As the story of Panama City continues to unfold, permit me to regale you briefly with not this final chapter of Act I of a Panamerican adventure, but rather to begin with some reflections upon the very first.
Mary and I crossed the bridge outof El Paso in late afternoon. No customs, no passports, only a toll for the bridge and a “move along” kind of wave from some men with assault rifles. In a moment I had left a foreign and strange feeling city and entered a familiar town. Every Latin American city is the same in so many ways.
The roads in Ciudad Juarez were in poor shape, the buildings were crumbling slowly, there were vast lakes across some avenues, and the army could be seen here and there. Yes, all Latin American cities are the same in so many ways, and it was comforting to know that I could find a hardware store, replacement auto parts store, and a place to buy a coca cola on every street, even though I had need for none of these things at the time.
Mary remarked about how few Americans visit Mexico, even though it´s just a hop, skip, and jump away. Even when they do, it´s to visit Cancún and the beaches. Never the border towns which are so close. The Mexican culture is there in Juarez, probably more than most, but most are not interested in seeing that. Beautiful mountains and beaches and ruins and rainforests hold more splendor.
But Juarez, I was warned, is dangeous. There are drug wars there! they told me. But I saw none of this and no doubt it was my excitement about starting such an adventure that made me so fearless as I biked, in the dark of my first Mexican night, through all of Juarez.
I write to you now fully seven countries away. It is time now, as I wait for my passage to South America, that I might reflect upon it all.
I read today an article in GQ about Juarez and it showed me the Juarez I was too excited to notice. There have been over 500 murders in Juarez so far this year. 500 murders. Ponder that a moment, do a little bit of math. But it´s still not the Juarez I was warned about, still not the Juarez of the New York Times. In America know nothing about Mexico. Reading that article today, 4,000 miles from the place itself, I felt much as I had when I climbed the slums of Lima two and a half years ago and really did see.
It makes me realize that this is no voyage of discovery. I am not finding myself by stepping out of my comfy American life; I have already done that. It is just an adventure, like mountain climbing or deep sea diving. Some thrills, some great views, and a lot of hard work. And I feel that with that realization, some of the value has been lost from the trip, if it ever was there to lose. The destination, it seems, and getting to it is all that has mattered. Panamerican adventure only because I pass through the Americas, not because I have allowed them to become part of me, and that is what I thought it was for.
What has changed? Why do I not let all of America embrace me as a son, cry its thick spring-fed tears over my shoulder and tell me its dreams and nightmares? I hope I can learn again. Maybe becase now that I carry all that I own with me always, I have more to lose and guard it more carefully. Certainly, now that the bike is safein my lodgings and I wander the streets with little, I see more and I am affected more. Even in my modest hostel, surrounded by travellers, I hang close to the bike, enveloped by my own thoughts, giving little of myself.
Sweet Mexico, tonight, so far away, I hurt for you! And I hurt for not feeling it before. Again and again it is illustrated for me why I will never live contentedly, why I will always hate some part of me for cowardice if I do not give all of myself to you. I will give my life for yours. Some day I will. And so it is that I will never live in peace until I no longer live, perhaps. There´s too much work to be done, too much of myself that belongs to the world. Tonight, once more, I dedicate myself to you.
A doctor from the Sudan, once when I last felt this, before I began again to warm to the sweet scents of comfortable life, told me I was the type of person who is “across the border.” That my ideas and heart knew no borders, no arbitrary lines of demarcation. I could think of no greater compliment. But stamps in my passport are no assurance that I deserve it. It is every day that I must decide to cross the border again.
Tonight I am across the border once more, and let no thing let me amble back across it again.