In Thanksgiving

I missed my last post, so I hope you'll forgive my long post this time.

It is good to be home.

In the last 6 months I have been in 13 countries; Hong Kong, Korea, Mongolia; China; Great Britain, Germany, Denmark, South Africa, Madagascar, Malawi, Kenya, France, and Argentina.

In my travels, I have had some amazing experiences, humbling experiences, humorous experiences and transformative experiences. I am grateful for these experiences; yet, my skills of storytelling are inadequate to communicate the impact they have had on me.

Nairobi

Our driver picked us up at the Nairobi, Kenya airport. Our hotel, he said was just a short drive from the airport, only 3 kilometers.

Great. I was exhausted. It was late in the day and we’d been traveling all of it.

It was raining as we pulled out of the airport, onto the main road. The driver called it a highway. Two lanes. He said it ran the length of East Africa, all the way to the tip of South Africa. I’d just come from there.

We made small talk for a few minutes. He spoke very good English. Then, we stopped.

“Not to worry,” he said. “Not far to go. The rain sometimes slows traffic.”

We weren’t moving.

After 15 minutes, I noticed that some of the other drivers were getting out of their cars.

“Not to worry,” our driver said again. “We’ll get there soon.”

True to his prediction, traffic started moving, very slowly. We moved about 400 meters then stopped.

“Good progress,” he said.

“How long ‘till we get there.” I could hear my children.

“Soon,” he said, with a friendly smile.

I discovered, that night, that soon, in Africa does not have the meaning I associate with it.

As we sat, in our taxi, not moving, surrounded by other cars, crowding a very tiny highway, using both lanes to go one direction, I looked up and noticed three camels, with very weathered riders, moving slowly along the side of the road. I was fascinated. They were moving so slowly, awkwardly, swaying side to side in some kind of inefficient forward motion. Yet, they were moving. It took a while for them to catch up to us. Then, they passed us. Then, they were ahead of us. Then, they were gone. In some tribute to an ancient world, a challenge to the post-modern era, the camels and their drivers moved toward a destination I could not even begin to imagine.

Three hours later, I finally arrived at my hotel, just a short three kilometers from the airport.

Paris

I was about to board my plane from Paris, France, non-stop to Salt Lake City. The line was moving forward. I gave the gate agent my boarding pass. She looked at the boarding pass, then looked at my passport, then looked up at me. She wasn’t smiling. She then looked over at the security guard standing close and nodded.

“Come with me,” the Security Guard said, with a very heavy French accent.

“Why?” I said.

He didn’t answer. A security guard stood behind me. The first security guard led the way forward, down the jet way. Everyone in line stared at me.

The guards parted the crowd and we proceeded uninhibited down the jet way, toward the plane. When we nearly reached the plane, the guard opened the jet way door and said, “This way.” I walked through the door and proceeded down the metal stairs to the tarmac, just below the nose of the plane. A van pulled up.

“Get in,” the guard said.

“Why? Where are you taking me?”

“We have identified some suspicious materials in your luggage.”

I got inside the van and we drove away. I looked back through the very tiny rectangular window at the back of the van and watched my plane, which was supposed to leave in 8 minutes, get smaller, then disappear.

Approximately seven minutes later, the van pulled to stop, it seemed like a very long distance from my plane.

“Get out,” the guard said.

I was not thrilled with French Airport Security manners.

I got out.

“This way.”

I followed the guard into a very large warehouse. We walked down a very large, very long, very dark passage.

“In here.” The guard opened a metal door and yellow light spilled out.

Inside, I could see my tripod case sitting in the middle of a concrete floor.

“What is inside?” the guard asked me. His eyes were cynical. His words, accusing.

“Tripods.”

“Open it.”

I did. He looked inside.

“Very well. You can go.”

“That’s it?”

“This way,” another guard said. We walked back down the very long, very dark passage.

“Get in,” he said. I got in the van. He drove me back to my plane. It hadn’t left. I got out of the van, under the nose of a very large Boeing 767. It is amazing just how large those planes are, when you stand beneath them.

“Have a nice flight,” the guard said with an even thicker French accent. I walked up the metal steps, entered the jet way and boarded my plane.

San Miguel

I took Spanish in 7^th and 8^th grade. I still remember. I got an A. My Spanish vocabulary today is probably just over 100 words, because I can count to 100.

In San Miguel, Argentina, we were invited into a very humble home by a sweet family of 5, Mom, Dad, two boys and one girl, 8, 6 and 3. We were there to take pictures and record video.

They were thrilled to have us. After our interview, the Mother fixed us an elaborate meal. Empanadas and sandwiches. I’m sure they made a huge sacrifice to feed us. The Mother fixed her own children noodles. We could not say no. We would offend the family, even though they would go with very little for several days.

The more we ate, the more they smiled. I was humbled by their hospitality.

When at last we could eat no more, the Mother asked us a question in Spanish. I did not understand what she said. I was not fast enough with my Google translate app to interpret. My cameraman thought he understood, so he said, “Si.” “Yes.” Even I could have said that.

When he said, “Si,” the Father and the Mother offered us huge smiles and disappeared behind the woolen drape that separated the “kitchen” from the “dining room.”

“What did she say?” I asked my cameraman.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“What do you mean, you don’t know. You said yes.”

Just then, the mother came through the drape with two very large bowls of noodles. She placed them lovingly in front of us.

We could not say no. It was our sacrifice to fill our bellies beyond comfort while this humble family sacrificed their very sustenance to feed us.

Resistencia

I was standing in line at the Resistencia, Argentina airport. The airport is small, very much like a private airport for small planes. A young boy, with thick wavy black hair and dark chocolate eyes stood in front of me.

“Tu es Norte Americano?” He said. At least that’s what I thought he said. Or, I thought I understood—You’re from North America?

What was your first clue? I thought.

“Si,” I said. It felt good to be speaking Spanish.

The boy broke into a huge smile. His eyes twinkled. He fired off a string of sounds I could barely recognize as Spanish, none of which I could understand. That didn’t stop him. He kept going. Whatever it was he was saying, he was passionate about it. And, he was happy. I could feel laughter and light as he talked. I couldn’t help smiling. I had no idea what he was saying.

His Dad came to our rescue. His dad knew as much English as I knew Spanish. Together, with the help of my iPhone, we were able to communicate. This boy, of twelve years, loved futbol, soccer. He wanted to know if we loved futbol. He wanted to know which team we were fans of. He told us that the greatest futbol player in the world played for Barcelona and was from Argentina and also played for the Argentine National team. But, the boy said that he did much better when he played for Barcelona, much to the boy’s disappointment.

I learned a lot about Argentine futbol, even though I probably only understood about 10% of what the boy said. I also learned, that this little boy loved life. He was enthusiastic. He was passionate. One day, he told me with his brilliant smile, he would be a great futbol player.

The line moved forward. I asked the father where he and his son were going. I could see moisture well up in the father’s eyes. He said some things to me. I didn’t understand. I wrote them down in my translate app. Before I got them written, the boy and his Dad went through the security line. Later, as I sat waiting for my plane, I looked at what I had written and pressed translate.

“I am taking my son to Buenos Aires for treatments. You see, he has leukemia.”

I looked up and could see the little boy watching me from several seats away. He smiled and waved.

My eyes filled with moisture.

In all of my travels, the experiences I cherish the most are those associated with the people I have met. Everywhere in the world, people have stories to tell. Most stories, most lives are filled with adversity, much greater than anything I will ever experience. Most have far less than I will ever live without. Most have far fewer opportunities than I even recognize to take for granted. However, in all of the adversity and challenge and poverty and illness and heartbreak, I have been enlivened by the human capacity to love, to give, to serve and to press forward.

I hope that I will not forget what I have been given. I pray that I will never take for granted the love I have received. I will try to not neglect my responsibility to use the talents, gifts and blessings I have been given to bless the lives of those who come into my circle of influence.

It is good to be home.