The End is Near

It’s been almost two years. Two years since I've set foot on American soil. Two years since I said goodbye to friends and loved ones. Two years since I’ve indulged in a plate of sushi or savored the taste of a microbrew. As I begin to prepare for life after Peace Corps I spend a lot of time reflecting on the last two years and trying to anticipate what it will be like to be dropped back into American culture.

San Juan del Sur, a surf beach in Nicaragua.

_

The thought of leaving is bittersweet. Everyday now someone mentions that I don’t have much time left. They ask when I’ll be back. I don’t know. Maybe in a year, maybe in twenty. “But Choi, if you wait twenty years to come back, we may not recognize you.” All I can do is chuckle. “Something tells me you’ll be able to pick me out from all the other 6’5” white guys that roll in here speaking Ngäbere. We all laugh. (Note: The name of the tribe, Ngäbe, is pronounced know-bay. The name of their language, Ngäbere is pronounced know-bear-ay.)

_

It's worth two pics in my opinion.

_

They ask why I don’t stay. I instantly feel guilty for having the opportunity to move on to something else. Realistically, it’s an opportunity these people don’t have and probably never will. I talk about seeing family and friends again, something I feel as though they can relate to. I would like to be able to talk to them about career aspirations and hopes for more education, but it would just confuse them. I feel as though no amount of explanation can help them understand a culture and lifestyle so removed from their own. It just makes me crazy, in their eyes, when I try. They would have to experience it to believe it.

_

Concepcion, a volcano on Isla Ometepe, Nicaragua.

_

“Will you work?” They ask. “How much will you make?” I cringe at questions that make me hesitant to reveal the truth about where I come from. I try to get away with a simple “I don’t know,” but they won’t have that. I think about how to respond. From experience I know that the quantity of 1000 or more doesn’t make sense to them. (Large numbers, like the number of trees in the valley, are expressed simply as “a lot”.) “Maybe two to three hundred dollars a day.” There is lots of swearing. Confusion. One man says to another, “He must mean per month.” “Choi, you mean per month, right?” I debate about having the discussion with them about how people in the states make more money, but things there cost more. I’ve done that enough to know that it doesn’t work. “No, per day.” There is more swearing. Several men ask me to take one of their children with me. I tell them to come visit.

_

The volcano, up close and personal.

_

As hard as it will be to say goodbye to my family and friends here, to put on my backpack and walk out of the valley not knowing if or when I will return, I am anxious for what lays ahead. I constantly hear about volunteers I entered Panama with who are applying to stay a third year. Honestly, I wonder how many of them are staying for the work and how many just aren’t ready to give up the relaxed, slow pace of life. Either way, I commend them for their service. I will miss it. I know I will. But I’m ready for a change. I’m ready to work with others who I can relate to culturally. I’m ready to be mentally challenged. I’m ready for a high-paced, active life in a big city.

_

Not sure if we want to eat him or if he wants to eat us.

_

In an email a few months ago from the states, someone wrote that I must feel like I’ve changed a lot. I can’t say that I do, or at least that I would word it that way. I feel as though I have grown up a bit. My views of the world and how people think and live are different from two years ago. I feel like I have tasted poverty and hunger, and have been enlightened by the importance of relationships and how simple life can be, if you let it. However, I think I am the same goofy, fun-loving, motivated kid I was when I left. I hope that part of me never changes.

_

In his book Adrift, Steven Callahan writes,

“I know that to be well fed, painless, and in the company of friends and loved ones are privileges too few enjoy in this often brutal world.”

With that I could not agree more.

_

Howler monkeys.

_

If I may, I would like to segue for a minute to tell a story. In my travels safety is something I take seriously, but have had few problems with. There have been a few stolen items, but the responsibility was always mine. I forgot about things, only to return to find them missing. There was a night in Bogotá, Columbia, which made me uneasy. A large group of us (travelers) were walking back to the hostel from a bar early in the morning. The streets were empty. A motorcycle with two cops flashing machine guns stopped us. “What are you doing? You guys are going to get robbed.” We all looked around at the size of our group, at least 12 people. One girl chimed in, “You can see our hostel right down the street.” The cops didn’t seem to think it mattered so they escorted us back, appearing more concerned than we were. We thanked them for their help, but all talked about how unnecessary it seemed. A more recent close call on a trip with two buddies left me a bit more shook up.

_

Boys play in a park in Granada, Nicaragua.

My journal reads…

It’s our last night in Nicaragua. We’re in a surf town, at a popular local bar with dozens of backpackers. It’s getting late and the bar is closing. A group of 8 to 10 of us walk out the door and start back to the hostel five blocks away.

A man from my community with a tiger skin.

I’ve met a girl, a fellow traveler, and about halfway to the hostel we peel off the back of the group to be alone. We’re standing on the boardwalk, leaning over the railing, listening to the Pacific waves crash into the sand. A street runs parallel to the walk, with another street running off perpendicularly behind us. A streetlight floods the intersection with bright yellow light, which fades away at our heels. There are a few people farther up the beach but for the most part we’re alone.

This one is a jaguar, he says.

A few minutes pass. We’ve lost track of our surroundings. Then it happens: there is a knife in my ribs.

I turn quickly to face a Nicaraguan man who waves a knife easily seven inches long.

“Monis!” He yells, letting us know in English that he wants our cash.

The top of Panama.

My heart skips a beat. The girl, I think, I’m responsible for the girl. My right hand goes up, palm out, as if he were pointing a gun at me. My left hand grabs the girl, guiding her behind me and hopefully out of danger of the knife.

“Monis!” He yells, this time more forcefully as he waves the knife in the air.

Move slowly. Move into the light. People might be able to see. We step slowly in an arc around knife-guy off the curb, into the light of the street.

It comes again, “Monis!”

The pond, in my community, dried up for the summer.

I think about what I’ve got on me. A digital camera in my front left pocket. About $40 in mixed Nicaraguan, Costa Rican, and American currencies in my front right pocket. About $200 U.S. and credit cards in my back right pocket. My passport, worth about $3K on the black market, in my back left pocket. I can feel the girl’s body pressed against my back, her purse wedged between us.

“MONIS!” He yells, getting frustrated. Another Nicaraguan man comes walking down the street. Knife-guy calls to him to help, but he walks by as if the three of us weren’t even there.

A grass hut under construction.

I debate about giving him the money in my front pocket to see if he’ll go away. But something strikes me as odd about his behavior. His eyes dart back and forth. He keeps a foot or two between me and the knife. I think he’s nervous. I think he’s scared.

“MONIS!” He keeps waving the knife.

The finished product, with a few years of wear.

He’s scared. Don't make eye contact. Don’t push your luck but don’t give in easily. Move back. I take a few slow steps back, pushing the girl with me. Knife-guy gives up, turns and runs. We breathe a sigh of relief and book it back to the hostel, checking over our shoulders every few steps.

Back at the hostel we sit on a bench. Everyone wants to know what happened. She fills them in. I sit and steam. My heart pounds. The adrenalin races. I’m angry. I’m scared. I shake. I want to fight.

I get up to go to bed. She gives me a kiss. She says thanks. I lay on my bunk and stare into darkness. I can’t sleep. All I can do is play out 1000 what-ifs in my head. I blame the rum. I blame Scandinavia for producing beautiful women. I blame the difference in economies. I blame the difference in education. I blame the difference in upbringing. I blame myself. It’s my fault. I stopped thinking about my surroundings, late at night, after drinking, in a poor, unstable country. I blame no one but myself.

Pretty pic.

We were lucky. We walked away without a scratch and with all of our stuff. I can only hope that the experience helps me avoid future run-ins with trouble. Either way, my travel lust is undamaged, at least for now.

Thanks for reading.

Jatwaita.

Choi