Memories of Other Places

I’ve been thinking of some of my “unexpected journeys” lately.

I’ve been thinking how life can change when stepping out of the familiar and walking life’s path with a stranger. About 10 years ago, I was presented an opportunity to go somewhere I had never been, do things I had only heard and read about, and meet people I might only envision after a National Geographic film.

It sounds dramatic, even fictional, like being stranded on an island and encountering a primitive culture or something. Sorry to say the first trip wasn’t that dramatic. I didn’t experience a plane crash on a deserted island. I didn’t fight off wild animals or savages to borrow a line from well-worn scripts. I did see dogs that weren’t very people-friendly, and met people I kept an eye on.

I saw cattle meander through urban sprawl who had the leanness of a drought. That aside the experience was both new and familiar. Parts of the culture could be experienced as close as a few minutes or a short drive. But it isn’t as real as allowing myself to be submerged in someone else’s world.

Sometimes the best teacher is necessity, and when you’re in someone else’s culture from the moment you show your boarding pass until you return, education and a willingness to learn are critical.

I will always remember my first time eating plantains, the walks through open-air markets and the importance of water, any water. On one occasion we were building a church.

The process in this part of Central America included soaking the bricks until you are ready to place them on the wall. Otherwise, the heat will dry them out and draw moisture from the mortar. So imagine dipping a cup into the barrel of soaking bricks for a drink.

The water is more red than clear. I could almost feel the grit of the bricks as she drank it. For the native, it was another day. For us visitors, the water jug was a short walk to the other side of the yard. I wasn’t excited about drinking from a barrel I can only guess its contents. I wasn’t that thirsty. But it did offer a quick lesson. For as much as we complain the water “tastes funny,” or costs too much, few of us in the North American continent have had to rely on surface water, were excited to route the first running water into a community (which, by the way, looks like a cheap back yard spigot connected to a pvc pipe) or where the seasons were flood and drought.

Markets were a new experience as well. Imagine a food court, gift shop and meat processing station centered in the same building, within the same open court. Imagine those who do have a thirst for carbonated drinks receive them as a straw in a sealed sandwich bag.

Imagine after only a couple of weeks in a place like this short phrases of your new second language start to feel like second nature. It happens.

My most recent adventure was even more of a Dr. Livingston kind of adventure. I had the opportunity to visit a place in the same region further south. The trip would include meeting some indigenous people, an island location that deliberately has reserved exposure to the mainland. After a two-hour boat ride we enter an inlet every bit like we’re the explorers.

The boats drift close to the shore as children line the hillside above us, having run from the nearby village. We at one of three islands with a chief in charge. It is an area that gives a quick look into what it might be like days into the Amazon or tagging along with Dr. Livingston. The houses were solid, but made of branches and thatch. The dirt floors were almost a compliment for the environment. Possessions were minimal, and the people seemed to be ok with it.

This was between more windshield time than I can recall, witnessing bus drivers maneuver people-movers on streets I wouldn’t drive a small SUV and living history I didn’t have time to fully digest.

The first time I went on one of these trips, the organizer said his hope is that we would leave part of our heart with the people we meet. After a few trips, I started wondering how much heart do I have to leave behind. The really isn’t an answer.

Each time I came home I wished I could recharge and repack for the next adventure. Each adventure, each chance to leave some part of me behind, seemed to regenerate enough heart I could give it away all over again.