Home sweet home now, sitting on the deck surrounded by green. The papaya tree has four huge green fruits, the avocado tree has doubled in size, the ivy is creeping, and the wind is swirling the rain. The wind has been omnipresent during the last days of our trip, blowing sand in our faces at the borders and trying to swerve the car off its course. We made it though, all 4,244 miles. It took me a full fifteen days with Mom as my cohort/best friend/copilot for the first week, and Flaco guiding/fighting/loving me for the rest. Our neighbor Delia just stopped by and wanted to know how it went. I’m not even sure how to explain it outside of the “we drove there, rested, and drove some more.”
It was a quick trip, but we covered a lot of ground and it challenged me in ways I still don’t understand. Why, for instance, when we stopped at the tiny home in the mountains of Guatemala and talked with the family and gave chocolate to the little boy, did I feel so sad afterward? Because I saw a family in need, of course. Because they had so little compared to my SUV filled with toys and books and food. Because they were so genuine and open, and didn’t scorn me for what I had. But I’ve seen extreme poverty before and it’s made me feel sad before and I’ve tried to understand the futility of my sadness. This felt different. Flaco felt so at ease with them, while I was completely shaken up. That’s what got to me, I think. He understood that we had more than they did but it was still okay to stop to say hi, to ask if we could talk with them, to offer gifts. They could refuse them and us, after all. They could say that they didn’t want me there. But they didn’t; they welcomed us and laughed with us.
And I felt so anxious. Maybe I was scared that they would look at me as a condescending American trying to make herself feel good by giving gifts to poor families in Guatemala. Maybe I realized that that was why I was doing it—to feel like I helped someone and, essentially, to make myself feel good. This goes back to the never-ending discussion with my friend Dan when we traveled in Southern Africa: Does altruism truly exist? Or does every good deed spring from a selfish motive?
Some would argue that selfishness is okay because it can drive people to help others. I acted selfishly, I know. I thought I would feel a sense of accomplishment for giving something to someone else. And I did feel good about it, I guess. But, stronger than that sense of accomplishment was a knowledge that that family would still suffer in their poverty despite my “gifts.” A knowledge that the chocolate would be eaten quickly and the toy lost or forgotten amidst the struggle to survive. A knowledge that Flaco and I were only a pleasant distraction for the family (if that), rather than saviors.
But, I knew this, right? What did I expect? Flaco didn’t want to save them, he only wanted to act as Santa Claus for a moment. He only wanted to bring joy. And I was so awkward and reserved that I couldn’t enjoy the small moment of giving.
But this is why we travel, isn’t it? To take ourselves out of our comfort zones and force ourselves to reflect a little bit about our motives for doing and acting. To reset our automatic response systems and to bring more thoughtfulness and self-reflection into our lives. And I feel like I did accomplish that, a little bit. I have a new mantra now, to keep challenging myself even in this familiar environment: Bring Joy. Bring Joy.
We arrived home in Sabalito, Costa Rica, at 1 am yesterday morning. Wednesday we drove from Tegucigalpa, Honduras, through all of Nicaragua, into Costa Rica. The Costa Rican border was the most difficult when a broken printer left us stranded in a white-tiled office for 2 hours until I could get the proper documentation for the car. We were there with the truckers, joking with them and grumbling with them. Flaco sat off to the side so the border officer would think I was alone and take pity on a poor girl, and I got my documents before any of the truck drivers. Sometimes it helps to be a woman.
And now, to unpack the rest of my luggage… Photos tomorrow!
Travel, for me, embodies the challenge of trying to find home everywhere one goes, of trying to create home among supposed “others” and within the “foreign.” Driving by car feels like a totally different type of travel. I have my home with me right now. I am in a (relatively) safe, comfortable environment, with my things and books and maps and Flaco. It’s all about getting from point A to point B and navigating the roads and getting through borders. In a way, it’s as if the fewer people I talk to, the more successful the trip. Talking to people means that we’re lost or the cops stopped us or we’re stopped by traffic or there was an accident. We talk with people at night and at meals, at gas stations and borders, and many times we’re too exhausted after driving all day and searching for a place to stay, that getting to know locals seems daunting.
Traveling with more time, with no set destination, with less gear and perhaps more money, we’d be able to spend time getting to know a place. A few days here and there, with lots of driving in between, seems ideal. But still, I miss the feeling of being shoulder to shoulder with the locals on buses.
But this type of travel does have its perks, and I’m getting to see countries in a completely different way. I have such a sense of Place while traveling like this. I feel as if I know where I’m located in the world, especially since we’re always staring at maps and trying to figure out the safest, quickest, most scenic route. Mountains are beautiful, for instance, but the car doesn’t appreciate them as much as I do. Roads that run along the coast are my favorite, especially when Flaco is driving and I can crane my head out the window, trying to get the best view and best camera shot. I also do get a strong sense of the friendliness of the locals when stopping to ask directions. Along the way we’ve had very few problems talking to locals and getting them to help us. Sometimes even Flaco has trouble understanding the dialects, but we still seem to find our way.
I’m sitting in front of the Nicaraguan consulate in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, waiting for Flaco to get his visa to cross into Nicaragua. In two days, we’ve crossed from Antigua, Guatemala, through El Salvador, to the border of Nicaragua and Honduras. Sunday night we slept in Antigua, a city that lives up to its reputation as a preserved antique in the midst of more modern towns. Tourists and backpackers seemingly outnumbered Guatemalans, but it was easy to see why travelers would visit and stay. The city is cobblestone roads, ancient churches, and quaint storefronts, with local markets filled with Guatemalans selling hand-dyed blankets and beaded jewelry. I wish we had had more time to stay and explore, but we were eager to get moving.
Flaco and I decided to take our chances with driving through El Salvador instead of taking the longer route around El Salvador in Honduras. I’m glad we did, considering that El Salvador was an easy five hour drive border to border, and Honduras is the most difficult country to travel through so far. Police checkpoints in almost every city are a huge pain in the ass, especially when they try to fine us for not having a fire extinguisher or reflector triangles in the car. It seems like the cops wake up in the morning, look through the rulebook to find the most obscure law, and try to get money from every driver. I’ve had three cops tell me already that they were going to keep my license until I gave them money. Somehow, though, we only have had to pay one cop $5. Flaco devised a flawless plan of chatting up the cop as soon as we’re stopped, asking directions and talking about our trip, until the cop gets so confused he forgets about the damn fire extinguisher and waves us away.
Flaco just returned with the visa, and we’re off to the border! More soon…
Oh, and for those who cast their bets, we’ve traveled 3,845 miles so far, with part of Honduras and Costa Rica and all of Nicaragua left!
