The Promise of a Pencil: How an Ordinary Person Can Create Extraordinary Change (7 page)

“And Matt’s okay with this too?”

My childhood friend Matt and I were supposed to travel together for the first two months, but now it looked as if he might join for a week or two about a month into the trip. “He actually just emailed me some bad news tonight. I don’t know if he’s flying out with me tomorrow morning.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No. Trust me, I’m not happy about it either. But at least at some point in the next few days I’ll be in Semuc Champey. It’s supposedly incredible.”

“Show it to me in the guidebook.”

“I told you already. I’m not bringing a guidebook.”

My dad couldn’t take it anymore. “What the hell does that mean that you’re not bringing a guidebook!” he screamed. “Are you purposely trying to piss me off?”

I inhaled deeply and curled my toes into the soles of my sneakers. “That’s not how I travel anymore. I’m going to rely on the advice of the travelers and locals that I meet along the way. I’ll
make my itinerary as I go.” I heard the words come out of my mouth with all of the naive confidence that a twenty-three-year-old could muster.

Staring back at me, furiously biting his lower lip to contain his anger, my dad shook his head in disbelief. “Just make damn sure you stay safe,” he said. “And remember, Dad’s Rules.”

*  *  *

As I sat on the flight from New York City to Guatemala City, I kept picturing my mother signing my will, and it left me with a pounding sense of mortality. It’s not that I thought the plane would crash or that my journey would end in some catastrophic way. It was that I was about to travel completely alone for the very first time. SAS and the subsequent travels were eye-opening experiences, but I had always traveled in small groups with friends. Now, I was my only guide.

When I arrived in Guatemala City, I immediately caught a local bus to see the emerald pools of Semuc Champey. They were even more gorgeous than I expected, as were the towering Mayan temples of Tikal in northern Guatemala.

Next I went to the riverside town of Río Dulce. When I bought my bus ticket in Flores, a group of six tattooed teenagers in white tank tops hassled me for money. I acted as if I didn’t speak Spanish.
“No hablo español,”
I said in my most American accent, not revealing that I actually understood every word they said. They snickered to each other, and when we boarded the bus, they positioned themselves in seats around me.

Each began describing the items of mine they would steal.
I want his watch. I get his passport. I’m keeping his wallet.
Over the next seven hours I didn’t get up from my seat once. Once the sun fell and the bus got dark, I discreetly pulled my feet out of my shoes and stuffed
my wallet and passport in opposite sneakers so I could hide them by standing on them. When we finally arrived at the Río Dulce stop, I glanced at the boys seated around me. Each was fast asleep. I quietly slipped off the bus, into the pouring rain, and heaved a sigh of relief. It was nearly 1:00 a.m., and I needed to find a place to sleep.

After walking down several shady alleys in search of lodging, my passport and money still tucked deeply into my shoes, I met a man who offered me a taxi ride to a hostel five miles away. He pointed to a nice car, which I assumed was his cab, and we negotiated a fair price. But then he led me to a beat-up car with busted windows on an empty side street. Something told me that driving into the dark with this stranger was a bad idea. I quickly began walking away, and within seconds he started screaming at me. I watched as he ran to the passenger side of the car and reached into the glove box. He pulled out a handgun.

I ran. As I sprinted through the rain, my heart thumped loudly in my ears. One hundred fifty feet away was an iron-gated hotel. I pounded on the gate for the night guard to let me in. The buzzer sounded just as I turned around to see the man with the gun about thirty feet behind me. I ran inside, booked a room (even though the guy behind the counter charged me double at that late hour), and stayed up all night replaying what had happened over and over in my head. Spiders crawled the walls around me, and for the first time I began to doubt why I had ever left home.

I’d never been so far removed, physically and emotionally, from everything that made me happy. I felt completely alone. But I knew that once I made it through the night, things would get better. They say that the darkest moment in the night is when the stars shine their brightest. That night in Río Dulce felt awfully dark, but when your faith is tested you simply have to believe that there will be light ahead and continue moving forward.

Several days later I arrived at Lake Atitlán, where I decided to spend nearly a month at Las Pirámides, a center for spirituality and meditation. Every morning a group of twenty travelers would wake up at 6:30 a.m. to watch the sun rise over the three volcanoes and then attend classes on yoga, meditation, and mystical teachings throughout the day. We each stayed in our own small wooden hut with a pyramid-shaped roof (hence the name Las Pirámides) and cooked three meals together every day. I had never lived such a basic, healthy lifestyle, and I discovered a calming clarity in the slow passing of each day. I found myself strangely excited for the final week’s commitment to five days of absolute silence. The center’s founder, Chati, had been teaching us about the concept of spiritual guides, and I yearned for the quiet time to reflect on who those people may have been in my life thus far.

Matt had finally arrived, and in preparation for our days of silence we headed out to Las Cristalinas, a small lakefront area where we could catch up and relax. As we rode on the back of a pickup truck with local families, the sun baked our shoulders. After swimming in the crystal waters, Matt left me alone to get an ice cream nearby. I was writing a few thoughts in my leatherbound journal when a small Guatemalan man in his midforties interrupted me.

“Hello, how are you?” he asked, speaking in broken English. “My name is Joel Puac. What is your name?” He pronounced the words slowly, as if he had been preparing them for weeks.

Normally I would have asked to be left alone, but I had recently adopted the mantra “Tourists see, travelers seek.” I was a traveler, one who sought to experience more than just churches and museums. I wanted to see each country through a local’s eyes, and something about the humility in this man’s voice made me curious. I told him my name was Adam and asked him what brought him to
the lakefront that day. He was there to celebrate the baptism of his grandchild, he said. After ten minutes of standard conversation, he explained why he had approached me.

“I am a teacher. I teach myself English, but my pronunciation is not so good. I would like you to help me learn English, so I can teach my children. I would like to invite you to stay in my village. You can stay as long as you want with me and my wife.”

“How far away do you live?” I asked, half joking.

“Two hours, into the mountains. My village is called Palestina. I give you my mobile number and you call me when you want to come.” He was dead serious.

I was blown away by this unexpected offer, but I needed more information. My family would want to know where I was headed. “If I decide to stay with you, what is the street name and number of your home?”

“Our streets have no names. The houses have no numbers. Just ask for Joel in Palestina. It is a very small village. The people know me.”

He then extended a small, leathery hand. I could tell that this man farmed his own land to feed his family. We shook as he nodded firmly, then left me there to ponder whether I would accept his offer.

Moments later, Matt returned with a big smile. “I finally found a place with ice cream. Sorry it took so long. Did I miss anything?”

*  *  *

That night I couldn’t sleep. I considered the possibility that Joel had appeared in my life for a distinct reason and recognized that at the very least this man could be a guide of some sort.

For his part, hosting me could change the future for his children and grandchildren. He saw me as a window to a larger
world—his family could learn a bit of English and gain a broader global perspective that could motivate them to pursue life outside their tiny village.

Joel reminded me of my late grandfather Apu, the rock of my entire family. Apu had the strength to survive the Holocaust, the faith to find my grandmother, and the fortitude to leave his native country and bring my family to the United States—to give us the opportunity for a better life. I had looked to Apu for guidance my whole childhood when he was alive, and through my prayers after he passed away. In those prayers I often asked him to send me a sign or a messenger, and if there was even a chance that Joel was that person, I had to follow through with his offer.

For years I had struggled with intense feelings of guilt. I was born into the lottery of life with a winning ticket—a loving family, great education, good health. But what had I done to deserve any of it? Why was I born into those blessings when so many others were born into suffering? Why was I born into a booming city when others are born into villages without electricity or water in war-torn nations? I was reluctant to admit it, but I felt that I owed something to those who were less fortunate, because in my mind I had never done anything to earn the good fortune I enjoyed.

Yet in hearing Joel’s request, and how his dream was to educate his kids and grandkids and great-grandkids to ensure a better way of life for them, I was reminded that my good fortune was the product of many long, laborious, and often tragic years. I was the result of Apu’s dream. I was the result of the sacrifices each of my ancestors made so that I could live out the life they never had. And they would want nothing more than for me to fully realize what they worked so hard for and to pass on the gifts I’d received. Through Joel, I had an opportunity to honor them.

I knew if Joel’s grandson grew up and felt guilt over the sacrifices
made for him, it would be a slap in the face to Joel and everything he did with such pure intention. My sense of guilt and obligation diminished the hard work and desires of those who came before me. It was a total emotional shift. Rather than motivation through obligation, I now felt motivation to celebrate those before me in a different way. I had a chance to honor Apu by providing greater opportunity to others.

Six days later, I was on my way to Joel’s village, bumping along dirt roads in a microbus filled with local Guatemalan families. Two farmers smiled silver-capped-toothed grins at me. To my left a baby cried on his mother’s lap and to my right an elderly man gripped his field machete tightly. Although my friends at Las Pirámides thought I was crazy to head into the mountains alone where I might never return, I trusted Joel and knew this was the kind of experience I was seeking.

True to Joel’s description, Palestina had no street signs or house numbers. When I asked a local woman for Joel Puac, she pointed down a long dirt road.
“Todo derecho,”
she said,
straight ahead
. A neighbor pointed me to Joel’s home, and upon my arrival he introduced me to his dogs, chickens, and his ancient father, who lived in a one-room house next door. Though the old man was hunched, he clenched my hands with tight, clawlike fingers and led me, the first American he’d ever met, into his home to show me a treasured relic. He slowly wiped away the dust on a framed photo: a black-and-white aerial view of New York City. A friend of his had given it to him. The Twin Towers had fallen six years earlier, but in the photo they still dominated the skyline.

Joel showed me around the house: a broken toilet, a small fridge. He then showed me where I would sleep: a single bed on one side of a small room. He and his wife, Aurelia, would sleep in the double bed on the other side of the same room.

“We should start,” Joel said abruptly, and placed a small, red plastic table in front of me. On it was an English Bible, a Spanish-English dictionary, and a large cassette recorder. Joel spoke intently of the human need for spirituality. He told me of the issues facing Guatemala and the dangers of Guatemala City. He showed me a scar on his abdomen where he was recently stabbed by vagrants at a nearby market and told me how many people watched it happen but no one did anything.

To teach English to his family, he needed to learn the proper pronunciation, so he used the text he knew best: the Bible. We started at the beginning of the book of Proverbs. He asked me to read aloud into his old-school cassette recorder. He then detailed his plan to listen to the recordings of my voice every evening, saying the words in English, again and again.

Over three days, I spent as much time as I could, legs crossed on the dusty floor, reading into that tape recorder, in the room where we all slept. The space was small and the lights were dim, but the room was vibrant in detail: turquoise and yellow walls decorated with cartoon characters, old calendar cutouts, and pictures of faraway places from magazines. Each afternoon Joel and I made sure the cassettes played back properly. As we listened to my voice crackling through the ancient tape player, I couldn’t help but laugh at the beautiful irony of a Jew reading the Christian Bible aloud in a town called Palestina.

Joel had a tiny TV, and at night we would watch movies. It was March, but one night
Elf
was on. We laughed hysterically at the dialogue spoken in Spanish, but Joel focused on the English subtitles. After the movie, he listened to the day’s recordings through his oversize headphones. Hearing him whisper each of the words my voice was speaking into his ears gave me goose bumps. When Joel caught me smiling, he smiled back and said, “I don’t want
handouts. I want to teach myself, so that when you leave, I can teach my children and the others in my village.”

I’d always operated under the vague notion that charitable work was about giving aid to the poor. In Western culture, we are taught that those of us with ample resources and money should share our prosperity with those who have less. I’d thought of charity as a simple transaction, a one-way street.

Joel taught me that my assumptions about the nature of charity had been wrong. When we give handouts to those in poverty, we do them a disservice. We create a cruel cycle of dependence. After three days with Joel in his remote village, I left knowing that he now had tools to self-educate. By listening to that portable tape recorder each night, he would learn to speak a new language. More important, he could share his English skills with his family in the years ahead without relying on the assistance of others.