rivers, fish; the gentry's preserves, game. The rocks provide us with shade, the fissures with cool air, and the caves with dwelling-places. For us the severities of the heavens are breezes; the fall of snow is refreshment; the rain gives us baths. Thunder is music to us, and lightning serves us as illumination. For us the hard banks of earth are soft featherbeds. The weather-beaten skin of our bodies acts as a coat of protecting armor. Fetters do not hamper our lightness of foot, nor do any obstacles keep us in jail -- the walls do not stop us. Ropes do not contort our soul, gags used for torture do not stifle us, nor does the pillory tame us. We are not reduced in spirit by being suspended from pulleys, hoods do not smother us, and the rack does not overpower us. We make no distinction between yes and no when it suits us, and we prefer to be martyrs rather than confessors. Beasts of burden are bred for us in the fields, and pockets are made for us to pick in the cities. No eagle or any other bird of prey swoops with greater speed on its promising quarry than we do on the opportunities that offer us gain... These wretched huts and movable camps are esteemed by us above gilded ceilings and sumptuous palaces...To conclude, we are people who live by our wits and our cajoling tongues, and we are quite unconcerned with the old proverb which says that he who would prosper must follow the Church, the Sea or the Royal Household. -- Translated by C.D., from LA GITANILLA (The Little Gypsy Girl) by Cervantes, written in 1613 ---------------------- THE ROAD FROM BUDAPEST by Tee Bee The riots and the dead-heads following me...I follow the flow, peach- like butts, "life is a bitch" bumper-stickers, and "help wanted" signs. Me, the Hungarian refugee G.A. Joe, the student in a school of life who's trying to be the perfect loser. So, my friend wants me to write about myself. Don't ask me why. He's got a zine, I don't have a clue. Suddenly I realize this is a good opportunity for an open letter to my parents. They don't know English, America, and nothing about me. I was born in a so-called communist country, Hungary. My childhood was like Chinese food: sweet and sour. I was raised on hot-cocoa and poppy-seed bread, Tom & Jerry, and the elementary school system in Budapest. The school is traditionally middle-European copied from Prussian turn-of-the century style. Order, Properness, Health, Fitness was the communist ideal, perfect human specimen, or the German Ubermensch ("overman") was the goal. My mother was a teacher at the school where I was going to, so my situation was really emotional. I hated all. I started to be a heavy drinker and smoker and rock & roller. Especially the punk music hit the back of my brain. It was in 1980 when I cut my hair into a Mohican or Iroquois or Mohawk. I was kicked out of most of the schools, ran away from the family, was working in a beer factory and the chemical plant. In my free time I was sniffing glue. One day I was tripping really badly. I didn't know why but suddenly bright sparkling light came from the front door. "Oh Shit, it's God and this is the coronation of the king of the glue." A weird noise sounded like the doorbell. "Oh Shit, it's my mother!" I stashed the plastic glue-bag in the refrigerator. My mother comes in asking what is smelling like turpentine. Afterwards she found the bag, and I ended up in a psycho-treatment center. But there is no worry. My father had good connections so my life was back on the right track again to the university. Back on the road to having a profession, wife, house, and cancer at age 55. So I took off for the west at the age of 20. As a political refugee I could choose between 4 countries: South Africa, Canada, Australia and the U.S.A. South Africa for die-hard fascists, Canada for families who like the cold and the Queen, Australia for families who like the heat and the Queen, and the U.S.A. for the left-over who like following orders, or the flow. The U.S. Consul asked me why I left Hungary. I said the general stuff about life generally sucks in Hungary. They liked it. They didn't realize it goes for the U.S. too, or any country. For me the American experience started at the Consulet. Stars and Stripes, bright neon, and machine-like impersonal voices. Many of us were trying to create a sad story about suffering, and getting beaten up by the Communists. Others said they were organizers against the system and their lives were in danger. All were trying to get good points with the Consul people. If all this was true the Communists wouldn't have lasted so long. Whatever, they accepted me and I was really happy to have the chance of living in the "Empire," having quality drugs and rock & roll. For some time I was living in Austria as a "refugee" which represents "The West" to Hungarians. To me it was a bad trip of traditional hate and high standard of living. They put us into hostels, gave food and money which was hardly enough to buy cigarettes. The Austrian State kept us as a vegetable until we got shipped to somewhere. The hostel where I stayed was in the small town of St. George, not too far from Salzburg and Brectesgarten; the town Hitler called home. This town had a hard time dealing with refugees from the "wild" East. There were regular fights between the locals and the eastern "homies" at the disco. It was a really boring sanitorium in the Alps, without money or hope so we started stealing electronics, shoes, almost everything we could. With that booty we bought a car and explored Austria, stealing stuff at commercial strips and supermarkets. I started to have a pretty good time. We were doing exactly what the Austrians expected us to do: CRIME. This was my first experience living completely outside mainstream society. Getting beaten, smoking hashish and having fun. The good Easterners were trying to get under-the-table jobs, waking up at 5:00 in the morning, waiting for someone to pick them up, working hard for one-third of the Austrian's wages. But I had fun, fun, fun. Living a completely different lifestyle of fast-cars and ice cream parlors. I was glad being in the West, but it was sad to see the Austrian greed, and uptight ideas which flourish in so many Middle European countries. The cities are grey and the people are depressed. There was resignation in so many peoples faces and I was overcome with a Kafka-like feeling which dragged me down. You know the bug feeling, or the vegetable. You can see this if you just go to a middle-European country and explore the heavy depression. So I went to New York and became a heroin junkie. My eyes opened up like Mickey Mouse, dancing in the streets. The skyscrapers were shooting up like towers of Babel. Everything looked dangerous and filthy, expensive and poor. To me it was a place that set me free. This might be one reason I turned to drugs, I couldn't handle the freedom. Freedom of choice was what drug would you like to take. I started with New York weed which is grown on building roofs and sprayed with nasty chemicals. But if you are from Europe you can appreciate it. I was losing my mind on the bass lines and the drums. Welcome to wonderland and the show was in full swing. My heart was beating fast but it was soon filled only with loneliness. I soon discovered the loneliness that comes from living in one of the biggest, most crowded cities of the world. I needed some loving. I also needed rent money, food, and a job. Everyday I had to think of how I would support my most basic needs just to survive and I got really tired and frustrated. That's what made me feel heavy even without the gravity. Eventually I met some friends from Budapest and we had a lot of fun. Learning expressions like "doing time," and "making money." America is a real challenge where things are perfectly crystallized, where freedom means slavery, money means love, where you can see through but there is no escape. You gotta lose your mind. --------------- JUST PASSING BY by Malgorzata G. I arrived to the U.S. at 23, as a fresh college graduate. My B.A. was in the remote discipline of Italian and French language and literature. I soon found that my carefully planned education in Mediterranean civilization was completely irrelevant in California. People here were more interested in my typing skills and ability to file alphabetically than in my real background. I had to swallow a bitter pill: I couldn't survive on a tour guide's (I didn't even know the area!) or interpreter's income. I also realized that having a B.A. opens up some possibilities in the corporate world, no matter how obsolete my other qualifications were. This bizarre practice had been introduced, so that people with as bizarre an education as mine could find employment. European employers were a lot more selective, but then, they appreciate odd professions more. I noticed that people in America are generally much more devoted to their employers than people in Europe, or, should I say, the percentage of over-achievers and workaholics is much higher. I've been observing corporate politics with the detachment of a person who is extraneous not only because of her low position in the hierarchy, but who also comes from a different reality. In my old world, values and priorities were very different. People cared for one another more. Friends would drop by without calling. Here, telephone has ironically become the main means of communication. I couldn't help noticing most so called friends I happened to make during the first few years were superficially polite, but frightened to get close with other human beings, eager to retreat into shells they lived in. They were self- sufficient, used to early independence. After all, they never had much of a childhood and usually worked through their best teenage years. What a wonderful preparation for demands of today's maddening world! What about having a quiet teenagehood, deprived of such serious responsibilities they (biologically) were not ready for anyway? I read somewhere that, by a caprice of Mother Nature, a human being doesn't really become ready for life until late twenties, and from the moment of his birth until that time, he lives in a sort of a social womb, where he learns the most important things in his life. Well, if that's true, then this country has been producing some emotionally, culturally and spiritually impoverished individuals that, in turn, treat their kids in the same way, by getting rid of the responsibility of having them at home as early as possible. Maybe I am prejudiced, after all I come from a country with a highly developed cult of child. Here, it seems, only rich kids can afford what every human being is entitled to: time to grow up at a natural pace, without extra stress. It is no wonder that nobody here takes time any more to smell the flowers and just relax. Well, not quite. I have met here a few people who have actually developed their spiritual and emotional lives. I still keep wondering why education is last on the list of priorities in this country, and why does it have to have a price tag? That is, why do people study mostly for the grade, not the knowledge, if they study at all? Aren't we here to fully experience, enjoy, compare and reflect? To be happy rather than miserable? Today's America is very disappointing. Only a small group of people is enlightened enough to see what's actually happening. I guess it all starts when people learn how to recognize certain values. It all begins at home, then school. People here are not in touch with their roots, in a universal sense, they are not in touch with their basic selves. They surely won't find balance by implementing new computer solutions to their reality, instead of realizing they basically don't need that. Just like they can do without all that stuff they are made to believe they need to survive. Who on earth needs all those cars and microwave ovens? Who needs three layers of packaging for one little thing? Why do people feel this urge to succeed? The tempo of living in America and the stress is certainly beyond anything I have ever seen. Why do I stay if I am so negative? Well, first of all, I am just passing by. I've always believed my place was somewhere more quiet and inspirational. Secondly, I wasn't always negative, in fact, at first, I was fascinated. Following the rules, I went broke by buying a new car, got myself in debt -- all this glitz, you know. Then, I started missing my old values, so I took time to reflect. I studied art and read a lot of wonderful stuff the minority in this country tries to communicate to the rest. When I finally got ready to look around, I saw things the way they really were. I still believe this world can be changed. There are some people who care enough. And I want to contribute. In the country where most people don't like their lives, yet function with incredible efficiency, putting up with stress that's killing them, some radical change is needed. What the hell do they need the incredible structures they are locked in for? Life is complicated as it is. there is time and place for everything in most other places in the world, except here. Even in West Germany (the most square headed country in the world) they take a month of vacation every year, and their productivity level stays the same. Amazing, isn't it? -- Excerpted from PROCESSED WORLD #25, the magazine of BACAT, 1095 Market Street, Suite 209, San Francisco, CA 94103 USA --------------------------------- JADED JOURNEY TO THE EMERALD CITY by Julie Mullen ******************* TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS... First of all, I would highly recommend taking the Green Tortoise up to Seattle. You know, it's the weird hippy bus that has mattresses all over it -- a completely comfortable, cheap way to ride. The bus stops at Cow Creek in Oregon for a huge meal that everyone lends a hand making. There's a sauna built nearby. Eat vegetarian and get ready to read and relax on the bus. It's great. I met a few interesting people on the bus, including Jason, a red- haired tattooed self-proclaimed grafitti hip-hop artist who spends half the year as a fisherman in Alaska. He had a really nasty cover-up tattoo on one shoulder, which he admitted used to be a playboy bunny. Poor guy. He seemed interested enough to offer me a place to stay in Seattle should my crash pad not work out. But later in the trip he distanced himself from me ... he was wrapped up in an Ecstasy deal he was closing with another trip character, Sean. This guy had long hair and shared his headphones with me so I could listen to Bongwater. But he lost me when he started telling some story about a girl he was seeing in high school and how he also fucked her mother. There were some pretty cool SF'ers, art students, who I shared the ride up and back with. And an older man from Uprisings Bakery in Berkeley who kept giving everyone healthy cookies and doing pull-ups. He gave me a little gold star for being "the most interesting person on the bus." Well. I tried to avoid people on the bus during the trip back to SF, but I noticed one man kept writing things down in a little pad every so often. He was wearing all black, carrying a paperback copy of "Star Wars 3," sporting a very George Lucas-ish beard. As I was exiting the bus on one occasion I couldn't help but notice he had written on his little pad, "A note on my fellow travelers. They fall mostly into that dead zone between 20 and 30..." This irritated me no end, and after I told Jessica, one of the art students, about it, we spent the rest of the return trip spitting insults about this presumptuous guy and how sick we both are of hearing about the twenty-nothing generation. ******* SEATTLE... My host, Mike Payson, was in no way kidding when he told me, "the house is a disaster." A path was shoveled through the living room, where there was an ancient computer, a dusty stereo, my bed, and an iguana cage. I already knew from talking to Mike on the phone that his pet rat ran free, somehow co-existing peacefully with his roommate's cat. The iguana, however, was a surprise, and so was its home. Apparently Mike's roommate had dumped a bunch of moss in the bottom of the cage, and there were some eggs in it, so the whole thing had erupted into a seething cauldron of larvae, crickets, and beetles all squirming around all over each other and through the mess. At night I would lay awake listening to them squirm and chirp and rustle while outside in the Central District people yelled at each other. No, it wasn't the most glamorous place to stay. But Mike was about as generous a host as a person could hope for, and his roommate Richard, who has had himself declared legally insane so he can collect social security forever, offered me hash as soon as I walked through the door. I also had fun hanging out with Kevin, who lived upstairs and did my Tarot cards. Also met some people who carve amazing designs into Didgeridoos, which are musical instruments made out of pipes. They burn in the most intricate tattoos from Native North American to Celtic designs. Really cool. Write them for info: Rebecca Stanle or Sean Kilpatrick, 1027 N. 48th St., Seattle, WA 98103. ******** SEX WORK... See, I went to Seattle for an audition, and I payed my way by working at the Famous Lusty Lady Theater. So I didn't have a hell of a lot of time to explore the "grunge scene," or hike around in the Cascade Mountains. In fact, I spent a lot of time underneath the city showing my butt to its inhabitants for a mere 25 cents. But you know, you can learn a lot about a place this way. For one thing, Seattle is a much down homier city than S.F. One dancer at the Lusty told me she'd be dancing until she was seven months pregnant, and then she'd only do the one on one booth. That would never happen at the Lusty in S.F. On the plus side, all the dancers were incredibly friendly to me and even asked me out for Seattle's version of Mardi Gras. No, I did not go, because I was busy hanging out with a beautiful 18 year old Asian woman with blonde dreadlocks and her group of hip-hop grafitti artist friends. I have to say, I was feelin' a little old to be ridin' around in a car boom boxing too loud to think. But interestingly enough, I did run into Jason, my buddy from the Green Tortoise. This made me wonder if the hip-hop grafitti artist scene in Seattle is entirely contained in one apartment. ******* SUMMARY... 1. Everyone in Seattle goes to Alaska to make quick money fast. Whether you can fish, or strip for fishers and canners, the bucks are good. 2. Everyone in Seattle talks about how great the coffee is there. And really, it IS great. 3. Seattle is really "a big hick town with money," according to one Green Tortoise rider. I thought it was about as friendly as everyone told me it would be, and I would hear conversations on buses that would stun me with their sheer BANALITY. People would talk about what they were going to make for dinner and a lot of them had very positive attitudes about life. Somehow the charm of this is lost on me, but if that's what you like, you will get plenty of it. 4. The best place in Seattle is Capitol Hill, the "Castro St." scene of that city. Check out the Scary Gay Mall on Broadway -- it's the best. ------------------------- WHAT MAKES THE DIFFERENCE by Martina There're good people and bad people everywhere in the world; maybe it's easier to make friends in Czechoslovakia but it's easier to lose them as well; the young people don't have cars so one can hitch-hike pretty safely cause there're thousands of thumbs up on the road; almost everybody smokes too much and drinks too much -- the pub is the centre of all private and public affairs -- if you need to get some pieces of information -- go to the pub and you'll know; the people read a lot and listen to the music a lot -- it's hard to find VCR in the households but there're to be found more than cook-books in the bookshelves; the people aren't used to working that hard anyway and the salary was always shitty -- they'd rather have fun and enjoy themselves than save the money for "worse times"; the nature -- rivers, mountains, air and woods are polluted more than enough -- the communists didn't take care of the beauty -- but the camping remains to be the national sport number one. -- Equipped with a sleeping bag and a tent you're welcomed everywhere; are you hungry or thirsty at midnight? Bad luck for a simple reason -- all the shops are closed at 8 or 9 in the evening and open at 6 or 7 in the morning; unlike here in the US, there're no flags floating above the old historical buildings in the darkness of the Czech sky -- the people -- destroyed by the communist idea of equality and indifference aren't proud of their country that much -- anyway Europe is a small continent and a big pot at the same time -- everything and everybody is mixed up with everything and everybody; there're 4 seasons of the year -- it's nice to smell fresh spring breeze, heavy overloaded sun; chilly foggy mornings, snow falling down; but the moon is the same -- tender and bright and so are the people -- the good ones or the bad ones as all over the world. ---------------------------------------------- DISTURBIA...NIGHTMARES FROM THE SUBURBAN DREAM: THE PLACE OF SAFETY AT THE WORLD'S END AT LAST by Jonquil Everyone probably grew up knowing someone whose family was always going on a trip; a camping trip one weekend, a visit to the beach the next. Jonquil's family was always packing their bags for a long trip. Unfortunately, they never went anywhere... Memories slam into me like a thousand yesterdays all at once. I feel parts of my life invading my mind. I hold myself together. I tell myself that I am my place of safety, and I laugh at the past. Still...sometimes I get the urge to pack. It was 1973. I was almost six and we were packing because the moon was orange with bloody red ribbons around it. My mother said it was a sign from God that it was time to flee to "the Place of Safety." I sat by the window holding my teddy bear, watching the moon bleed and praying that it wasn't really time to flee yet. Mother had said we couldn't bring our dog, Misty, and I didn't want to leave her. I just knew God would understand. He did. I was 10 when Mr. McGowen, our minister, said that we'd be going soon, "be packed, be prepared." So my mother gave all of our toys away. She'd already gotten rid of Misty. We packed and waited for the call to flee. I was ready to go then. School was hell on earth for me. Mother kept me out most of the time but when I went I was the Christian freak girl and kids would surround me at recess, calling me names that still hurt too much for me to remember, throwing rocks and laughing when I cried. I can't really blame them. At the beginning of each year Mother would stand me in front of my class mates and have me explain God's plan, why I wouldn't be participating in their pagan rituals and how Satan was in control of their lives. Calling Santa Claus a Demon inspired messenger of Satan is not the way to win friends and achieve popularity in grade school; not in a small town in Idaho anyway. At this point we had packed and unpacked so many times I didn't even bother to tell the kids at school I was leaving. Like the boy who cried wolf, they wouldn't have believed me. So, we waited and I prayed that the time to flee would be soon. I just knew God would understand. He didn't. It was three years later, 1980. My church had been declared a cult by the government after the Jim Jones mass suicide. Mr. McGowen said we wouldn't be leaving any time soon, "Ten or twenty years yet," and apologized profusely for their blunder. By this time I wasn't sure what I wanted or expected to happen with the church or my family. I had just about given up on praying for anything from God. I would give up entirely later, but that's another story... In the spring of 1987 I fled to my place of safety, San Francisco. Here there is mana in the wilderness but I work for it and the wildlife asks politely for crumbs. Mother thinks I'm possessed by Satan, blames the time I spent in school and I only smile. I am my place of safety, she's still waiting in her hell on earth. ---------------------- JOIN THE CRASH NETWORK! Crasher: person who is traveling, guest. Crashee: person who is allowing Crasher to sleep at residence, host/hostess. Joining is free! Send email to johnl@netcom.com for a questionnaire (or send us an SASE to our mailing address, listed at the end of this file). Filling it out and returning it gets you listed in our Crash Directory, which is available only to members. Anytime you're planning to travel, send $5 for an up-to-the-minute directory and follow the guidelines below. ************* HOW TO USE IT You can use the Crash Directory to contact other members that you would like to meet. Or if you have a destination or journey in mind, you can use the directory to find potential crash sites along your planned route (flexibility helps). Before your departure, contact your potential crashee by mail, phone, or email and inquire about a visit. When all your crashes are confirmed, you're ready to hit the proverbial road. ************** THE CRASH CODE 1. Any Crashee can turn away a Crasher if they do not agree to the Crash by prior consent. 2. No charge for stay unless agreed upon by both parties beforehand. 3. Toilet and shower facilities should be made available to Crasher if possible. 4. Don't eat Crashee's food unless offered. 5. Don't use the Crashee's phone, stereo, TV or any other property without their consent. 6. No stealing. 7. Don't bring friends over without the prior consent of the Crashee. 8. Treat each other with respect. 9. Help each other in every way possible during Crashes. 10. Crasher must obey rules of Crash Pad unless they contradict above rules. ----------------- CRASH INFORMATION Editors: Miles Poindexter, John Labovitz. Crash is published in January, March, May, July, September, and November of each year. Subscriptions are $5 for six issues. A sample issue is $1 or three US 29c stamps. Back issues (text only) are available via anonymous FTP at netcom.com in directory /pub/johnl/zines/crash. The printed issues also contain illustrations and advertising; for the full Crash experience, send for a printed sample. Crash is happy to hear from you. Send artwork, articles, and aardvarks to us at: Crash 519 Castro Street #7 San Francisco, CA 94114 USA email: johnl@netcom.com If you are interested in advertising in the print or electronic version of Crash, please contact us for rates and sizes. Copyright (C) 1993 Crash. We encourage other zine editors to reprint or excerpt parts of any articles written by us (Miles Poindexter or John Labovitz). All we ask is that information about this magazine and the network be included with it. If you wish to reprint something by an outside contributor, please contact them beforehand (either by their contact information listed after the article, or c/o Crash). ------------------ END OF CRASH MAY93