Mental Preparations: Or, the stuff my Grandma wonders if I think about

I recently finished reading Jon Krakauer’s Into The Wild. For those not familiar with the book, it’s a story about a young man who leaves his comfortable suburban home and family after college to pursue his fascination with the unbridled, untamed, and ultimately unforgiving manifestations of the natural world. After two years traveling and living on the most miniscule of means, focal point Chris McCandless travels north to Alaska. This turns out to be his last adventure, as he met his demise in the Alaskan wilderness, only living to see his early 20s.

For most, including myself, the ending was not at all surprising. A young man with minimal supplies tried to go live off the land in the Alaskan bush for months on end? What the hell did he think was going to happen? It’s easy to jump to the obvious conclusion: this young man had committed the sin of arrogance. But really, what young man hasn’t? In fact, what young person can honestly say that they’ve never acted arrogant or presumptuous? That facet of youth is simultaneously empowering and blinding. But as I read Into The Wild and explored more of Chris McCandless, I realized that I wasn’t really one to point fingers and throw rocks in that particular house made of glass. The gift of youth comes with one important caveat: the liability of hubris. So as I mentally prepare to touch American soil again for the first time in almost a year and a half, I can’t help but reflect on my experiences, expectations, and my own little humbling slice of hubris.

I first started on this weird, extended two-year adventure of my own some time ago. My application was submitted to Peace Corps in late November 2008. With graduation fast approaching, I wanted to have something lined up. The job market being what it was, (and from what I hear, it still is) an interminably competitive mess of people screaming “Hire me! Hire me!”; it only made sense to have one plan. I also really wanted to leave the country. Not having the opportunity at any other time, mainly due to financial constraints, a long term job overseas had many perks. I meticulously researched the types of things I could be doing, where I might be going, what my life would be like wherever I was sent. I didn’t receive a nomination (the 2^nd of 3 steps before departure) until late Spring 2009. At this point, I knew I had some momentum going, even if it took awhile.

When I left in February 2010, two years seemed like a very daunting time frame. With minimal knowledge of where I was actually going, and having tacit expectations that not even I could totally acknowledge, I headed off into the wild of a developing country. A year and a half later, I’m just days away from returning to the States for the first time since I left. I think about all the sites, sounds, and smells that used to aggravate, annoy, or disturb me. Yet after so much time, I’m not really phased by much of anything. In Guyana, I’ve seen things good and bad, dark and light, beautiful, tragic, depressing, fascinating, and frustrating. I’ve seen people take steps and improve their health, I’ve seen students put in extra effort, and be able to explain how their bodies function. I’ve seen women beaten in public. I’ve seen dead bodies on highways. I’ve seen scenarios that make me laugh hysterically, and situations that cause me to shrink inside myself to process.

Despite all the things I’ve experienced here, nothing could have prepared me for it. I’ve learned that knowledge I consider commonplace, such as putting ice on a wound to minimize swelling, really isn’t well known at all. I’ve learned that so much of my behavior and thoughts have been influenced by where I grew up. Even the speed at which I operate is distinctly American. So after a year and a half, I can say from firsthand experience that there are no rules to this game of life. There’s no magical right or wrong way to do it. Every place you go, and every person you meet, will do things a little differently. And that’s really the crux of the matter. It’s simply different. With 9 months remaining, I hope that I’ve made some positive differences in my time here. I’ll probably never really know. But I can guarantee that the attempts will be hearty and numerous.

So for now, I’ll mentally prepare for a month in the Land of Plenty. Which isn’t to say that I’ll forget about this place. It would be difficult to simply dismiss such a decisive time in my life. But more a mental break, time for reflection, and of course: motorcycle riding. See you all soon!