They Warned Me. I Went Anyway.

Queer on a Quest: On visibility, travel, and human compassion

I didn’t go looking for danger; I went looking for people. I went knowing the warnings, carrying them lightly, aware of the risks without letting them write the entire story for me. What I found wasn’t recklessness on my part or a denial of reality, but something far more common: people who were willing to meet me where I stood, openly and with respect.

In the markets and mosques, on ferries, and in winding back streets, I met people whose lives had nothing to do with my fears. And in those ordinary crossings, I learned how rarely decency announces itself loudly, and how it often simply shows up unexpectedly.

North Korea

In the DPRK, the structure of life is what one would notice first. Everything feels arranged, and held in place with rules and culture. These rules are rarely talked about but very much understood by the North Korean people. The land, however, refuses to cooperate. Mountains rise as they will, and beautiful rivers (much like the Daedong River I was to be running alongside in the upcoming days) bend and move as they please. Structure bows to the will of nature.

I’ve been twice to the beautiful Hermit Kingdom, and the first time was for the Pyongyang Half Marathon. I ran the second year the marathon was offered to foreigners and probably the first time in its history that North Korea allowed access to as many tourists as were running in this event. I was very happy to count myself as one of them. It was here that I met Mr. Park. I’ve written about Mr. Park before as this was one of those stories that truly changed who I was and how I see the world.

The conversation with Mr. Park started after I finished my first half marathon ever, so needless to say I had very little energy to entertain small talk. However, when Mr. Park started to engage me with questions about my life, I couldn’t resist talking about myself. I mean, it’s my favorite topic. It was there when he asked if I had a wife or a girlfriend. I did do a little research before coming to this country, as most queer travellers are used to doing when going to a country where our sexuality could be, shall we say, a hindrance. I was told by the tour company I chose to go with, Koryo Tours (look them up, by the way), and their response shocked me. They said it was perfectly fine to be openly gay in North Korea, but all North Koreans believed that that was a Western ideal and did not exist within the country. Okay, so I wasn’t in any danger for outing myself. To my dismay, however, when I showed Mr. Park a photo of my then-boyfriend, his response was less than friendly. ‘I don’t like that,’ he said and proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day. Rude, but not the first time. It wasn’t until the next morning at breakfast that Mr. Park pulled me aside, like aside aside though, he fully pulled me out of the breakfast room and down the hall to a very private part of the hotel. Confused and very concerned, I went with him, not at all sure what was happening. Mr. Park then turned to me and asked, ‘Do you love your boyfriend, Mark?’ to which I could only squeak a nervous response of ‘Yes.’ Assuming I was about to be deported or something, his face melted to a smile and he clapped my shoulder and said, ‘Then that’s okay, that’s okay then.’ After I finally exhaled from what seemed like forever, my heart melted. I can only assume he went home and had a think about it. Instead of continuing to judge or believing what he was told, he really thought about it and decided that as long as it was a loving relationship, he could totally be on board. For the entire rest of the trip, we were buddies. I think about the experience so often, as that was the first time I learned that government, politics, and travel warnings are not always a reflection of what you will find in the streets. Much like Mount Ryongak and all the peaks that choose to defiantly stand up around the city center of Pyongyang, Mr. Park chose to use his own self-determination and decide that he and I could be friends. Obviously, I haven’t heard from him again, although I did make inquiries the second time I was there. He’s doing well and back at his desk job. It still does my heart good to know I had a friend who chose love over rules and kindness over program.

Afghanistan

After North Korea, I assumed these same rules would apply to Afghanistan: the same reserve, the same careful distance. Instead, I found myself standing in Kabul, dressed in my club naughties, a glass of vodka sweating in my hand, quietly asking myself how another trip built around warnings had led me here. North Korea offered acceptance via a contained, singular experience given out by one Mr. Park. In Kabul, it was everywhere, layered, overlapping, impossible to trace to one person but definitely one moment.

The DJ was killing it. All of the haphazardly put-up twinkle lights gave the room a cool retro seventies vibe, while the party patrons buzzed around, dancing and socializing as a group of people do who have found themselves in a very tight-knit community. This birthday party was raging. I found myself, mildly under the influence, in the center of the dance floor, in a deep grind with my bestie. In true Vegas hens party fashion, we dirty-danced with each other while being cheered on by the Afghan party-goers. Now this would have been a typical night out any day of the week normally had we not been standing, or umm grinding, downtown Kabul. What was happening?

I remember mostly the streets of Kabul as being beige and nondescript. They were full of life and character but generally just walled compounds, one after the other, and streets lined with cedar trees. Beautiful in their own right, however, each street had a way of blending into one another. I met my friend/dance partner on one of those said streets after driving in from the airport. He had been working in Kabul for a while and offered to bring me along for a road trip through central Afghanistan. I immediately accepted this offer and flew to meet him. We hugged on the street and he took me into the house where I was to be staying whilst in Kabul. Here is where it hit me. We passed through the compound wall, through a sturdy gate, into an inner garden, or paradise, would have been more appropriate. It was a literal oasis of grapevines clinging to rock walls, of pomegranate trees growing strong in impossibly fertile soil. There were bushes and trees in every corner and the smell of pine with touches of kebab only heightened the sense. It was beautiful, and it was a reminder of Kabul from long ago: rich in heritage and refined in opulence. It wasn’t until a while after that the metaphor hit me.

Kabul unveiled a truth: beauty and acceptance often dwell in shared, hidden sanctuaries. Beyond the watchful, busy streets and behind high, rigid compound walls, there was a defiant life of music blaring, vodka flowing, and Afghans, contrary to every modern media narrative I’d heard, laughing, dancing, and drawing this gay man into a night of rebellious vibrancy. Seemingly reserved on the outside yet fiercely welcoming within. That evening transformed me, proving that the need for human connection is a force more powerful than any imposed ideology.

Ethiopia

In the Omo Valley of Ethiopia, nature and people overlap so completely that neither tries to dominate the other. The land stands as it is, and the people do as well. Water and dust, language and ritual exist side by side, negotiating their space not demanding it. It felt like a place that has always understood what modern borders forget: that coexistence isn’t disorder; it’s balance.

I remember coming to the Omo Valley a little trepidatious, as it was a little infamous and tourists were criticized for traveling to experience a ‘human zoo.’ I would have never wanted to contribute to that, but after many talks with tour companies and personal reflection, I made my way there. The vibrancy of the people was astounding, from the seriousness of the Mursi People, to the beautiful ochre hues of the Hammer Tribe; cultures rich in their own traditions shared so much beautiful space for each other. I marveled again and again at the diversity. And not only in the people; the land was vast and just as diverse, from green lush valleys of the Omo, to the Danakil Depression, all the way up to the deserts of the north. The land left you wanting nothing.

I found myself one night in a very small town somewhere around Jinka. My boyfriend at the time was grumpy from travel and wanted to stay in, but our guide invited us out to a small hole-in-the-wall for some drinks. I never say no. Honestly, never. I was thrilled I chose not to say no to this evening because this bar was way too much fun. The dance floor was going off and everyone was very welcoming and friendly. I found myself drinking at a table with my tour guide and several of his friends, who all were clad from head to toe in the Rastafarian colors. We sat there talking, and please understand I had a few Habeshas (local beers) in me, or I would never have been so bold, but the guys were engaged in explaining to me what the Rastafarian movement meant to Ethiopia. They explained how the Rastafarian movement was less about rebellion than it was about a return: a return to anti-colonial thought and ways of being, and Ethiopia had the distinction of representing pre-colonial African values.

It was then that one of the gentlemen clocked me. He looked up at me, as I was sipping my beer and just quietly enjoying the conversation, and exclaimed far too loudly, ‘I see you!’ ‘I’m sorry?’ I said back.

‘I see you, I know who you are,’ he said, waving a finger at me. Genuinely confused again, I said, ‘Sorry?’ smiling, trying to understand what was going on.

‘You’re a gay!’ he exclaimed as if he had cracked some sort of code. My stomach lurched. I honestly didn’t know how to respond. I was completely unaware of how to get back to my hotel, I was literally the only foreigner in this place, and my tour guide was a little wisp of a thing and very much incapable of helping me out of any situation.

I stammered, and honestly I can’t remember what came out of my mouth, something along the lines of, ‘Oh really? Why do you say that?’ I’m horrible with confrontation and this was not a moment I relished getting into one. Somewhat thankfully, his next line was, ‘It’s okay, I don’t have a problem, but that’s not something we believe in here.’ Now honestly, I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know what emboldened me to continue this conversation, as usually I would simply do my best to exit as quickly as possible. But on this night, I took a long haul on my Habesha and asked, ‘What don’t you believe in?’ He predictably launched into the same old argument of a Christian household, one man and one woman, procreating children, the same argument I’ve had to listen to since Catholic high school. It was then, and I can only tell you this came as a huge surprise to me, I launched into a rather spirited monologue of how Africa always had space for queer people; men living as women and adopting female roles around the village, non-binary people woven into society, of gay and lesbian lovers. I don’t know much about Africa’s history, but I do know a little bit about queer history and seemed maybe too eager to share. To my surprise, he listened intently, and instead of challenging my rather passionate, mildly inebriated, history lesson, he threw his head back and laughed, a gracious, happy sound that somehow ended the debate without invalidating a word I’d said. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘okay, you know some things.’ I smiled, he smiled, and we continued our night of drinking and dancing. We didn’t speak anymore about the subject, and the conversation ended with my guide saying, ‘I like gay guys, they don’t take any of the girls.’ I was more than happy to move on, but it was in that moment, when I braced for persecution, that I instead found myself fully seen and profoundly heard, creating a vital bridge of understanding in a space where I had expected something much different. Here we were, two cultures, distinct in countless ways yet deeply similar in many others, sharing this space and enjoying each other’s company, just as people have done on these very lands for countless centuries.

Written by: Mark Scodellaro