I'm back after a week in in the Yucatan jungle and man, what a week! We spent our nights in a primitive but beautiful compound and our days working in the sweltering heat and humidity toiling side-by-side with Mayan craftsmen meticulously building a block roof and laying concrete to finish their little Sunday school.
This was my third consecutive year in Tres Reyes -- and by far my favorite. I spent some time last night after we got home about 10:30 p.m. thinking about why I do it. Why I push myself to my physical limits when I could just as easily stay home, safe and content, and throw money at this or any other such charity. I mean, money helps poor people, too. Right?
Well, sure. It does. No question. So just helping isn't the answer.
I could easily pack up the wife and kids and spend a week in some fancy Cancun resort, soaking up the sun and splashing happily in the Caribbean. So going just for the warm clime and plentiful sun isn't the answer.
Maybe I do it for myself. Maybe I'm selfish. Vain. Maybe I do it to somehow convince myself I am some kind of great person, a saint of an American who does things like this from time to time to show the world (and my friends) how freaking cool and selfless I am.
Maybe, but that one doesn't really ring true, either.
I sat for the longest time last night, long after everyone else had gone off to bed, thinking about my true motives. I'm big these days on depth and honesty, so trying to figure out why I do the things I do fascinates me of late. Weird, I know.
I thought back over the week, about how all 12 of us bonded as a team of human beings. How we sometimes argued and fumed and pissed and moaned. About how we ended up loving one another and, more importantly, respecting one another. How I was able to spend long hours at night under the tropical moon and starlit sky with my 19-year-old son, talking about all the things that we somehow never get the opportunity to talk about here at home. Things like our lives, our loves, our fears, our dreams, our hopes. Somehow, these things seem more real, more soulful, sitting at night with the jungle creatures making noises in the bush, smoking a cigar and just talking and laughing.
That was awesome. Maybe that was the reason this year. To bond with my son, even though I am incredibly close to all three of them here at home.
Maybe. Possibly, even.
But then I thought about the hard work, about how the Mayan women brought us traditional Mayan food for lunch, which we ate even though it was a bit, um, gamy and tasted odd to our American palates. I thought about the bonds we forged with the Mayan men with whom we worked hard with all week, even though none of us could understand a word the other said.
Now we're getting closer. Much closer. But that's the not it. Not really.
I remembered watching my son laugh and play with a half-dozen Mayan children, who jumped on his back and screamed his name, the only English word they knew.
Zach, they would shout. Zach! And he would laugh and chase them and they would laugh and chase him back. And we would laugh about it at night, over our cigars. About how damned cute and sweet and innocent these young Mayans are. And how poor. How damned poor they are. I would see a tear trickle down my son's cheek and I would swallow hard and turn away, lest he see a similar tear on my face.
Oh. The children. My God, how sweet they are!
I remembered the flight back to Atlanta last night, a rocky and turbulent one that had more than one person praying for their very lives, and how my son turned to me and asked that he be allowed to come back next year.
For the children.
And as I thought of that late last night, I knew why I go each year. Why I spend a fortune and nearly break my back in the hot sun. I knew in my heart why I go.
For the children.
I am so glad to be back. We were mostly safe, although there were a couple of minor incidents and injuries. And I got busted coming back into the USA with a bunch of Cuban cigars in my backpack that I had forgotten were there. Who would have thought I would end up a smuggler?
But all's well that ends well.
We'll go back next year, Zach and I.
For the children. Theirs and mine.
This was my third consecutive year in Tres Reyes -- and by far my favorite. I spent some time last night after we got home about 10:30 p.m. thinking about why I do it. Why I push myself to my physical limits when I could just as easily stay home, safe and content, and throw money at this or any other such charity. I mean, money helps poor people, too. Right?Well, sure. It does. No question. So just helping isn't the answer.
I could easily pack up the wife and kids and spend a week in some fancy Cancun resort, soaking up the sun and splashing happily in the Caribbean. So going just for the warm clime and plentiful sun isn't the answer.
Maybe I do it for myself. Maybe I'm selfish. Vain. Maybe I do it to somehow convince myself I am some kind of great person, a saint of an American who does things like this from time to time to show the world (and my friends) how freaking cool and selfless I am.
Maybe, but that one doesn't really ring true, either.
I sat for the longest time last night, long after everyone else had gone off to bed, thinking about my true motives. I'm big these days on depth and honesty, so trying to figure out why I do the things I do fascinates me of late. Weird, I know.
I thought back over the week, about how all 12 of us bonded as a team of human beings. How we sometimes argued and fumed and pissed and moaned. About how we ended up loving one another and, more importantly, respecting one another. How I was able to spend long hours at night under the tropical moon and starlit sky with my 19-year-old son, talking about all the things that we somehow never get the opportunity to talk about here at home. Things like our lives, our loves, our fears, our dreams, our hopes. Somehow, these things seem more real, more soulful, sitting at night with the jungle creatures making noises in the bush, smoking a cigar and just talking and laughing.
That was awesome. Maybe that was the reason this year. To bond with my son, even though I am incredibly close to all three of them here at home.
Maybe. Possibly, even.
But then I thought about the hard work, about how the Mayan women brought us traditional Mayan food for lunch, which we ate even though it was a bit, um, gamy and tasted odd to our American palates. I thought about the bonds we forged with the Mayan men with whom we worked hard with all week, even though none of us could understand a word the other said.
Now we're getting closer. Much closer. But that's the not it. Not really.
I remembered watching my son laugh and play with a half-dozen Mayan children, who jumped on his back and screamed his name, the only English word they knew.
Zach, they would shout. Zach! And he would laugh and chase them and they would laugh and chase him back. And we would laugh about it at night, over our cigars. About how damned cute and sweet and innocent these young Mayans are. And how poor. How damned poor they are. I would see a tear trickle down my son's cheek and I would swallow hard and turn away, lest he see a similar tear on my face.
Oh. The children. My God, how sweet they are!
I remembered the flight back to Atlanta last night, a rocky and turbulent one that had more than one person praying for their very lives, and how my son turned to me and asked that he be allowed to come back next year.
For the children.
And as I thought of that late last night, I knew why I go each year. Why I spend a fortune and nearly break my back in the hot sun. I knew in my heart why I go.
For the children.
I am so glad to be back. We were mostly safe, although there were a couple of minor incidents and injuries. And I got busted coming back into the USA with a bunch of Cuban cigars in my backpack that I had forgotten were there. Who would have thought I would end up a smuggler?
But all's well that ends well.
We'll go back next year, Zach and I.
For the children. Theirs and mine.
