There and Back

How to understand the sensation of one moment being in a place, living a certain way, experiencing a particular kind of weather, surrounded by specific peoples and environs, and then only a few hours later being in a entirely different kind of place, living an alternate way, experiencing other kinds of weather, surrounded by people and environs of another world away. Sometimes travel just boggles me: the sensation of flying someplace and being plopped in a new place where you do things completely differently I find to be disorienting always. Even so, I feel that my transistion home was smoother than usual. I think I was ready to come home. And figure out what and where that is.

But enough about that. Reflect on the trip! What was splendid? What was not?

Well, it was a trip that I would have never taken on my own. I never would have gone to Peru. Knew nothing about Cusco and had never really had any desire to see Machu Picchu or Lake Titicaca or herds of llamas. And yet I went and saw there things. And found that if you are bold you can communicate with rudimentary Spanish. And that you must be bold, because in a country of much poverty, tourists are the harbingers of money. No prices are set in stone. Bargain for taxis, for souvenirs, even for the price of the room you will spend the night in. When you have nothing left to sell, you can sell your culture. You can sing, dance, wear traditional clothing, sew your stories into tapetries. When you are a gringo tourist, your role is to buy the crotchetted llama fingerpuppet from the red-cheeked Quechua child on the street.

Guatemala was in some ways like Peru, but of course not. Every successive country felt like different stage, so Guatemala was Stage 2. The culture is Mayan, not Quechuan, but the poverty is the same. The men, women, and children knitting, painting, and weaving constantly to pile their wares in overcrowded stalls is the same. But it is not the same. We ride in school buses across the countryside, butt cheek to butt cheek squeezed on brown vinyl seats. We eat tortillas instead of rice and potatoes. And we watch from the canopy top as the Mayan city of Tikal emerges from the mist of the rainforest. As you may guess, the further I got from the Cusco, that city of cultural wholesale, the better I felt about traveling.

And it was like taking earmuffs off my ears in Belize. I could finally understand what ppl were saying and speak with them back, well as much as someone speaking English can communicate with someone speaking Belizean Criole. Fanciful beach paradises of sand and sea, palm trees and beach cabanas, tropical fish and coral reefs. Such an ethnic mix too of Black Belizeans, Mayan Belizeans, Chinese Belizeans, and Germanic Mennonite Belizeans. A small small country with kind people and gorgeous landscapes.

Finally, Mexico. Still a language I can hardly comprehend, but a culture that is not so foreign. Seeing places that I have been before or heard about by myself. The independence and joy of discovering something on my own for myself alone. But still alone and lonely too. Seeing the splendor of Teotihuacan, my favorite ruin city of the three. Basking in the Mexican celebration and love of fruit that so matches my own. And stepping into a place where the people are stewing for change and a political voice. A place where the tourists are Mexican and the children have parks devoted to them. A place of variety and differences, that cannot be experienced in simply seven days.

Meanwhile, everywhere I go I encounter Chinese people. We really are everywhere. From the Barrio Chino in Lima, to the guava sellers in Guatemala, and the restaurant owners in Mexico City. We leave our cultural stamp. The grocery stores and chifas. But still the fear of the others, the seperatism, and the reluctance to engage outside of one's ethnicity. If we participated more in the societies we lived in we would not be hated, feared, or mocked so. Or if we could at least organize amongst each other we could rule the world! [In a Chinese restaurant in Mexico City I hear the sound of a keyboard in the back kitchen. Or course, the Chinese owners would have a keyboard so that their daughter can practice the piano. You aren't a Chinese child - even in Mexico - if your parents did not make you play the piano, violin, or flute.]

And home again, where my family wonders why I would want to go to Latin America, but knows that what is important is that I am back and safe. While within me germinates a new bug. Not malaria, which I still have to take gargantuan pink pills to prevent contracting, but the desire to travel. See places, meet peoples, and eat great foods! This I can do and will do. Let's see what time and resources will allow. But Southeast Asia isn't that far away.