As sit here, listening to the gentle drops of summer rain on the cool crisp green leaves on the Maine trees, waiting for the words to write what may be my last essay of this particular journey, the old clichés bounce about my brain—it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. It’s an odd thought after having so many different destinations over the past six months. Of course it’s not the destination, yet on this adventure the various destinations have been the strands of string that bound the journey together.
Memories are a funny thing, fresh and sharp, colorful when new. Yet as they fade into the silent stillness of black and white drifting further away from the present, they gain a golden hue rimmed with whatever emotion accompanied the images that float through our minds. So many wonderful faces, light in their eyes, laughter dancing in their cheeks.
I’ve failed you in some regards my dear friends. It has been to long since I’ve written down the rich experiences of the past two months. So full of events and experiences I’ve lost the words to capture them. Of course, here I am attempting to relive them and share them with you. For, I’d have never made it there and back without the love left behind and held dearly along the way.
Mexico was full of children’s laughter, peals of golden bells and silver smiles. The warmth and love of the people for life, worn carefree on their faces and in their food. Learning how to say, I’m full, nearly impossible.
Mexico was a blur. Arrival was a mixture of excitement, anticipate and fatigue—we arrived at 2 am after nearly 30 hours of travel to sleep on a gym floor. Sleep swiftly followed our travel weary limbs embraced by the stiff floorboards and blankets provided by host families.
Our first morning was crisp, a cloudy cool—so unusual for Northern Mexico—strange and foreign to us still, the idea of heat and a desert wind that we would soon discover could be stifling and liberating. We spent the morning getting acquainted with our Mexican tour manager, Armando, a small, energetic and colorful fellow with reticular white-rimmed glasses, impeccable yet exotically dressed and jet-black hair. He informed us of the various security measures we’d be following in a few of the cities where the “drug conflict” was in full swing.
We’ve been pulled over several times over the course of our tour here—men with weary worn eyes and faded black polished rifles—checking our bags for weapons and bombs—although they quickly pass us along after a brief glance. Later that morning we’re introduced to the Mexican love of music and their beautiful giggling children so enthusiastic and energetic in their acceptance of our love.
We also learned that the Mexico as seen in the media or as portrayed in Cancoon “SPRING BREAK!” is far removed from the beauty and love that continually surrounded us.
Our weeks were full, painting murals of hope and peace, refurbishing playgrounds, and teaching workshops about identity and peace in classrooms. Our travel days were filled with hot busses, random stops on the highway, broken wheels, walks to corner stores along dusty broken sidewalks with cat calls for the blond Belgian and Dutch girls I’m walking with and so many other random wonderful adventures-- primarily shared sitting next to friends exchanging stories and ideas, watching movies and dreaming.
The landscape is massive, the skies drifting for ages while wire like trees reach for the sun, strangled by their blacken leaves… orange dust and gray rock dominate the skyline broken by jagged boxed mountain tops… keep in mind of course, this is northern México vastly different from the tropical south.
We set up in massive arenas and tiny theatres, performed on islands and in dreary heat… Sheets of sweat, the droplets doubling up on one another dribbling down our foreheads, stinging eyes, drenching shirts—115 degree heat, dancing on steaming tiles, new calluses on toes and heat blisters on heels... We zip lined over gorges and walked over suspension bridges…
That, in a vague sense, was Mexico.
As I’ve said, perhaps one or two too many times… there are no words, to describe the last days I shared with my cast. These people, once strangers, now brothers and sisters—some of whom I may never see again, have been engrained in my life for the past six months. And time in Up with People is a funny thing—a day is a week, a week a month and a month a year—this shared experience binds you together unlike anything I’ve ever known.
While I miss them all dearly. Its good to remember, those who have been in our lives are interwoven in every action, every project and event we engage in. We can never be alone or separated from those we love.
