Never There Long - A Journal Series: The Red Pickup Truck, Part 2

Written by Jordan Hofer, Guest Author

It was written only for myself as a personal record of a travel experience. As such, it contains plenty of questionable material. Only a reader who is not easily offended should proceed. In addition to some foul language and raw personal observations, there is also a sprinkling of spelling errors, grammar mistakes, and sloppy handwriting. If any of those things irk you, you may want to reconsider reading on.

If, on the other hand, you’re drawn to adventure, foolishness, or just some good-old-fashioned reckless abandon, please continue on. My hope is that reading from the original hand-written pages will make you feel somewhat more connected to the story than you otherwise would. Please enjoy the conclusion of the tale of the red pickup truck.

  The driver of the red pickup truck, Carla.

  A few members of the birthday party.

 Me sipping on some of the homemade fire-brew.

  Fire-brew beginning to take effect.

The story goes on, of course. I apologize for the abrupt ending, but I had to choose a - somewhat arbitrary - stopping point. There is no real conclusion and that is far from the end of the story, as my travels simply continued on. The journal wasn’t meant to be read like a novel and it is probably somewhat unsatisfying as a text. If I had included more journal pages, they would have described how I left Guatemala CIty a few days later and made my way back to Tapachula where I remained with the Del Toro family for several months.

Writing now, I am tempted to conclude by sharing how much my relatively short time in Guatemala impacted me personally. Sentimental remembrances of life lessons learned, the kindness of strangers, the beauty of the land, and the freedom of the road are probably in order.

I will, however, spare you a sappy epilogue and just say this: I feel unimaginably blessed to have this story to tell. To have such an adventure now - or at any point in my more “mature” adult life - would be impossible. Truly impossible. It required an almost obscene - some might say naive - level of idealism, fearlessness, and faith in human nature. Ok, that maybe would qualify as a bit sappy. But I mean it.

No vacation, no study or work abroad, no church mission trip, no volunteer work could ever replicate such a pure, unpolished, authentic experience. The only way those events could have unfolded in the marvelous way they did was through completely letting go of any semblance of carefulness, caution, common sense, planning, or fear. Submitting whole-heartedly to doing whatever came without knowing in the least what the outcome would be, is what was required. I couldn’t do it now - or at least I doubt it. I have willingly domesticated myself (some might say for the better) enough over the last 20 years that even I think, “How the hell did that work out?” when I read my journals. And I love that. My heart longs and aches to relive those moments when I read stories like this one. They inspire me to find that boldness and fire, that peace and submission, and that wildness and idealism once again.

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