One Year Out

When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision.

Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

18 February 2007

It's about 8pm and I just finished washing the dishes in our outdoor kitchen. Standing in the spotlight of a single 60 watt bulb, I scrubbed a stainless steel pot. But not just any old pot—one that has survived the entirety of our 8 year and 2 month marriage. With shiny zeal, it braved the early years of spaghetti and burnt rice. It now boasts a savory Thai curry coconut dish, and most recently it's been flavor central for the boiled delicacy of Guatemalan chipilín (a stemy plant with small green leaves and miniature yellow flowers). As I stood there at our concrete sink and looked out at the banana trees, which keep a centurion watch over a small grove of coffee plants, I placed my pot to dry anew and remembered packing it for the first time in the compact kitchen of our van.

It was on this day a year ago that we set out on our so-called suburban exodus. The cold gray morning was punctuated by the garish-orange of a dreaded last minute trip to Home Depot. Still I remember asking Josh if he had found a cargo net and he telling me that the well-informed clerk responded to his inquiry with, "What in tha hayum sayundwich iza cargo neyt?" We got out of there with our plywood as quickly as possible. The clock was ticking, and our plan to leave by 11:00 am was pushed back to a 3:00 pm deadline. Josh and his dad crafted shelves for our 2ft by 1ft "pantry," and his mom and I sifted through the last of the things to go. Our friend, Mary, stopped by to deliver two containers of the meanest, most magical salsa. It made it all the way to Alabama. My sister kindly and creatively crafted a bag of Whole Foods booty, which we didn't exhaust until we were well along Mexico's Pacific coastline. And Althea still talks about the granola bars and oranges that our neighbor, Milka, sent along for the journey. Between building, packing, and visiting, our afternoon slid on and so did the sun. It wasn't until about 8:00 pm that we finally loaded up Thea and her panda bear, hugged our kin with tear-brimming eyes and closed the door on life in suburbia.

We headed out into the dark, frigid night with a dreamlike determination wherein the certainty that so characterized the preceding months melted into a misty haze. From McLean to Roanoke we drove shivering, somewhat stunned. I kept asking Josh if he felt mildly traumatized, because I did. And somewhere between Baton Rouge and Austin we grew weary of explaining to everyone our utter uncertainty of where we would end up and how we would support not only ourselves but also Althea. It became easier to have in hand a final destination, and so we threw all of our chips in on Belize. We've been there before....we have friends there....it's "English-speaking".... and the biodiversity could leave one wide-eyed for a long lifetime. But as we approached day 40 in Belize with still no prospect of a mechanic, still no clear picture of even a short-term plan, we came face-to-face with the fact that the fit just wasn't right for our permanent residency. Stunningly beautiful as it is, Belize was not to be our “promised land.” It was time for us to forge ahead. But to where? And then what?

To cure our case of brokedown blues and wilderness wanderings, we made our way to Belmopan's finest Chinese establishment for some fried chicken and French fries. This had become an almost weekly ritual, sometimes accompanied by a plate of steamed broccoli to ease our conscience over the amount of grease, starch and hormones we were ingesting. As always, just as the food was being carried hot from the kitchen, Althea expressed her dying urge for me to take her to the bathroom. Such are children. Staring at the faded walls inside the tiny and less-than-sterile cube, I decided to return to the table with a mental exercise. "Josh," I asked, "If you could paint the picture of your ideal living situation, what would it look like?" To which he replied, "What in tha hayum sayundwich izahn ideal living situation?" But the sarcasm faded, and a moment of genuine visualization ensued. We agreed that we both needed to be near a body of water, but also not far from the mountains. We desired elements of rural, off-the-grid living, but accompanied by the cultural perks of town life—and without the incessant driving. We both wanted Althea to learn to speak Spanish fluently, but we also preferred a multicultural atmosphere. We were inclined to a somewhat progressive community, but at the same time we liked the idea of being close to traditional indigenous culture. And, of course, I had my own extravagant addendum that there be some decent yoga instruction. What would we do for a living in this tailor-made utopia? At the time, that seemed beyond the reach of our collective imagination. Besides, our plates were empty and our bellies full. We paid the bill, each wishing we hadn't eaten so much, each wondering how hard reality was laughing at the audacity of our reckless dream.

This line of questioning and envisioning, however, proved difficult to arrest once set in motion. What were we doing on the road anyway? What was it we left in search of? What did we expect to find? Were we simply seeking some distance from the corruption and darkness of an imperial throne? Reprieve from a culture on the brink of suicidal madness? A warmer climate where we could live closer to the earth? A sense of clarity about our roles in life? Well, yes, it would seem that, at least subconsciously, we indeed crafted this journey—this suburban exodus—in the mould of a wistful and naïve search for ourselves and our place in the world. How terribly hackneyed and sentimental of us. And now one would expect that, a year later, after suffering the trials of disappointed expectations, unexpected appointments, and even a hearty dose of calamity, the hazy dust cloud of disillusionment would settle and we would graciously resign ourselves to the elusive yet seemingly noble truth of acquiescence. One would expect that we would come to terms with the subtle and understated verity of all journeys—that the goal of the journey is not the destination, but rather the journey itself. It would seem that we didn't really have to sell everything, leave home and travel some 10,000 miles into foreign lands in order to find ourselves and our place in the world. But to this austere and academic view proffered by the self-proclaimed men of quiet desperation, I, Josh, must interject: that's pretty much what happened to us.

When we imagined our "ideal living situation" over fried chicken and fries, it was primarily an attempt to alleviate our despondent confusion. We hadn't a clue that such a place might actually exist.

And now, here we are in San Marcos la Laguna, a small town in the mountains around Lake Atitlán, where it's springtime year-round—never too hot, never too cold. The community is mostly Maya, but with a significant international contingency, and Spanish is the lingua franca. In town there are a plethora of restaurants and numerous centers for alternative healing. Workshops, classes, concerts and celebrations of every sort are frequent, and yet, at night, the town is not filled with lights. It gets very dark, and the stars are brilliant. We walk everywhere and never drive, environmental consciousness is growing, composting toilets are common, and solar power is actually quite practical. What's more, the town even boasts outstanding yoga instruction. No, it's not perfect. It has its share of problems, but it's more or less the place we unintentionally set out to find. Each morning we awake, we continue to feel that assurance, which brings with it a sense of gratitude we try to carry throughout our day. So, yes, we're going to stay here for a while, sell our wheels, settle in, and root down. Which is to say, our suburban exodus is coming to a close.

And what are we going to do with ourselves? We thought you'd never ask….