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My ancestors gave me roots—and feet. I have experienced 100 countries, open to realize any and all “given” paths to happiness, wisdom and knowing. Happiness, if simply defined, is the love of living. Independence and contentment, necessary human skills, harnesses the ability to mine the gold from any hole in the ground—and that’s what this story discovers.
After a wild childhood in Garden City, Long Island, where hitchhiking became my first entrée into freestyle travel, I circled the globe five times and wrote three books about independent voyaging. Herewith is a compilation of life lessons from unknowing sages in just five of the many countries I’ve visited worldwide. It shares enlightenment presented by ordinary people—unsung heroes with remarkable takes on life.
When traveling near and far, I encounter accidental gurus and take notes, somehow. This “journal” is driven by worldly, yet common, spoons that stir the proverbial pot of contemporary happiness. Though traveling itself portends to make one wise, I’ve found that a person living solely in one village for a lifetime comprehends many of the same discoveries—possibly more—about humanity that may hopefully dawn upon worldly voyagers.
Pursuing and compiling these lessons reminds me that wandering and diversity are swell teachers, and that having a good time is an art. There are volumes of inspiring life lessons that have not been published, televised, computer-driven, or broadcast by satellite. Sage gems of understanding have been passed down from generation to generation to the people and ideas you’ll soon meet.
The following five tales aren’t about my wisdom, though the hunt for how other people found theirs creates mine. Our individual wisdom tends to loom a decade or so ahead of us, so I hunted it down, country by country, state by state, person to person, moment by moment. Life isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. Pace yourself and defy category… after all, life is your vacation.
Ireland
On the other side of fear is freedom. Hardship reminds us of this
truth, as does divine intervention.
Driving across Ireland with a friend, Erica, we met a Limerick bartender-savant who wore a patient, empathetic expression. We sat down before Jimmy O’Sullivan’s large bar-cum-lectern, and topics swung to relationships when Erica divulged her current crisis. Jimmy listened solemnly to her love-gone-bad tale, then began, “Young lady, allow me to explain how I ended up in the advice business. I spent 20 years as a death and dying counselor, where I reached out to terminally ill people and their families facing their worst moments. Repeatedly, I was reminded of how it usually isn’t until people court death that they realize what a pity it is to not identify your passions and migrate toward them fearlessly. They’d all wonder, What did I have to lose?, just as their curtain lowered on what truly matters and what is meaningless. After 20 years of dealing with people who finally got clear on what they thought they were meant to do with their lives when it was too late, I committed the rest of my life to helping vibrant people like yourself to realize their dreams.”
Erica began to blurt out a sentence but was interrupted.
“If I were to give you a million dollars right now, what would you do with it?”
After a breathless pause Erica responded, “I’d use a third to build a secluded mountain home, another third I’d invest wisely, then I’d travel the world until the rest evaporated.”
Jimmy invited Erica to expound on those plans. Five minutes of her fantasy had elapsed when he asked, “Is the boyfriend in that picture right now?” A perplexed look stole onto her face, she swallowed hard, shook her head and whispered a solemn no.
O’Sullivan peered at her from beneath a lowered white eyebrow, “Contemplate who is and who is not in your dreams.”
Jordan: Route
Petra means rock in Greek and this is the true rock
city—an ancient metropolis hand-carved into a rose-red slot canyon valley 2,000
years ago as a long-distance-traveler’s stopover. “Discovered” in 1812 by a
Swiss explorer, this primeval desert complex of chiseled apartments, stores,
banks and tombs flanks a winding, descending road that evolved from a dry
riverbed. The Treasury, a towering 1 B.C. tomb visited by Indiana Jones, blends
Greek, Roman, and Nabataaen architecture. When this neighborhood, chiseled into
vertical sandstone facades, was abandoned by the Nabataaens it was reoccupied
by the Bedouins, who still provide hospitality today. Climbers trek the
clifftops above the valley, garnering a better look around at this archetypal
caravan toll road, in this place where the ancient Bedouin once performed human
sacrifices to appease their gods.
As the setting sun flushed Petra from rose to bullion, in a part of the world where people frequently enjoy tea time outdoors, I asked Walid, a passing Bedouin camel-taxi pilot, why humankind has not been kind to itself. His answer came in plain words, reflected in Arabic and benefiting from worldly patience. “You can point in the right direction, but governments stare at the wrong place, just the way a silly dog looks at your finger instead of what you’re actually pointing at—that stick you threw, the one they’re supposed to discover and retrieve and enjoy!”
Take Wing: Martinique
It is easiest to bounce ideas off of flexible surfaces.
I visit elementary schools around the world. With permission on the proper say-so, it’s blissful to sit in on a class, or teach part of one. In my schooling years, while limping along in some subjects, physics was one of my early loves. So when I call on young learners I pose scientific conundrums. In the hilly, tropical heart of French Caribbean Martinique, I stood before a class of bilingual seven-year-olds asking them why the ball I’d just dropped on the floor bounced.
An eager scholar held his hand high in the air and exclaimed, “Because it wants to fly!”
Faith, of any variety, is the only true and rational answer.
How we see our Lives is how they are Experienced
Bundaberg, Australia
“True
happiness may be thought, sought, or caught—but never bought. Wealth is
relative.
In the mid-1980s, after a year-long tour of Southeast Asia, a college friend and I hitchhiked 1,500 miles across Australia to attend an AC/DC rock concert. Somewhere near Bundaberg, rides were in short supply, our money evaporated, and we stood by the roadside, yearning to decode poverty’s international limitations.
Across the road, a quintessentially Outback man twice our age was hitching in the opposite direction and smoking a homemade cigarette that would get him tossed out of most establishments in the United States.
“How’s it goin’, mates?” he quizzed from across the desolate pavement, where the only soundtrack had been a distant chainsaw and an alien cricket chorus.
“We ran out of money,” my friend Pete groaned.
The grinning Aussie rambler notched up his tattered wide-brim hat and said, “No worries, guys. I started out with nothing and still have most of it left.”
A mirage no doubt belonging in the gallery of sainted survivors, he had a primitive affluence that reminded us that you can rise from the pits to the Ritz in your cranium. Then he added, “Don’t spend time; enjoy it.”At that moment we realized that there are a million options in the enterprise of starting from scratch.
You don’t have to Peer through Keyholes when your hand rests on the doorknob
Yangzhou, China
Can a wise man read another man’s future?
In 1987 I was backpacking in the newly “opened” China when Chen entered my life. He was a multilingual restaurateur and the unofficial mayor of Yangzhou. He had a kindly way with backpackers, and one afternoon he invited me to join him on a 70-mile journey in his rickety truck across southeast China’s surreal limestone landscape.
En route, we passed a seemingly ancient man and his goat; they were walking on the roadside in the opposite direction. Barefoot, the man plodded along the rough, hot road, two immense bags of rice suspended on a long pole across his back.
We passed him without a word, but returning to Yangzhou several hours later, we found him again—still plodding along. I suggested to Chen that we offer him a lift. We pulled over. The old man and Chen had a brief exchange. Then Chen got back behind the wheel, and we drove off, leaving the man in the road. Puzzled, I asked Chen to translate their conversation. Chen explained that the man wasn’t due to arrive in Yangzhou until the following day. If he were to show up in advance, he wouldn’t know what to do with the extra time.
“You see, my friend,” Chen smiled knowingly. “Not all of us are in a hurry.”
I asked him to turn back. I wanted to ask the old man a few things. Chen parked, and I hopped out. The old man stopped, balancing on his walking stick, and grinned. We pondered each other, beings from distant corners of the planet—different planets really—worlds and ways apart.
Chen translated my questions. “What’s the most important thing in your life?” I asked. The old man looked to his left, made a strange honking call for his goat, but did not reply. Was the goat the most important thing? When the animal arrived at his side, the man looked at Chen and spoke slowly. Chen translated, “He said that if you can’t help people, don’t harm them.”
I asked, “Why are people hurtful?” I didn’t look at Chen as he spoke, but rather stared into this old man’s eyes. He was human art, more serene than a drowsy cat. “If you decline to accept someone’s abuse, then it still belongs to them,” he said.
“Why do we quarrel?” I asked. “The rise of a man’s mind from his scrotum to his skull can be a long haul.” We all burst into laughter. The goat bleated. Chen said, “Ready?”
The old man and I shook hands and waved goodbye. The truck rolled away.
Today, I often recall the man’s deeply wrinkled face, and I know that the infuriating fixtures of modern life—traffic jams, rude people, the arrogance of ego—are only options. His words remain a permanent, benevolent echo.
I departed Yangzhou a month later. Chen walked with me to the bus stop. After a hearty embrace, I told him how much his friendship meant to me, and that the old man’s words were unforgettable. I thanked him for that too.
“Use those words to end a book,” Chen said.
“Come on, Chen,” I replied. “Do you know how old I’ll be by the time I get published?” “The same age you’ll be if you don’t,” he winked.
Two decades and several books later, I remember a card from Chen that delivered a shock. He confessed—via mail—that he hadn’t actually translated the old man’s words. Everything I’d learned had actually been Chen’s sage advice.
But I got the best of Chen, and started a book with him.
This story is a preview to Bruce Northam’s upcoming fourth book, The Wisdom of Strangers. Learn more at AmericanDetour.com
Big Joe, Monday, December 03, 2007 at 11:39 AMI have a lot of work to do today....but I couldn't stop reading. Great stuff Bruce!
Diana Warren, Monday, December 03, 2007 at 02:24 PMBruce, as always your power shines through. Many thanks for continued enlightment. All good things Diana
Cap, Monday, December 03, 2007 at 03:30 PMBruce:
Great stuff! I have a friend who will benefit from the Ireland story so I will pass it along...thanks for sharing!
Cap
Lisa, Tuesday, December 04, 2007 at 04:36 AMWonderful artical. Where is Billy? Was he a hero?
Frankie Laney, Tuesday, December 04, 2007 at 01:10 PMGreat reading! I will share with my friends who travel for fun. Frankie
Joan Duckett, Tuesday, December 04, 2007 at 03:30 PMPlease don't ever stop writing (or traveling). You inspire me. Would you send me an ounce of your engery? Hope to see you when you hit NY.
Regards, Joan
