My wife Ericka and I never miss an opportunity to visit El Transito, the little fishing village on Nicaragua's Pacific shore where her family maintains a beach house. It's a special place to Ericka, rich with childhood memories, and always a place where she feels at peace with the world. Lacking those same memories, I don't tend to see it with the same degree of enthusiasm.
I first visited El Transito with Ericka's family in July 2000, when we explored the rocky promontories that make up the coastline and body surfed in the strong waves of the Pacific. We avoided the town, generally, except to visit the acopio (the fish repository where the daily catch is accumulated and transported to market) to buy the day's meal, usually thick red snapper or similar. Six years later, we still visit the little beach town regularly and it is for all practical purposes, the same.
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Over thirty years ago, a woman I loved informed me I was crazy, because while I was sitting on one of the best beaches in the world, all I could think of was traveling as far away as possible, and trying to send myself to North Guam (it sounded far away, she said, and she loved the sound of the word). Needless to say, when I stepped off the airplane at Hagatna Airport on that far-flung island, my thoughts turned just momentarily back to her as I beamed proudly.
But Guam was a mystery to me then, and it remains a mystery to me today. I don't think I've ever been to a place I struggled as much to get a feel for. To wit:
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We left the colonial city of Saint Louis in the early hours of morning, passing blue-uniformed school kids and shopkeepers washing down their front steps. Putting the town behind us we crossed the river to the mainland, and spent the rest of the day traveling along the broad arch of the Senegal River along a track that led us eastward, deep into Africa's Sahel. I'd approached this gorgeous region once before from northern Benin, but this time, it was different.
At the tail end of the rainy season the Sahel was verdant and lush, and the hillsides were carpeted in a soft patina of tall, tufted grass that rolled in waves towards the horizon. A rash of stubby acacia trees dotted the landscape, dark compound leaves thrust against the bright sky; underneath them, pooled in the shadows, lazed the goats and sheep that made up the local economy.
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After well over a decade living and traveling in Latin America, Asia, and Africa, these are all names I've been called. Well, to be fair, names my friends – and probably some of you – have been called as well. It seems most cultures have a word that they use to refer to foreigners, and though it isn't necessary it is often offensive. Ted Simon was right: the one characteristic all cultures share is xenophobia.1
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The unappreciated jewels of tropical islands are their highlands, away from the reefs and the crowds, where the breeze turns cool and the only sound is the call of the birds. Twice we ventured upward, regretful that this wouldn't be the trip where I get to hike into deep wilderness with compass and backpack.
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