Pirating in London

I wouldn't say that going out in public in the guise of a pirate is normal anywhere (except maybe in Penzance). Least of all in central London, where narrow, traffic-filled streets lined on all sides with stout grey edifices standing like dignified soldiers at attention characterize places like Trafalgar Square, the South Bank, Picadilly Circus. The pavements below seem to mock the stern stone facades--people of seemingly every nation and appearance, tourists and londoners, crowd and crash into each other as they stop the flow of pedestrians to snap a photo of Big Ben or some other monument, or exit one of the multitudes of designer boutiques, embassies, private businesses, or government offices to step into the rough flow of people.

The few times I have traveled through central London on foot or on bus, I have been simply overwhelmed by it. The beautiful, the rich, the elite are all here. The self-proclaimed pinnacle of Western civilization puts on its best face in this place, and seems to say to me, come join, wear gorgeous branded clothing, walk proud knowing you are one of the beautiful, here, in this place. It is hard not to succumb to its call, and even if I never gave in, I usually leave feeling slightly inadequate, as if I had never succeeded in completely engaging with progress and beauty, the progress and beauty that are thrown in your face as the only truth worth knowing, a thousand times over as you walk the distance of one city block in central London.

Two Saturdays ago I left my house dressed as a pirate, with striped tights, black dress, black leather boots, leather belt, and bandanna tied around my head. I met Kerry, also in striped tights, at St. David's station in Exeter, and we boarded a train to London. We alighted two hours later at Paddington Station and took a bus to Bond Street Tube Station, where we spied another pirate, this one carrying a large drum and a backpack. We crossed the street to wait on a corner that was sheltered by the wind. Stephan, the pirate with the drum, crossed and joined us. Every few minutes, another pirate would approach us and stand with us, waiting. Pretty soon, we were a good, sizable group of pirates, conversing, greeting those we knew or recognized, or introducing ourselves to those we did not. More pirates with drums appeared. A police officer crossed the street from the station and politely asked where we would be heading. Two pirates who seemed to know what was going on engaged with him and replied that they didn't yet know. Well, the officer responded, I think you're going to the National Portrait Gallery first. Well, one of the pirates replied, you know more than we do, eying him warily. The officer laughed jovially and said, we're traffic police, so don't worry. Some jokes and witty words were exchanged and the tension passed. We waited some more, passing out leaflets to passersby. One taxi driver rolled down his window and yelled angrily as he drove slowly by--You should support the soldiers who are fighting for you! And then the treasure map was passed out and after a few more moments of waiting for pirate stragglers, we began to move.

It wasn't hard to move, as a skillful marching samba band called Rhythms of Resistance led our rowdy band of marchers, and colorful banners sporting the words HANDS OFF IRAQI OIL were held above our heads. I and others were given shiny flyers with information to pass out, which detailed how Shell Oil and British Petroleum are benefitting from the war , and we skipped ahead of the drummers, handing flyers to passersby. Some of whom smiled as we passed or even gave us a thumbs up; others simply put up their hand, palm up, and speedily walked by without making eye contact. Some tourists, cameras ever at the ready, accompanied us for blocks and blocks as we progressed through the city. At one point, I handed one of my last flyers to an older man in a long grey wool coat standing on the corner observing us with a slight smile. He chuckled merrily as he took the flyer from my hand, and said, You're talking to the wrong person--I'm an oil executive! We both laughed, each patting the other on the shoulder as I continued on my way with the others.

We made noise as we progressed on our route, drumming irrestibly dancable riffs that had shopkeepers tapping their feet, shouting our message, emitting obnoxious pirate growls---Arrrggghhhhh!---that echoed off the grey stone buildings. At one point I mentally stopped to observe the scenario that I was part of--there were we, dressed in our most beautiful pirateness, gleefully enjoying our romp and our efforts to raise awareness about the role of Shell and British Petroleum in the Iraqi War, while highly polished people with shopping bags on their arms stopped to contemplate us, or didn't. I felt free--I was free, shouting in a place where no one shouts, growling in a place where that would be considered insane, pirating in a place where that is totally out of place.

Go to Indy Media for more photos of the Hands Off Iraqi Oil Protest in London: http://www.indymedia.org.uk/en/2008/02/392147.html

For more information about Hands Off Iraqi Oil, go to: www.handsoffiraqioil.org