{"product_id":"adventure-divas-isbn-9780375760631","title":"Adventure Divas","description":"After years of working behind a desk, Holly Morris had finally had enough. So she quit her job and set out to prove that adventure is not just a vacation style but a philosophy of living and to find like-minded, risk-taking women around the globe. With modest backing, a small television crew, her spirited producer-mother, Jeannie, and a whole lot of chutzpah, Morris tracked down artists, activists, and politicos–women of action who are changing the rules and sometimes the world around them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn these pages, Morris brings to life the remarkable people and places she’s encountered on the road while filming her PBS series Adventure Divas and other programs. We meet Assata Shakur, a former Black Panther and social activist and now a fugitive living in exile in Cuba; Kiran Bedi, New Delhi’s chief of police, who revolutionized India’s infamously brutal Tijar Jail with her humanitarian ethic; New Zealand pop star Hinewehi Mohi, a Maori who reinvigorates her native culture for a new generation; and Mokarrameh Ghanbari, a septuagenarian painter and rice farmer who lives in the tiny village of Darikandeh on the Caspian plains of Iran, where her creative talents run counter to the government’s strict stance on art. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlong the way, Morris herself becomes a certified Adventure Diva, as she hunts for wild boar with Penan tribesmen in the jungles of Borneo, climbs the Matterhorn short-roped to a salty fourth-generation Swiss guide, and memorably becomes the first woman ever to enter the traditional camel race of the Saharan oasis town of Timia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIntelligent, phenomenally funny, and chock-full of rich and telling details of place, Adventure Divas is a pro-woman chronicle for the twenty-first century. In a pilgrimage fueled by curiosity, ideology, and full-on estrogen power, Holly Morris has paved the way for all of us to discover our own diva within and set out on our own adventures.“A delightful triangulation of adventure travel, telecommuting and self-reinvention...[Morris] can be hilarious….[Her] self-deprecating wit, sense of pacing and brainy insights into the nature of fear and self-reliance hold the book together….When Morris becomes her own subject, the result is always vibrant honesty.…[she] is not afraid to show her everyday self on the page, which is invigorating in a genre that too often has only two speeds: turbo self-aggrandizement and ambling naturalist instrospection. The female perspective is also refreshing: how many men could survive not one but two international waxing appointments–Brazilian and Persian?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Writing with compassion, humor, and activism, Morris empowers women to follow their dreams by showing that determined women can indeed effect change in their lives. Highly recommended.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Morris shows an admirable fearlessness… genuinely interesting subject matter.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This is not just about travel, although it’s as adventurous as can be.…Morris’ interviews…are thoughtful and probing…[and] her text adds context–and humor–to the project, warts and all.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Smart, sexy, inspiring! Holly Morris is the ultimate adventure diva. Whether she's deconstructing Cuban politics, finding meaning in a Brazilian bikini wax, or succumbing to the pleasures of a Tehran security pat down, Holly lives and writes like a brainy bad girl. I loved reading \u003ci\u003eAdventure Divas\u003c\/i\u003e is like riding shotgun on a high-octane global road trip.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eCameron Tuttle\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Bad Girl’s\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eGuide to the Open Road\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Let us celebrate Holly Morris and all of the other amazing, hilarious, tough, and tender Adventure Divas in this book. There is no substitute for the old-fashioned adventurer with frequent flier miles, dirt on her boots, and new ideas.\"\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eSherman Alexie\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beware. If you read this remarkable book you will pack your bags and go. And you will want to take Holly Morris with you as your friend and guide–she notices everything and she’s wickedly funny.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eSusan Fox Rogers\u003c\/b\u003e, editor of \u003ci\u003eSolo: On Her Own Adventure\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Holly Morris is hip, wise, concerned, endlessly curious, fearless, and fiercely independent–and her richly textured account of her adventures is filled with more fun and excitement than \u003ci\u003eThe Perils of Pauline\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eNick Lyons\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eFull Creel\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Adventure Divas really do go where angels fear to tread. Meet the 81-year-old Cuban poet and her 41-year-old husband; the rebellious spirit behind Iran's foremost women's magazine; a female Maori band-leader. Holly Morris has written a lively and fascinating old-girl’s-guide paean to never holding back on life. What woman–or man–can ask for more? Move over, Mr. Hemingway.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eJacki Lyden,\u003c\/b\u003e National Public Radio\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Holly Morris has given us a fresh and individualistic take on the American tradition of lighting out for the territory.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eHowell Raines\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eFly Fishing Through the Midlife Crisis\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Find your passport to excitement, enlightenment, intelligence and ingenuity in Holly Morris's spirited exploration of the global sisterhood. \u003ci\u003eAdventure Divas \u003c\/i\u003eis what the world needs now!”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eEvelyn C. White\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eAlice Walker: A Life \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eAdventure Divas\u003c\/i\u003e will inspire you to set out on your own journey. Holly Morris is a delightful and trustworthy guide through many exotic countries, friendships, and even the world of television production. Still, \u003ci\u003eAdventure Divas\u003c\/i\u003e greatest contribution is the female treasures–the obscure, ordinary, and fabulous–Morris unearths around the world.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eJennifer Baumgardner\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eAmy Richards\u003c\/b\u003e, co-authors \u003ci\u003eGrassroots: A Field Guide to Feminist Activism \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Manifesta: Young Women, Feminism and the Future\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eAdventure Divas\u003c\/i\u003e is an internal journey as much as a movement through a foreign landscape–a personal odyssey through uncharted territory. Holly Morris encounters dragons, real and imagined, within and without, finds shelters among strangers, and falters, then moves on. In the end she returns with new knowledge–of herself, the world, the act of journeying itself–to share in this terrific book with those who stayed behind.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eKarin Muller\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eAlong the Inca Road: A Woman’s Journey into an Ancient Empire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Part travel narrative, part cultural and political analysis, with a scathingly hilarious mother-daughter memoir deftly worked into the mix, \u003ci\u003eAdventure Divas\u003c\/i\u003e is a deeply satisfying read.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003eInga Muscio\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eAutobiography of a Blue-Eyed Devil\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Morris is] a winning companion, a keen cultural observer, a free but not \u003cbr\u003efalsely upbeat spirit.\"\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smart. Funny. Sarcastic. Creative. Gutsy. Morris…is all of the above.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSeattle Post Intelligencer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An unusual mix of activism and entertainment bringing the comlexity and struggle of women's lives into focus.\"\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSojourner\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Only a few women warriors have successfully stormed prime time. There’s Xena. And the Femme Nikita. Now travel temptress Holly Morris is giving it a try.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eOrange County Register\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The Adventure Divas have some advice for firing up your soul!\"\u003cbr\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eHolly Morris is the founder of Adventure Divas, Inc., a multimedia production company, and is executive producer and writer\/director of the award-winning prime-time PBS documentary series Adventure Divas. She is the former editorial director of Seal Press and the editor of two fishing anthologies, A Different Angle and Uncommon Waters. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times Book Review, Ms., Outside, and numerous anthologies and on abcnews.com. When she’s not writing or producing television documentaries, Morris is a correspondent for television series such as Lonely Planet Treks in America, Treks in a Wild World,  Globe Trekkers, and Outdoor Investigations.Chapter 1    PARADOX FOUND    We do not have the right, in the name of social justice, to bore people to death.    —assata shakur,    black panther in exile    In Cuba    I insert the latch into the metal buckle, pull the strap low and tight   across my lap, and am scribbling notes on a slightly waxy barf bag when   two white guys approach down the aisle. One is a collared priest and   the other, big-bellied and teetering on the last rungs of middle age,   carries a blue gym bag emblazoned with cia in gold letters. They plunk   themselves down on either side of me.    Flanked by paradox.    The Cubana Airlines Yak-42, a Soviet-built plane bound for Havana,   looks as if it got left in for a few extra tumble cycles. The plane’s   interior is a chamber of chaos: broken seat belts and floppy chairs.   Disconcerting smokelike vapors billow around my feet.    The threadbare burgundy fabric itches. I shift and try to look demure.   Why would a priest be on a flight to one of the last communist (as in,   aggressively secular) strongholds in this part of the world? And why   would anyone sling a CIA gym bag?    The Spy turns to me and offers intelligence. “Don’t worry. The vapor is   normal. These old Russkie air conditioners aren’t what they used to   be.”    “Oh . . . okay.” I respond with a half-smile, leaving only an   infinitesimal crack in the door of airplane social etiquette. The Spy   slams his foot in the door and is off: “First time? Traveling without   your husband?” The only thing I fear more than sitting next to the CIA   when trying to sneak into a country and avoid getting busted for   violating the Trading with the Enemy Act (which holds a penalty of up   to ten years in prison) is sitting next to a lonely person on an   airplane. I have no problem with loners. I just don’t like being pinned   between one of them and . . . God. Don’t know whether I’d burn faster   in Langley or Hell, but I’ve challenged their respective moral codes   enough to ignite on contact.    “Reagan gave me this gym bag in 1985,” the Spy rattles on, “and I’ve   been to a cocktail party or two with Castro,” he adds casually. Sounds   like an oxymoronic social gathering to me.    Luckily, the Spy is mostly interested in hearing himself talk, so there   is no pressure to explain my own presence on this flight. Just as well.   With no visa and six thousand dollars in cash strapped to my body, I   might raise suspicion. My hand brushes over the important bulges: cash   and passport. Ordinarily I list these as the only two essentials for a   journey, but this time the list has lengthened considerably to include   two cinematographers, a load of 16mm film, a sound person, and—my   mother. A hurricane delayed us in Cancún but eventually we made it onto   this flight, where we are now scattered about the plane in single   seats. We are finally on our way to film the pilot episode for   Adventure Divas. I wonder if my colleagues are as nervous as I am.    We tried to go legally. Really we did.    For months we begged and pleaded and touted our professional stripes,   but no one would grant us the journalist credentials we were after. We   had not foreseen the antipathy, or, in some cases, simple apathy, of   the U.S. government and the Cuban Interests Section (Cuba’s officiate   in lieu of an embassy).    Fruitless pandering to bureaucrats left us desperate and defiant.   “We’ve got to go guerrilla, through Mexico,” I eventually concluded to   Jeannie.    “Yep. No choice,” she’d agreed.    Deciding to go on the sly raised a new set of anxieties. Would we piss   off our hard-won investors? (Would we tell them?) Would we get sent   upriver or fined into bankruptcy? Would our film get confiscated on our   return to the United States?    A host of stressors have replaced the damn-the-torpedoes hubris that   accompanied the early, blushing days of our endeavor. I jot “Can   adventure really be institutionalized?” onto the barf bag.    Now and then, throughout the Spy’s monologue and my internal mantra of   worry, I turn to God, not as my savior, but because I cannot believe he   has poured himself a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Red from his shoulder   bag and is settling in to the latest issue of Vanity Fair.    Three aisles ahead are two men I recognize from the Cancún airport,   where we waited out the hurricane. When I saw the long fishing rods   wedged among their luggage at the airport, I began to eavesdrop: “Yeah,   you won’t believe it. They’re plentiful and beautiful,” the guy with   the comb-over said to his friend in the Rangers cap. “A girl so hot she   wouldn’t look twice at you in the States is all over you like a fly on   shit in Cuba.”    Fly on shit, indeed. These guys are not going to Cuba to angle for   fish, but for women who, for access to dollars and excitement, hook up   with foreign men.    The in-flight purgatory thankfully ends when the Yak, rattling like a   crateful of kindling, hits the tarmac at José Martí Airport. I walk   down a rickety metal gangway that leads into the grays and blacks of   night. The tinny taste of fear spreads through my mouth and catapults   me behind several iron curtains, and four decades back in time.   Outlines of soulless post-Stalinist buildings stretch out ahead. I feel   like I just drank a whole pot of coffee.    I drift along a wave of muted, slurry Spanish, into a customs line. All   five of us—the crew—are scattered about in different lines, warily   making eye contact. My line moves and I shuffle forward, repeating to   myself the six most important words of the shoot: No estampa mi   pasaporte por favor. Three months of intensive Spanish back in Seattle   and these are the only words that matter now. A Cuban stamp would raise   the ire of U.S. customs officials on reentry to the United States, and   the entire game might be up.    Scenes from Midnight Express flit through my consciousness as I step up   to the counter. The forbidden is seductive from afar, but when you get   right down to it, it’s spooky.    “No estampa mi pasaporte por favor,” I say, tentatively, to the customs   official, whose downcast face is in the shadow of harsh fluorescent   lights. He has dark hair and the moody, bored look hardwired into the   DNA of customs guys the world over.    His brown eyes flick to meet mine, and he stifles a little laugh.    I can’t tell if it’s my bad Spanish or just a friendly   duh-you-have-an-American-passport-so-of-course-I won’t-stamp-it   chuckle. Either way, I glide through customs unscathed and unstamped,   and quickly pass my duffle through a boxy gray X-ray machine that looks   old enough to have been used by Lenin himself.    I walk out of the José Martí terminal into the humid, windy evening,   high on the razor-sharp awareness that there is no safety net. One by   one my colleagues clear customs and meet me on the other side. Seasoned   Cubaphile Pam Yates, later dubbed “Encyclopedia Pam” for her vast   knowledge of this country, unshoulders her sound equipment bag and   flips her long, dark hair into a ponytail. New York–based   cinematographer Cheryl Dunn steps up wearing a smile and a   charcoal-colored retro raincoat and has her hand-crank Beaulieu camera   tucked under her arm. Seattle-based cameraman Paul Mailman, low-key and   talented, gently sets down a giant silver equipment box and runs his   hand through a thick crop of what could be Latin hair. Jeannie comes   through last, the thrill of having made it over this first hurdle   evident in the bounce in her sneakered step. Excitement has won over   fatigue and we revel in our success, and in that scary, wonderful state   of no return. We are smoke jumpers behind the fire lines; Sally Ride   breaching the atmosphere; a teenager who just got laid.    Just then a five-foot six-inch gringa with blue eyes, brownish-blond   hair, and a personality I’d come to identify as Woodstock warmth and   Harvard brains walks up to us. I know immediately that it is Catherine   Murphy.    “Buenas, como están?” she says with the lilt of a compañera. “It’s so   nice to meet you in person.”    Catherine is the rare American who has lived in Cuba for years, and is,   as of this moment, our new best friend. We met her through Global   Exchange, an organization that fosters cross-cultural communication and   leads tours from the United States to other countries—especially those   with whom the United States has “complicated” relationships. Catherine   has provided a font of information throughout a series of crackling   international calls routed through Mexico City (U.S. phone companies   cannot do business with Cuba).    When making a TV show abroad, it is imperative to join forces with   someone fluent in the language, as well as in the business of getting   things done. Negotiator. Point person. Translator. Person who knows   what restaurant serves after midnight, what palms might need greasing,   and how to find unfindable people. These are just some of the roles of   this critical crew member called, in television’s to-the-point   vernacular, a “fixer.” Catherine, our fixer, is relaxed and moves   fluidly in her loose cotton pants and long-sleeved blue shirt. She was   raised by her Cuban grandmother in Northern California, and has been   living in Cuba for the past several years studying the country’s   world-renowned organic farming program.    “Over here,” says Catherine, who has arranged for a rattling blue ’58   Chevy to take us to our hotel. “We’ll have to avoid certain streets   because of the flooding,” she says. The storm that grounded us in   Cancún hit Havana with a vengeance. We drive down the Avenida de Rancho   Boyeros, alive this warm blustery night with shadowy American autos   from the forties and fifties, and with East German motorcycles, but   mostly with bicycles. When the Soviet Union collapsed and Cuba lost its   chief economic sponsor in 1989, gas became a rare commodity. With that,   Castro led the Cuban people in a reverse technological revolution by   importing 200,000 bicycles from China: thus, the “bicycle revolution.”    “When the Special Period disappears we mustn’t abandon this wonderful   custom,” Castro told his people, using the spin-doctored term for the   post-Soviet era. The evaporation of the Soviets’ annual six billion   dollars of support and the continuing U.S. economic embargo has created   a vicious economic double whammy for the people of Cuba.    There are few streetlights this late at night in Havana and vehicles   appear as silhouettes, dodging into and out of recognition. We pass by   the Plaza de la Revolución and a five-story metal image of Che   Guevara—beret tipped, chin jutted—is ablaze on the side of the Ministry   of the Interior building.    “Because of the energy crisis,” Catherine says, nodding toward the   monument, “it’s only lit up on Saturday nights.”    I look at Che, the Jack Kerouac of Marxists. “It’s really important   that we get the real story, not the party line,” I say to Catherine,   anticipating the interviews in the days to come and revealing my   strange mix of compassion and wariness about Cuba.    For most of my life, Cuba has been an enigmatic pinko blip on my radar,   and Fidel an aging revolutionary stuck in a fatigued fashion rut. But   stories of a country with a spirit far from the dour lockstep reality   one might expect from a communist outpost were seeping out, and   captured my attention. The economic embargo had become a de facto   information embargo and it seemed time to explore what lay behind one   of the last tinfoil curtains. Witnessing revolution in action (and   Cuba’s—in theory, anyway—is still going on) spoke to the Adventure   Divas ethos. A major goal of Castro’s socialist revolution was to   liberate the poor and uneducated from the dire conditions created by   U.S.-backed dictator. And to liberate the poor and uneducated is to   transform women’s lives. “Cuba’s perfect. It’s political and sexy—good   for TV, right? And it’s only ninety miles away, so flights will be   cheap,” I had said, lobbying Jeannie some months ago. “Yeah, ninety   miles of political minefields,” Jeannie had responded, correctly   anticipating our battles to come.    The stakes had been raised, and a sense of urgency created, when we   decided to make the pilot without the support of a broadcaster—all of   whom had warned us away from Cuba. Now we have no choice but to get the   story right, and my comments to Catherine reflect my slightly paranoid   determination to do so.    “You know,” Catherine responds calmly, gently setting me straight, the   light of Che now just a dull flicker behind us, “some Americans think   that if you come to Cuba and Cubans complain, that is the real story,   and if Cubans don’t complain, then that’s the party line. Neither is   fair. Life in Cuba is a very complex reality with hardship and with a   lot of really beautiful, inspiring aspects as well.”    Certainly the hardship is evident. Havana looks war-torn, but here it   is decay, rather than violence, that is the nemesis. Much of Havana was   built with armadas of money that flowed through the city from the   Americas in the 1600s and 1700s. Havana’s access to transient cash   continued through the 1940s and ’50s, often controlled by the American   Mafia. At the time, Cuba was a playground for Americans with a penchant   for dancing girls and casinos. Wealthy Cubans, along with their money,   began to flee Cuba in 1959, when Castro’s nationalist revolution   prevailed, and the exodus quickened over the next handful of years as   Castro began to show his communist colors.    I try to lean out the window of the car for my first, forbidden   glimpses of Havana, but I’m jabbed by the dozen wads of twenty-dollar   bills that are strapped with duct tape all over my body. We are   officially not here, so we can’t exactly write a traveler’s check or   whip out a Gold Card. I look arthritic and feel like a coke dealer.    Twenty minutes later we are at the front desk of a modest deco hotel in   La Habana Vieja. I pull two twenty-dollar bills from our finite cache,   and hand them to the concierge. “Doesn’t feel like trading with the   enemy,” I whisper to Jeannie, as he smiles warmly at me and hands over   three skeleton keys attached to pieces of chestnut wood bearing   numbers.    “No going back now,” she says. “This is it.”    Paul yawns big, and we can all relate to his exhaustion.    A rooster’s optimistic crow quickly followed by a belligerent truck   muffler rouse me at seven the next morning. I am fully clothed,   spread-eagled on the center of a concave bed, my open mouth pressed   flush against the pilled, off-white cotton bedspread. My feet and a   thousand dollars in cash are in my still-laced Georgia boots.[quote]--The New York Times Book Review","brand":"Villard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299890778341,"sku":"NP9780375760631","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375760631.jpg?v=1767721072","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/adventure-divas-isbn-9780375760631","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}