Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Travel

In September 2019, I boarded a plane with a one-way ticket from LAX to Ho Chi Minh City. 

My plan was to use Vietnam as a base and travel around Asia for a year. That world was open to me. I had friends in Taiwan, Bangkok and China whom I could visit. I had never been to Malaysia or Indonesia, so Kuala Lumpur and Bali were options. On the top of my list, however, was Japan. I wanted to see the crowded megacity of Tokyo, the majesty of Mount Fuji, and the soft beauty of the sakura festival in Kyoto. 

I spent the rainy season in Da Nang, where I had settled, planning the trip with a fellow traveler I had met. We had tickets to Studio Ghibli, rail passes and flights for March 8, 2020. Of course, news of the new coronavirus originating in Wuhan, China had already begun to filter in, but we were going to Japan and not China. That wouldn’t be a problem, right? 

Once Italy began shutting down cities, and then the entire country, we had a decision to make:  scrap the dream trip we spent weeks planning or take the risk and go anyway. 

My intuition told me not to go. Although it was still early on and we didn’t know the full extent of how contagious or deadly the disease was, something told me it was a bad idea. This turned out to be the best decision of my life. Vietnam closed its borders on March 22. Our return ticket was for March 24th.  We would have made it to Japan, but we would have found ourselves stuck there with no way to return to Vietnam.

Then began a different kind of adventure —figuring out how to live in a foreign country during a global pandemic. As the severity of the virus became clear, many of my friends and family expected me to return to the States immediately. However, it turns out that a developing country with an authoritarian government was one of the best places in the world to be. 

While the citizens in the United States refused to wear masks and argued that a shutdown was untenable, the people and government of Vietnam took a different tack. In addition to refusing visas to tourists for the foreseeable future, Vietnam shut down domestic travel and closed non-essential services such as massage parlors, karaoke rooms, bars, dine-in restaurants, beauty salons and shopping malls. Restaurants were open for take-out and delivery and, of course, supermarkets remained open. Public spaces, including the beautiful beach I live next to, were shut down. Masks were required in public and gatherings larger than 10 were discouraged, and even then with a two-meter distance between.  

And it worked. Unlike the U.S., everyone complied with the guidelines and our first lockdown was only three weeks long. After a few weeks of no community transfer, everything opened back up.  While the world was falling apart, we were able to eat at our favorite seafood restaurant, celebrate a birthday at a karaoke parlor, get a haircut and a manicure and swim in the ocean. As the deaths in the U.S. rose past 200,000 and the infection rate reached one million, we were able to forget there was even a virus to worry about. 

People in Vietnam did not protest because there is no system for protesting. The government makes the edict with no input from the populace. There is no town hall meeting; there is no petition to sign; there are no representatives to call. As an American, this type of authoritarian government grates against my trained sense of freedom and recourse for redress of wrongs. However, during a pandemic, the authoritarian government handled the pandemic beautifully. 

It was more than a government order, though. The Vietnamese people I spoke to took the virus 100 percent seriously from day one. It may be that they had some experience with similar viral outbreaks (SARS in 2002 and Avian flu in 2013). There is a genuine understanding that social distancing, closing businesses and wearing masks work to help the spread of disease. There is genuine buy-in for the process. It also may be that the communist history of Vietnam created a different culture. In contrast to American individualism, Vietnamese culture emphasizes community. There is an understanding that everyone needs to do their part to ensure the health of those around them. 

As the virus raged on, my friends continued to ask me when I was returning to the United States. It was hard to explain that I was far safer here than I would be there. It seemed ridiculous to return from a country that was COVID-free to a country that could not agree that there was even a pandemic. 

A second wave hit Vietnam in July 2020 and it recorded its first death. (As of May 2021, there have been just 35 COVID-related deaths.) The second lockdown was more strict in Da Nang, as the outbreak originated here. We were given tickets for the market to avoid crowding and all restaurants, including take-out and delivery, were closed. It was much more emotional as well, as I watched the social upheaval and wished that I could participate in the many peaceful Black Lives Matter protests.  

We were in lockdown for a total of six weeks. Six weeks of my own cooking and my own company, listening to podcasts and stress drawing. Even so, I would gladly trade six weeks of complete lockdown for months of complete freedom than the continual half lockdown the United States went through for a year.

By the fall of 2020, life began again in Vietnam and everything reopened. Vietnam is a microcosm of life after the pandemic. I know when COVID cases pop up somewhere in the country not from the news, but by the sudden wearing of masks in public. People resume their life as before, but are cautious and ever ready to shut it down if necessary. 

At the beginning of 2021, I felt safe enough to travel around the country. I took a week-long motorbike ride along the Ha Giang loop in the north, visited some friends in Ho Chi Minh City, and took a retreat in quiet Da Lat. 

With the new administration and the efficient roll-out of the vaccine, it seems that I could safely return to the States this summer. However, with the increase in anti-Asian violence, staying in Vietnam still seems like the safer bet. 

Looking back, I envy that woman who boarded that plane in September 2019. She lived in a world full of possibilities and with so few restrictions. As an American, the only barrier to any destination was a lack of time or money. It seems now that international travel will never be the same. Even with the talk of vaccine passports, there will still be many countries that will be off-limits, require testing and quarantines, and have limited activities available. There is no going back.

Adventure

How I Avoided (Most of) the Pandemic in Vietnam

It was my girlfriend Liv’s 21st birthday. Because I have ADHD, I naturally had forgotten to get her a present. That day I was meant to be meeting her to spend an evening drinking cocktails at overpriced bars. Instead, I spent a guilt-fueled morning gathering a collection of token presents for her, so she wouldn’t instantly remind me that I was the worst boyfriend ever. The problem was that none of the presents was quite “right.” After all, this was her 21st. I had to get her something spot-on. 

Fast forward six months to the summer we were traveling through China. On one train ride, I had been flicking through a Lonely Planet travel guide when suddenly I saw my way out of the predicament of the present. 

We’d just finished the summer teaching in Chinese classrooms and earning our TEFLs (Teaching English as a Foreign Language). Then a few weeks traveling the big cities: Shanghai, Chengdu, Xi’an.

By the time we got to Beijing, it was time to spring my surprise. I snuck out of the hostel early and spent the morning alternating between the fire that was the Beijing smog and the frying pan of Beijing’s smelly, crowded subways. I returned an hour or so later, feeling both lighter due to the pride that filled me and heavier for all the camping gear I carried. 

I sat at the entrance to the hostel and got chatting with a traveling group. They were heading to Shanghai that day and had some weed on them. Do I want to buy it? They can’t risk taking it through the airport-style security you must go through to get on China’s high-speed trains. 

Weed is especially rare in China. So, what do I say? “Sure!” This is a camping trip, after all. 

I return to our room to explain to Liv what her birthday present is—a camping trip on the Great Wall of China. She asks me if it's legal to camp on the Great Wall. Not exactly, I explain. But it’s 13,000 miles long; they can’t patrol it all, right? 

If you ever go to Beijing and visit the Great Wall, you’ll probably go to Badaling. It’s the part of the Wall that you see in tourist pictures, all rebuilt and shiny new, prepared for your tourist photos. That was not where Liv and I went. We went up to Gubeikou—via six hours of bus rides with three changes. We’re trying to avoid being caught, remember?

So, we get to Gubeikou and to the gate that admits entry onto the Wall. No other English-speaking tourists must ever make it this far because the admittance attendant didn’t have anything to say to us other than “closed.” However, we hadn’t come this far to turn back now. Plus, I was still trying to redeem myself for forgetting my girlfriend’s 21st birthday. 

As I said, it’s a big fucking wall. So, we simply walked away and began to climb again. 

An hour and a half later, we had hiked high enough away from the small village below us and up onto the Wall. Our tent was made and basecamp was established for the night. Liv offered me a wink and a wry smile that said “Well done, you.”

At this point, I pulled out the weed. It was pre-rolled so no messing about. We smoked and smoked and watched as the sun set. At that moment, we were a little pearl in a giant oyster of a Chinese summer adventure. 

It is remarkable how quickly a picture-perfect scene can be so quickly disrupted by the eerie, unnerving descent of nightfall. For weeks, we had taught in classrooms and toured the big cities. Now, up here on the hills of remote China, it was quiet. Too quiet. Unnervingly quiet. There wasn’t even a dog howling at the moon. 

“What was that?” said a startled Liv.

I brushed it off. “Nothing, of course, just some animal.” 

But the sniffing grew louder. Without any light whatsoever, it was too easy to let the shadows play with our imaginations. 

“James,” Liv said, “What animals do they have in Northern China?”

We had Chinese SIM cards, so we quickly loaded up Google to settle our nerves. No such luck. Our search revealed that they have both bears and wolves in this part of China. Now we’re panicked.

We rush into the tent. Inside it, I try to collect myself. Liv has lost her head. She’s sharing her location to her group chat and telling her friends to make sure her mum knows she loves her. I interrupt that there’s no time to think about that now. Sending those kinds of messages would somehow make this whole nightmare more real.

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I check? Surely this isn’t how I’m going to go? To a fucking bear on the Great Wall out in the middle of nowhere? I’m not the live-fast-die-young type. Let me grow old in a care home somewhere. 

“Liv. What if we get outside of the tent?”

“If it is a bear, what if we go out?”

Liv looks at me like I have lost my mind. (At this point, there’s a good chance that I have.) If it merely smells us, it might come to investigate. But on the other hand, if it sees us, then it might turn and leave us alone and go hunt some smaller prey. Between us, we can look big in the dark, right?

She leans forward and says I should go first. We find the time to rock-paper-scissors. My heart is banging.

I lean forward. Liv lets out a scream with anticipation. I turn around to shush her sternly, fully aware I have no idea whether a scream makes a situation like this better or worse. There is no precedent for the process of my decision-making. Every reaction is now a hot mess of instinct, conditioning and my brain scrambling to piece together any scrap of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls that I’ve caught over my life.

The sniffing grows ever louder. It’s screaming in my head over against the absolute silence from a petrified Liv in the corner.

I lean for the zip. I take several attempts to grasp it because my hand is shaking so much. Eventually, I manage to steady my nerves long enough to take hold. Do I do it slowly or all at once, like a Band-Aid?

Band-Aid. Go! Zip open. I clamber out. My best foot forward. Or kind of forward. It's shaking so much that it oscillates six inches either way with every inch that I creep forward.

I see what’s going on and my brain pieces it together even though it’s forgotten all other functions. I scream. Liv practically backflips in fear. She has no idea what I’ve seen.

The weed’s got us way too high. I still hear the sniffing still but it’s not a bear or a wolf. 

It’s a rabbit. A big rabbit I must say, but a rabbit, nonetheless.

I turn to her with a huge smile on my face. I can’t even explain at first. God, it really is the biggest kind of rush thinking you’re going to die. Now don’t get me wrong. At this point, I realize I never was in any actual danger, but I thought I was. I genuinely believed I was going to die and so my nervous system acted accordingly. Blood had drained away from every non-essential area and was coursing through my body. I mean coursing. My heart was throbbing right into the underside of my ribcage.

I started to laugh and I just. Could. Not. Stop. 

Liv looked angry, as if she were going to kill me. Still laughing, I leaned in and kissed her. It was meant to be a quick kiss. A reassuring kiss. However, the combination of adrenaline and relief, it turns out, makes for a potent aphrodisiac.

I tried to pull away, but she pulled me back in. She kissed me hard. I could feel her breath panting. There was something in her breath, a heavy breath outward, the kind that would usually be rude, right in my face. She opened her eyes but didn’t look up when I pulled away.

A switch in my mind just flipped. My heart hadn’t slowed down from the scare, but my nervous system managed to spare me just a little blood for one essential purpose. And so it went—the hottest, most passionate, most animalistic sex that I ever had. There we were, young, alive and fucking on the Great Wall of China. 

Goosebumps

NSFW

Best of 2021

I Thought I Was Going to Die and Then Had the Best Sex of My Life on the Great Wall of China

I have always lived amidst the hustle-bustle of cities during my whole life: a fast-paced existence where everyone remains in a hurry throughout the day. 

And then last year, when lockdowns and travel restrictions were about to be put in place, I made a spontaneous decision to move to a small secluded village in the hills of Dehradun, India. The village is in Uttarakhand state of India, which lies on the southern slope of the Himalayas: the climate and vegetation vary greatly with elevation. 

I didn’t plan much about the journey—or how I’d get settled there. And now I have been living here for the last 14 months, and with days passing by, I am more and more convinced that I'll live my whole life here. 

After I reached it, I learned that the population of the village is just 58. When I arrived, the person who was head of this village came to ask me why I had come. (The pandemic had just started and information about it was scarce.) After some more questions, the head of the village offered me a place to live. Though I was a complete outsider, they were quite welcoming toward me.

In the first week, I discovered that the people of this village practice permaculture— the development of agricultural ecosystems intended to be sustainable and self-sufficient. It is an integrated design system that's modeled on nature. The design of their farms saves the villagers a lot of work, energy and eliminates waste. The village has a renewable energy infrastructure, with biogas and solar panels.

I work in the IT sector and all of my work is remote. In the last 14 months, I have explored so many new things, like organic farming, milking cows, running and maintaining a biogas plant, and exchanging fruits and vegetables with wheat and rice from other villagers. I go trekking in the lush green hills beside the waterfall. I am involved in local festivals and rituals. Because it’s very far from any city area, there’s hardly any access to any public transportation. 

I've also learned how to cook some of the local cuisines. I've participated in some of the local music festivals. People are quite lively here. Villagers are hard-working but are never in a rush. From these people, I am learning how to appreciate all that one has, and to do everything with all your heart.

Till now there hasn’t been a case of COVID in the village, mostly because hardly any individual from the outside comes here. And the villagers hardly ever go to the city areas. The village is self-sustainable. But we are now quite aware of the outside situation, and how the pandemic is raging in the country, so the villagers have increased the use of medicinal plants in food and drinks, which they believe are immunity boosters for the body. 

Though all the families have access to the internet here, most of the time people spend outside in the fields—away from screens. Younger kids are mostly homeschooled. There is an emphasis on reading. While having dinner with one of the families, I discovered that they spend around an hour reading together daily or watching documentaries before retiring to bed. And it’s true with almost all the 11 families.

I hope to stay here for another year at least. I want to explore more of the culture. I have befriended some younger kids, so I would like to spend some time playing cricket with them.

For the past 14 months, I've been living close to nature in a pollution-free environment. I have improved my health, both physically and mentally. I have become more productive in my work. 

I never could have imagined that coming and living in a very small, secluded village would change my life.

I Moved to a Remote Indian Village During the COVID-19 Pandemic

Skydiving is one of the biggest rushes that you can experience. It takes the human body through one hell of a rollercoaster of emotions: anticipation, anxiety, fear, excitement, adrenaline, relief.

I’m a certified skydiver, with an A-level license from the United States Parachute Association. I’ve skydived dozens of times, both solo and in groups. I’ve loved skydiving all throughout my life. I’ve always believed that chances of accidents in skydiving are low because of the many precautions in place to reduce risk, and the very high safety standards for all the equipment professional skydivers use. Accidents are most likely to happen during advanced maneuvers; typically “normal” skydiving results in even fewer issues.

In 2016, I meticulously planned a month-long solo trip around Europe, ending in Interlaken, Switzerland, a place where I’d always wanted to skydive. I’d been a professional instructor for four years, and although I hadn’t jumped in two and a half years, I wasn’t nervous. I felt like I hadn’t taken a break at all. I couldn’t wait.

Tucked in an alpine valley between the glistening mountain lakes of Thun and Brienz, Interlaken is ideally situated for exploring the Swiss Alps. Surrounded by the snowy mantles of Harder Kulm, the Eiger and the Jungfrau—arguably Europe’s most beautiful mountain—it’s the gateway to Bernese Oberland, as well as a popular vacation resort in its own right. I wanted to see the Matterhorn—which I knew from the logo for Toblerone, the iconic Swiss chocolate brand—for myself. 

As I flew over this gorgeous landscape in the front of a Twin Otter prop plane, facing my six-foot-six English jumpmaster (a goofy and entertaining guy), I looked out the window and admired the view. When the light turned green and it was my turn to jump, I shuffled to the door, handed the jumpmaster my static line, gave him the biggest shit-eating grin and jumped straight out. 

The wind roared in my ears. My harness jerked me around. With my arms overhead, my knees bent and my feet pressed together behind me—so that I looked like an upside-down banana—I leveled out before pulling my parachute. 

Ten long seconds after I pulled the cord, the canopy of the parachute opened partially. The connecting ropes trailed out and quickly snarled up. I struggled to untangle them, but I couldn’t. I was falling fast. Then the automatic activation device, which is a small electronic device that attaches to your body and monitors the rate of descent and altitude, automatically deployed the reserve parachute, but its ropes wound up tangled in the main parachute too. After several more failed attempts at untangling myself, I started to panic. 

It was the most terrifying minute of my life. As I plummeted toward the ground from 2,000 feet in the air, the faces of my family members appeared in front of my eyes. I was certain I was about to die. I was going so fast: How could I possibly survive something like that? I continued plummeting, with two parachutes on my back, for what felt like forever. Until that moment, I’d never really appreciated my life. I had only taken it for granted. I was dropping at speed, but I had so much time to think. It may seem obvious, but all that was going through my head was, “I really don’t want to die.” 

Just before impact, I closed my eyes, holding the image of my parents in front of me. And then I landed with a thud. 

I’d survived. How? I felt so much gratitude to still be alive. My mind raced with thoughts about everything I wanted to do with my life. 

I was in the middle of a field. I was absolutely conscious and in instant pain. The grass surrounding me was green and shiny. I was just meters away from a concrete surface that would have killed me for sure if I’d landed there. I could feel—and hear—my broken rib bones. My mouth was full of blood. My whole body was in the most intense pain I’d ever felt. I knew I had to try to get help, but there wasn’t anybody around. I tried to move and realized that I couldn’t feel anything below my waist. I couldn’t crawl or even lift my hand. It was horrible. A few minutes before I’d been completely fine. Now I was paralyzed and might be that way forever. 

After a short while, two people rushed towards me. Seeing my intense pain and the blood everywhere, they immediately rang an air ambulance. Soon I was being airlifted to the hospital. The ride was excruciating, and I slowly lost consciousness. On the outside, I had barely a scratch, but I had broken my rib cage and shattered my teeth. My hands were broken in three places. I had suffered a spinal cord injury.

By the next day, my brother and sister had flown in from India. I broke down crying beside my brother. I didn’t know how I would be able to cope with life in a wheelchair. I loved traveling so much. And forget about skydiving—there was a chance that I wouldn't even be able to walk properly again. 

After a couple of months in a Swiss hospital, I was allowed to fly back to India with my family, where I stayed in the hospital for another five months, doing physiotherapy every day to try and improve what little movement I had. Somehow, with my daily efforts and practice making small movements very slowly, I started to see improvement. Over the course of the following year, I began to stand on my feet, then move my knees, then eventually my legs. It was slow, and initially very painful, but my condition improved a lot. I couldn’t believe the improvement. I reckon it was a mixture of practice, patience and luck. Then miraculously, one day I was able to walk on two crutches with my physio’s help. 

The lasting effects of my accident are permanent, though. I still walk with a limp and I get tired easily. I still don’t feel any sensation from below where I was injured. I face difficulty in controlling my bladder and bowels. With all the support I received from my friends and family, I managed to accept the reality. Limping, digestive pain and difficulty in controlling my pee became my new normal.  

Since the accident, my perspective has changed a lot. I feel more gratitude toward my body: My eyes with which I can read, my hands with which I can write, my senses with which I can still smell and taste. Yes, I still miss the thrill of skydiving, and the adrenaline rush of being in the air, but I reckon myself to be lucky to be alive and to have my friends who are my greatest support system. It’s a beautiful life, and I could easily have lost it.

A Skydiving Accident in Switzerland Changed My Life

Drugs & Alcohol

Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

LGBTQ Voices

Motherhood

Earth Day or any day, let's celebrate our planet. 

Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

New Beginnings

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

Money

The Doe's editorial team takes a look back at the year and shares its favorite narratives.

I had just finished a year at the University of California, Davis studying American history as an exchange student from Scotland. Though I had been to talks by the likes of Cornel West and other inspiring civil rights leaders, historians and academics, my real education was about to begin with a three-week tour of the Deep South. 

It was the summer of 2016, and Barack Obama had just six months left of his presidency. Donald Trump was in the running for the Republican nomination, but the majority of America was still in its naive phase of considering his candidacy a joke. Below the surface, however, were the simmering flames that the world would later see fanned by Trump’s divisive and vitriolic hate speech. But all that was to be unveiled much later. 

For that summer, I was preoccupied with getting my bearings from one Greyhound bus station to the next. Much to my parents' horror, I was forced to couch surf with random strangers during my trip due to a shortage of hostels. During my first week in the South, I turned up at the door of a young white couple in Birmingham, Alabama. Both were extremely friendly and immediately confirmed all preconceptions of Southern hospitality, which I’d long heard so much about. 

They welcomed me into their home, laid out a blow-up mattress for my two-night stay and cooked a beautiful meal for us to enjoy together that evening. It was fascinating getting to know the couple who, like me, were in their early 20s but who clearly had chosen a very different path than me. While I was living my best life as a single 21-year-old touring America, they had recently married after dating in high school and excitedly informed me they were expecting a baby in a few months’ time. 

The childhood sweethearts had grown up in Birmingham, lived there their entire lives and were now proud owners of a gorgeous Southern home, intending to live out their days there. They spoke lovingly of their childhoods spent in the area and the many friends with whom they’d kept in touch, laughing that one particular close friend now even works as the town’s sheriff. Then, I opened up about my interest in civil rights history, the reason that I had ventured into the South. 

Upon hearing about my intentional trip, they were curious that I, a white guy from the U.K., was so fascinated by the Black freedom struggle. They seemed cautious to talk openly about their politics, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that they weren’t going to be voting for Hillary Clinton in the upcoming election that November. They were not fans of Obama, either, and seemed to belabor the point that he made everything a “race issue” and had only made racial tensions in the U.S. worse.

The husband, who worked as a construction worker, admitted that many of his older white male colleagues would make discriminatory comments about their Black co-workers behind their backs. Though extremely courteous to Southern white women, some of his older colleagues would refuse to open the door for a Black woman, he revealed. 

“Their views are quite old school,” he said, before quickly adding, “I would never act like that, but things are still quite segregated down here.” Then, he continued. “When you come to think of it, it’s not been all that long since the days of Jim Crow. It was in our parents’ lifetime.”

The next morning, I expressed my interest in visiting Birmingham’s 16th Street Baptist Church, which was famously bombed in 1963 by a white supremacist, killing four African American girls. I was surprised to learn that neither the husband nor wife had ever set foot in such a historic site. But still, the pair agreed to accompany me, and we traveled the three miles downtown to get there. 

The couple remained rather quiet as we toured the sacred building and listened to our guide describe the events of that fateful day. “I felt really emotional the whole way through the tour,” I said as we walked down the church steps an hour later. 

“Yes, it was really touching. There was so much I didn’t know,” the wife admitted.

“I don’t really remember hearing about that at school,” her husband added. “I was just so fascinated by America’s battle for independence in my history class.”

I remarked about another site I was desperate to see while in Birmingham and was surprised that the pair suggested accompanying me again. 

We walked a minute across the road to the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, a modern museum that has illustrated Birmingham’s central part in the civil rights movement since opening in 1992. 

The pair had been inquisitive up until the point of reaching the entrance of the building, when we were asked for a $15 entry fee. At that point, the husband made a comment under his breath, asked whether I wanted to stay (I did) and stormed back to the car with his wife trailing closely behind him. I stood there dumbstruck, realizing that his appreciation for his nation’s civil rights history had reached its limits. 

I said goodbye and walked into the entrance of the museum and was greeted by a beautiful elderly Black woman wearing a badge that stated, “Nobody is born a racist.” She lovingly welcomed me, giving me some further information about the self-guided tour and directing me toward the exhibition rooms.

I walked around the quiet rooms, moved by the stories of freedom fighters in the movement who endured such terror, discrimination and violence all in the name of racial justice. I couldn’t help but think about my host’s reaction and felt disheartened that someone could have such contempt for the courage and sacrifices made by those who fought to make his country more just and fair. It hadn’t taken much to bring to the light of day his true attitudes about race, despite what he liked to think and wanted me to believe.

I was later reminded of this when I was confronted by a similar reality in my own country during the 2020 Euro championship football final. In this instance, three of England’s Black players had missed three penalty shoot-outs, which provoked a tsunami of racist hatred lying just below the surface. It was a heartbreaking but arguably not at all surprising turn of events. During my trip to Birmingham, I couldn’t have known at the time but the incident provided an insight into many white Americans’ true feelings about racial justice, which lay just below the surface, so often hidden for fear of being labeled “racist.”

All was to be revealed in November later that year when Donald Trump was elected on a campaign that made a scapegoat of the “other” and sought to return the nation to a time when white Americans, particularly men, exclusively held first-class citizenship. This, of course, would lead to the chaotic scenes of January 6th some four years later when American democracy was so blatantly in peril on the world’s stage. 

My encounter with my hosts that day marked the first time I realized how precarious the notion of “racial tolerance” remained in America’s supposedly post-racial society. I had studied the research and theories of leading historians in American history, but all the textbooks and seminars in the world could never have taught me more about the true state of race relations in America or what was to come.

Traveling Around the South Taught This Brit a Whole Lot About Race in America

When most Americans travel to escape their day-to-day life, they bury themselves in exclusive resorts, world-class dining and exotic locations. My first international trip, on the other hand, took place in an impoverished area of the densest city on Earth. For four months, I lived with an urban poor family whose income was $20 per day. I experienced metropolitan Manila as few Americans ever will: from the fringes of society, where I learned valuable lessons about materialism, gratitude, resilience and where to find fulfillment. 

Officially, I was a tourist, at least according to my visa, but my time in the Philippines was not a vacation. I arrived there to complete a requirement for my undergraduate degree: to live, study and volunteer for a semester in an urban poor international location. I chose Manila because of the tropical weather and my vague familiarity with the culture, which came via a Filipino mentor and friends.

The school I was enrolled with had no official presence in the country, save for a site facilitator. This person was a local who arranged housing and an internship. The site facilitator organized a legally dubious living arrangement, where I sublet a room for $150 per month (about 7,000 Philippine pesos) from a family of five. 

The home I lived in had been converted into two rental spaces. My host family occupied one section, containing a tiny living room, two bedrooms, one bathroom and a kitchen that could fit one person at a time. The family could only afford one bedroom, so the other remained empty. The property owner left for his familial province before finding another tenant, which made the room available to me. I technically had no legal right to rent the room from my host family but was given no other choice. 

The room was sparsely furnished: a single twin bed and one small, unfinished wood desk. The floor was smooth concrete with a burgundy coating. I slept on a pancake mattress beneath a window without glass or a screen, giving easy access for mosquitos to feast on my blood. The ceiling was split at the center and transformed into an inverted geyser during daily rain showers. I did not have hot water, clean drinking water from the faucets, access to a refrigerator or Wi-Fi. I struggled with the inaccessibility to amenities I had taken for granted.

Stripped of the usual comforts, I questioned what made my life enjoyable. This dilemma framed my time in the Philippines, spurring a painful revaluation.

My experience with locals was a big factor in my transformation. Thanks to all of the charity television commercials I’d seen portraying the poorest people in the world as also the unhappiest, I expected to see defeated faces. It was a shock to see a jubilant populace. Those I befriended lived in conditions unfathomable for most Americans. Many were squatters who lived in makeshift homes on land they did not own and lived in constant fear of eviction. Their homes were built with corrugated metal and thin plywood. Few could access clean drinking water. Yet the crushing weight of poverty failed to exterminate their dreams or joy. I mostly remember bad puns, jokes about how I couldn’t handle the humidity and impromptu dancing and singing. I learned that economic models only predict people’s material disposition but fail to capture the radiance of the human spirit. 

Although I was floored by their determined positivity, poverty still inflicts a toll. I recall brimming with tears over dinner one night as my host mother—a strong woman in her late 40s—talked about her eldest child’s goal of becoming a doctor. She admitted that such lofty ambitions were expensive, and they could not afford the schooling. It broke my heart to watch a parent soberly explain how unlikely it is her child will achieve their dreams.

To have poverty’s devastating effects explained over a dimly lit dinner table by a mother struggling to make ends meet made it tangible. I felt the finality in her words and was confronted with the monster lingering at the end of optimism: defeat. The reality that snuffs out dreams and robs ambition. Despite feeling the weight of her fears, I understood that I could never completely grasp her struggle.

I carried the privilege of being a temporary visitor. After just four months, I would return home to Southern California —a wealthy enclave in one of the richest countries on Earth. Compared to the people I built relationships with in Manila, I was the one percent.

Returning home, I struggled to integrate my experiences. The enormity of inequality stunned me. It felt unfair that my Manila friends would likely never have the access to wealth, amenities or infrastructure the way I do. Countering those thoughts was the understanding that my friends were making the most of life. That dissonance uncovered a critical truth: Life may present immovable obstacles, but fulfillment can be had anywhere.

As a younger millennial living in fraught times, I often think about what brings my life fullness. I learned long ago that wealth is only a part of the answer. While wealth alleviates stressors that make life unenjoyable, I’m convinced that fullness of life cannot be achieved solely through economic means—there is fulfillment attainable only through intangible things that are harder to count. 

Squatting in the Philippines for four months with an urban poor family proved that to me. I felt it walking through flooded streets with my friends after a trip to the mall, in conversations after dinner with my host mother, in the compassion extended when I sought help from strangers. Manila is many things. For me, it was an awakening.

Living as a Squatter in Manila Was an Educational Experience

Digital nomads are all the rage these days, and many find their way to Cusco, Peru. 

It’s a beautiful, complicated city, and I love it. I don’t love how so many of us expats take advantage of the privilege we have as foreigners here and how little we integrate into the local community. 

Many of us move to Cusco speaking little, if any, Spanish. We certainly don’t speak Quechua, the first language of most people who live in Cusco. We make friends with other foreigners and patronize restaurants with English menus. We look down on tourists because we live here, even though we know as little about the local culture as the tourists who only visit for a few days.

Language is not the only thing that separates us from integrating into local communities. We congregate in the bohemian and upscale, modern neighborhoods of Lima, Cusco and other cities. We live in some of the nicest apartments and homes but complain about how poorly they are built. Usually, our neighbors are other expats, and the only Peruvians we interact with in our homes are landlords, house cleaners and delivery people.

I moved to Cusco three years ago but visited Peru several times as a tourist over 10 years before moving. I’ve romanticized the place as much as most foreigners—I’ve been swept up in the Andes' beauty and the Inca's mysteries. But after everything I’ve subsequently learned about Peru’s colonial history, I’m much more cynical about these “mysteries.” They are really just gaps in history where the Spanish conquistadors destroyed as much evidence of Inca civilization and culture as they could. Now I wonder how much my presence in Peru perpetuates the destruction of indigenous cultures and what responsibility I bear.

If you have a job, Peru has a relatively easy path to becoming a permanent resident. The process can take as little as two months. Few of us work for Peruvian companies, though; we prefer to start our own companies and employ each other. Some of us even make up fake companies so we can sponsor ourselves. This usually takes longer than two months, sometimes up to a year. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve heard an expat complain bitterly about how long the paperwork takes. It always makes me wonder how long it would take for a Peruvian to do the same in North America or Europe.

Whether we have a real or a fake job, most expats come to Peru to escape the rat race. There are people from all walks of life in our home countries who move to Peru for inspiration and to be creative. We make art and teach yoga. We write books to publish back home and design clothing few Peruvians could afford to buy. We sell to tourists at outrageous prices while competing with Peruvians who can’t market their products at half the price because they don’t have the cachet of a degree in design from Europe or the language skills to do a smooth sales pitch in English.

What irks me the most are our contradictory and hypocritical views on indigenous culture. Sure, a minority of us take the time to understand and appreciate Peru’s many indigenous cultures. Still, for the majority, connecting with indigenous culture happens in highly contrived ayahuasca ceremonies. Ayahuasca is a hallucinogenic potion made of plants from the Amazon, though, oddly, Cusco, high in the mountains, has been marketed most as the place to try ayahuasca.

Ayahuasca ceremonies are led by Peruvian shamans for foreign clients, though I have also seen foreigners market themselves to lead the ceremonies. Regardless of the actual training or knowledge of the shaman, thousands of tourists every year naively pay hundreds of dollars for an “authentic” ayahuasca experience with a shaman. Those of us who are critical of ayahuasca shamans and ceremonies have our own kind of elitism to contend with. Who are we to say that a Peruvian who leads an ayahuasca ceremony isn’t authentic? Who are we to judge a Peruvian who is using the knowledge they have to sell an experience to tourists? Whether that’s an experience hiking in the Andes or taking ayahuasca in the Sacred Valley, who are we to judge what is and isn’t authentic for Peruvians in their country?

The debate I hear from expats always frames indigenous practices around authenticity, which is problematic in so many ways. The word “authentic” itself is troublesome, according to Curiosity magazine. “The meaning of authentic is ‘of undisputed origin; genuine.’ But, like ‘real,’ anything can be authentic in a way. ‘Authentic’ can also come across as condescending.” Unfortunately, that condescending tone is what comes across the most when I hear expats decry ayahuasca ceremonies as inauthentic. 

So many of us move to Peru because we are inspired by the country, the history and the culture. We say we are in Peru to learn Andean spiritualism and connect with the Pachamama, a Quechua word that can be translated as “Mother Earth.” We claim to value Peruvian culture, but only if that culture fits our idealized image of indigeneity. As soon as people profess to be Catholic, we turn away and say that they aren’t authentic.

I’m not trying to paint myself as innocent in all this. I scammed the immigration system with a fake business. I do ayahuasca ceremonies in the Sacred Valley, near Cusco, because I don’t like the heat and the bugs in the jungle. I visit Andean communities and feel disappointed when I see signs of the church. Of the other four apartments in my building, only one has a Peruvian living in it, and she’s married to a guy from Europe.

I pat myself on the back because at least I speak Spanish. I have a few Peruvian friends, but my expat friends far outnumber the locals. I like to think that I’m less hypocritical than the average expat in Peru, but I know that the way I live still perpetuates a classist, racist society. Peru’s political and societal structures are still based on the colonial system set up to exploit the poor and extract wealth from the country to benefit foreign investors. 

Nothing I do in my daily life combats any of that. I rationalize that it’s not my country. Who am I to tell Peruvians how to change their government? At the same time, I’m benefiting from a system that was built for people like me to take advantage of indigenous people.

If I were to return to North America, I would label myself progressive. I would say I was an anti-racist and look for ways to actually practice that. I would want to make a difference. In Peru, which also has a system built on racism, I shrug my shoulders and say that it’s not my place to change their society. 

I see police and security guards hassling indigenous women who come to Cusco to sell their textiles in the streets. I see light-skinned Peruvians barking orders at darker-skinned workers in restaurants and hotels. I know that there is much more abuse and racism that I don’t witness, simply because of how cut off I am from the local community.

Is my privilege that different in Peru? Do I not bear some responsibility for using my privilege to be anti-racist and work towards equity, regardless of which country I happen to live in? Does being an expat give me any kind of pass, or am I just being a hypocrite like everybody else? I don’t have all the answers, but I know I’m not blameless in the face of inequality and racism. It’s time I step up and say something.

Justice

The Expat Privilege: I'm a Digital Nomad Who Moved to Peru

In 2016, Mum, the linchpin of our family, suddenly collapsed and died. She was 81 years old but lived life like she was 30 years younger. There was so much more left in her, and we were not ready to lose her. 

I missed her passing by 20 minutes. My brother met me at the hospital doors and shook his head. The strong, loving woman who we all turned to for advice, support and reassurance was gone. As he pulled me into a tight hug, a guttural roar left my body, which both astounded and terrified me. I remember thinking afterward, “So this is the sound of grief.” 

Months later, as the family gathered to scatter Mum’s ashes, my older brother became seriously unwell and was rushed to a nearby hospital, where the quick thinking of a local doctor saved his life. He had encephalitis. He made a slow and incomplete recovery. Our family life was changing rapidly.

And then, the worst happened: In 2018, my husband died. We had just celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary when he suffered a massive heart attack from out of the blue. I loved him. We were supposed to grow old together. 

My children, now young adults, looked to me to help nurse them through their grief. Watching them suffer and being unable to support them hurt the most. I was exhausted from crying and reliving the moment when I found my husband’s body. Exhausted from replaying how he might still be alive had I only found him sooner. The two people I needed to lean on, to help me be the person my children needed, were gone. I was a drowning woman unable to save her children who were drowning too. 

The following year, my aunt died, and the year after that, my beloved mother-in-law. The matriarchs of the family had now all gone. The love of my life had gone. I felt so alone.

Work was a distraction, and there was no shortage of social outings. Life was busy, but despite the activity, wonderful friendships and tight bond with my children, my joie de vivre had evaporated. Life was colorless. I now walked around carrying a dull, black weight. My children continued to look to me for the security that my husband and mother had provided, but I could offer little.

It was a chance conversation with my friend, Caitlin, that changed everything. She and her husband owned a small farm that had been in the family for 200 years. It was in a part of rural Ireland that I had never heard of. I was welcome to use it.

“Won’t you feel lonely?” my friends and family asked. 

“You hate being on your own,” my daughter protested. “Is this a good idea?”

But I didn’t have anything to lose. I felt alone in a place where I was surrounded by people who cared for me. I needed to do something. Something needed to change.

It was a bleak January day when I arrived at the farm. The rain was tipping from gray clouds, and a cold wind whipped up waves across the lough as it dramatically came into view while I whizzed along the country road. The shock of the dark, ominous water just meters away made me gasp. 

Panicky and feeling very vulnerable, I pulled over to calm my nerves and reread the directions to the cottage that Caitlin had given me. I was soon on a track that twisted and turned steeply uphill for a mile or more. It was getting dark, and if I had any hope of finding the cottage, it needed to be soon. Suddenly, a stout farmer appeared at a gate. I stopped the car and leaped out.

“Hello,” he replied, stretching out his hand. “I’m Fionn.”

He was incredibly scruffy and he spoke with an accent that I could barely decipher, but one cannot choose their rescuer. 

I trustingly followed this stranger down a long, grassy lane. As we turned a corner, there it was: Caitlin’s cottage. It was a typical single-story Irish cottage of whitewashed stone. This was to be my home for the next three months. I thought of my children and longed for them.

The cottage was cold. It had lain empty for a few months, and there was evidence of damp in one of the bedrooms. My heart sank. 

“We’ll need to get that fire goin’,” said Fionn, “or you’ll get a dose of it.” There was a wood-burning stove in the living room. I watched as he stuffed it with paper twists, kindling and logs and was amazed at how quickly a fire began flickering behind the glass door. 

That night, as I lay in the total darkness of my bedroom, my phone in my hand, containing my only Irish contact—Fionn’s, “in case you need help”—I felt fear. Under my pillow was a knitting needle—my defense against intruders. I was completely alone. My children were on the other side of the Irish Sea. I prayed over and over again for my safety and for theirs. I prayed out loud to the house's ancestors, reassuring them that I meant no harm. If I survived tonight, would I stay another?

I woke the next morning to sunshine and blue skies. No moaning ancestors had disturbed my sleep. Everything looked brighter and more hopeful. There was a dusting of snow on the ground.

I dressed quickly, pulled on my wellies and set off to explore. To say that the views of the mountains and the lough were stunning would do them no justice. My dry soul opened up and drank thirstily. Something was happening to me. I stood with my arms outstretched and my face upturned to the heavens. I laughed out loud and thanked God for the beauty of nature. And that was the defining moment when I knew it would be OK. I would be safe here. I would find peace.

My friends had advised me to seek out the library in the nearby town for Wi-Fi access and a place to write. During a time when we were still required to wear face masks, connecting with new people proved challenging. At first, the librarians received me with skepticism, although both were courteous and friendly. By degrees, I came to be trusted. A library membership card was offered and a space created for me to work. I began serving tea at the weekly knitting circle, helped at the launch of the library’s first art exhibition and joined its new book club. The librarian became my confidante as we laid the foundations of a firm friendship. 

The winter season passed with many a squall and storm rattling the barn doors and swooshing the trees surrounding the cottage, yet I felt secure inside my cozy home. I loved the dark evenings when I could watch my favorite TV quiz program, listen to the local radio, knit or read. Some evenings, there would be a gentle tap on the door, and Fionn would be standing on the doorstep with a shy smile, calling by to check that all was well and see if I had enough fuel. He made me feel safe and cared for—something that I had missed since my husband died. Our conversations would take off slowly, our polar-opposite life experiences allowing no immediate jumping off point. He was a farmer who had lived all his life in this small pocket of Ireland and had never left its shores. On the other hand, I lived in a busy city and traveled all over the world. Yet three cups of tea in and as many hours later, we would still be talking: him philosophizing about life, nature, man and the planet, me talking about my life in the city, work as a teacher, my family and my love of books. Our friendship burned slowly, but it was something that became as important to me as the mountain.

This great hulk of a man stood in stark contrast to the hulk of the mountain, with its burbling brooks, gushing streams, torrential rain and howling winds. He was gentle and offered safety, whilst the mountain both frightened and exhilarated me. I loved to stand in the middle of a field with the wind driving rain into my face. It was wild, exciting and fierce and reminded me that I was alive. 

Then spring crept in, and I learned that the mountain could be equally gentle and caressing and musical with the sound of bleating lambs and sheep, the rare sound of the cuckoo, the sight of brown hares, sparrows, thrushes and wagtails. I quickly fell in love with it all—with the people and their country ways, their unique language, their benevolent welcome and inclusion. My heart sang each time I stood and looked up at a full bright moon, a clear starry sky or the sun casting an amber glow across the landscape before sunset. I loved the fields with their bright yellow whin bushes, the blossoms on the white thorn trees, the brown heather on the mountainside, the yellow daffodils when they bloomed in March.  

“You seem so different,” my friends said when I returned home in April. “Something has happened to you. You look so well. You seem happy.” My relationship with my children changed too. Gone was vulnerability and sadness. Here was a stronger woman, someone whom they could lean on. They were now free to lead their own lives because their mother was leading her own. 

I felt lighter, happy, hopeful. The mystical mountain and its people had led me to a place of healing. I’ve returned here to Ireland for the summer, and it continues to work its magic on me.

When Death Surrounded Me, A Mountain Retreat Changed My Life

Some of my earliest childhood memories belong in the front of a truck. My friend’s father ran a local freight delivery service that distributed hardware supplies shipped in from Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota. The semi-trucks would dock at his small terminal, and my friend and I would help unpack and load it into his dad’s straight truck. Then, we’d ride along and watch him make stops on his delivery route. We were only 6 or 7 years old, so we couldn’t help much, but I loved sitting up high and rolling around town. 

As a kid growing up in Sauk Centre, Minnesota, I kept chasing that feeling. I spent most days riding my bike around the neighborhood, pretending I was driving a big rig, and though my brother and sister were much older, I remember having a big gravel driveway where my friends and younger cousins would pave roads to race our bikes. It wasn’t until I was 14 that I got hooked with a real taste of the trucking business.

A distant relative, Justin, hauled livestock for a living and asked me to help him pick up cows, pigs and sheep from various local farms. We’d get the animals on Monday and drive to a slaughterhouse in South St. Paul, where we’d unload them and wash the manure out of the straight truck. Then, we’d spend the night and head back to Sauk Centre with freight before repeating the cycle on Thursday. I wasn’t allowed to drive until I got my chauffeur’s license at 16, but sometimes, Justin would let me behind the wheel of his semi and encourage me to back the 40-foot trailer into the docks. In those days, there would be a bunch of older gentlemen watching me—a stressful experience but one that made me feel pretty cool. 

Today, at 65, I’m still in the driver’s seat. 

Throughout a 37-year career working for Minnesota’s transportation department, I always kept my passion for driving, taking on trucking jobs over weekends and holidays to supplement my income and continue a life on the road. Since retiring in 2010 from that gig, I’ve transitioned to trucking full-time, traversing interstates in a 2007 Peterbilt 386 through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee and West Virginia, where I haul just about everything. Over the last decade, I’ve tallied over half a million miles. 

It’s tough and lonely work, something my wife and I have gotten used to throughout our 47-year marriage. I’ve had some close calls, endured cramped quarters and met plenty of characters along the way, but I love the feeling of taking an adventure each week, rolling down the open road, looking out at the wide-open pastures and feeling a sense of freedom. These days, I’m a dying breed. 

I never thought about trucking as a career. I graduated from high school in 1973 and a few months later started employment at MnDOT, where my brother worked. I’d put up sign postings and paint messages on the road, eventually graduating to maintenance work patching holes, fixing guardrails, mowing grass and plowing snow. The job didn’t pay much—my starting rate was $3.16 per hour—but it had good vacation and sick leave. In my day, the longer you stayed at one job, the better it got, and I eventually moved into a supervising role in St. Cloud for my last 10 years there. 

Still, I needed to get my driving fix, so I hauled freight for my cousin Mary’s trucking company on weekends and holidays. I would even take vacations just to lug around grain, machinery, milk replacer and animal feed with a semi-truck all over the five-state area—Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa and the Dakotas. After getting married in 1975, I’d also haul milk every other weekend, picking it up from farms and dropping it at a reload center. I would go on to work two jobs—sometimes even driving coach buses—for the majority of my life. 

Of course, driving a semi-truck requires lots of training and caution. One of the first things I learned was not to back into anything. A sticker on most truck mirrors says “GOAL,” which stands for “Get Out and Look.” Whether you’re at a truck stop or a docking station, it’s crucial to get out of the vehicle and determine the trailer's angle before proceeding in reverse. Just last week, a trucker was trying to back into a parking space too fast, causing nearby drivers to blow their horns to prevent an accident. 

Watching your mirrors is even more important on the highways, where cars always look to pass and sneak around your 18 wheels. Most drivers don’t realize that passing me and leaving minimal room ahead could lead to a rear-ending at the next red light. Why would you want to be in front of an 80,000-pound truck? Nowadays, if you try to pass a car, they’ll intentionally speed up—as soon as you get back behind them, they slow down. That’s produced some close calls in my career, like when I was driving a little too fast in an Illinois snowstorm. I was behind a semi that abruptly slowed down when firemen began directing us to take an off-ramp. As I peeled off to the right, I nearly bumped a car in front of me and slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding an accident. I just about had to change my underwear. 

Under the rule books, you’re allowed to drive 11 hours in one day and can be on duty for 14 hours a day. The longest I’ve driven without stopping is about seven hours, but in my older age, I usually only last a few hours at one time. Sitting all the time, my legs are getting stiffer, and I’ve learned to be careful exiting my truck so they don’t give out. Often, I’ll find a truck stop or rest area to stay for the night and retire to the back of the sleeper, where I’ve got a cooler to keep sandwiches and drinks and a microwave to heat up canned beans or soups. It’s pretty comfortable. I especially love the spring and fall, when it’s 60 degrees at night and I can open the windows in my bunk to get a nice breeze. 

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