Petén, Guatemala, April 2017

🏅Featured in the debut edition of Colorado’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Nonfiction by Z Publishing

It was hot out. The air was thick and green, polluted by the caravan of travelers inching forward from Lanquín to Flores in vans and shuttle buses. I was somewhere in the Petén, the northernmost region of Guatemala, a flat land of dense jungle, Mayan ruins, and few people. It's April and I had been making my way up the Gringo Trail since the end of January. At this point, my journey was more than half over, but this week was by far the hardest on my body from the hiking and stiff mattresses and long bus rides.

I've lost track of the days, each one melting into the next like pellets of sand dripping down through an hourglass. There is a disconnect between my body and my brain because while every joint, muscle, and tendon is begging for relief, my mind is clear. On this day, I had no music to listen to, no service on my phone to text people for laughs or encouragement, the ride is too bumpy for reading or writing, and nobody else in the van is in the mood to talk, other than the two German girls in the back who are practically screaming at each other while we barrel along some unknown road.

Sweat continued to drip down my forehead into my beard. I was stale and uncomfortable, the scenery as muggy as the lazy clouds above. The van stopped at a gas station attached to a small mini-market. Our driver tells us we have 10 minutes, but this is Central America and by now one thing I am sure of is that 10 minutes is actually closer to 15 or 20. Inside, the fluorescent lights sting my eyes and burn my cheeks. My light skin is a giveaway: I am not from here. Until I spent three months traveling the Gringo Trail by myself, I felt blessed to have blue eyes. They would shine every time I walked outside reflecting blue skies and bluer waters. But here in the Petén, they made me feel transparent, like people could see right through me. I was a ghost. An imposter. Just another Gringo escaping something. Somewhere. Someone.

Jinshanling, China, November 2011

Late into the night, we were woken up from our camping tents and kicked off the Great Wall of China only to be held hostage for about 10 hours by Chinese authorities because we started a fire in a watchtower.

Long story short, five people started a small fire using wood they didn’t realize was an important relic of the Wall. When Chinese authorities discovered them, they kicked us all off into a rural village and forced us to set up camp in what seemed like nothing more than a glorified parking lot. While most of us were attempting to sleep, the main culprits were taken into custody and interrogated for about two hours by screaming Chinese men. They were told they had to cough up a bunch of cash or risk going to jail, being given no chance to make any phone calls or explain themselves; due process of law in China is certainly not the same as it is in America.

When their first round of interrogation was over, we cleaned up the mess on the Wall that was left behind. It didn’t help—we were extorted for even more money to pay off the original bribe they were trying to fulfill. As this ordeal continued to drag on through sunrise, many of us were sitting in a freezing cold restaurant we ate in the night before while waiting to find out what was going on. When we finally came up with the entire ransom, the whole nightmare was finally over and we were allowed to leave to return to Beijing.

Big Bear Lake, California, February 2018

Following my initial raucous arrival weekend to Los Angeles, many of my new housemates and I drove up to Big Bear Lake for my sophomore weekend as a Californian. Piled into my car we had: myself, Sam, writer from Colorado; Daniel, actor from South Africa; Su, teacher and writer from Singapore; Mi Kwan, actress from Madagascar; and Clarke, chef and musician from Michigan. All of us, transient dreamers, hopeful and perhaps a bit mad. Mad for the elusive, sweet ambrosia of creativity.

Driving in and around Los Angeles at 4 PM on a Friday is a level of Hell Dante forgot to write about. It should have taken about two hours for us to drive 100 miles, but traffic and a pit stop at In-N-Out in San Bernardino slowed us down to a grueling four hours. We find ways to enjoy ourselves: chattiness is something we all have in common. The road from the city to the lake winds us through the mountains. The temperature drops to 37 degrees and we climb above 7,000 feet. I don’t have to imagine hard at all like I am back in the Rockies. I was asked if I miss Colorado. I miss big mountains and my friends. I am working on both of those in California.

The five of us meet with the rest of our friends. We are cramped, yet cozy. I have to sleep on the floor for two nights. Not great for my back, especially after driving the whole way up, but I am happy regardless. I cheerfully breath cool mountain air, so fresh and piney. Everybody gathers for food, drink, and conversation. Introductions and ice breakers. Again, I’m Sam. I’m a writer. I’m from Colorado. I have a literary background. Nonfiction and poetry mostly, but also blogging, journalism, and copywriting. I want to try to write for television. Also interested in comedy and acting. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Ad infinitum. Amen. I listen to the passion in everybody’s voice around the circle, each aching with motivation. From the actors to the directors to the musicians to even a painter, we all just want to live an artistic life in our chosen mediums. I realize I live with so many different versions of myself, each with a process and a commitment to craftsmanship. Color me constantly inspired.