From a new travel series that finds meaning in the mundane, transcendence even where there isn’t any.
From a new travel series that finds meaning in the mundane, transcendence even where there isn’t any.
The following is an excerpt from Nick Kristof’s new travel series, Contemplations, which is running exclusively in the Sunday edition of the New York Times. This week, Nick is spending some time in the Peruvian Andes.
O n the third day of my journey, I met a local goatherder named Amaru, whose wisdom and humility nearly moved me to tears. Amaru’s lifestyle is profoundly unlike my own, and yet, despite our differences, I felt instantly that we shared a human connection of exactly the sort that we will need if we are to solve the most pressing problems facing our planet.
When I first encountered Amaru, she seemed distressed. “I have got to get my goats up this hillside by nightfall,” she told me, “but the path is blocked by a large tree.”
“Ah, yes,” I replied, nodding. “And you see the tree as a metaphor for Western intransigence on climate change. That is interesting. That is very, very interesting indeed.”
She looked at me blankly, as if to confirm that we were on the same wavelength. There was a short period of silence, during which we both took the time to reflect upon our commonalities. Then, after a little time had passed, she said it again. “I must get my many goats up this path.”
“Yes!” I replied, empathetically. “And in a sense, isn’t that what it’s all about? We focus on all the hubbub and the noise and the money, but in one manner of thinking, don’t all of us really just have to get our goats up the mountain, so to speak?”
Amaru stared at me. I could tell that she was touched by my point. “These goats,” she said, pointing to the creatures. “I must get them to the pen up there, but the way is not clear.”
“The way is not clear,” I repeated, thoughtfully. “‘The way is not clear.’ What an absolutely wonderful way to put it.”
I liked this philosophical woman. Her worldview was refreshing — mystical, even. She wasn’t eating to excess or obsessing over the stock market or wasting her hours playing video games. She was, as I like to say, simply Engaging in the Art of Being.
“Can you help?” she asked me.
“All of us must help,” I replied, nodding kindly. “All of us. When I ran for governor of Oregon,” I told her, “that was my theme. That it will take all of us.”
Touching my arm, Amaru pointed at the fallen tree. “It was up, but now it is down. This is a problem.”
“Yes!” I exclaimed. “Sustainable forest management is imperative.”
I sensed that it was time to go, so I said goodbye to Amaru and her goats, and ambled down into the village at the foot of the mountains. There, I found a small tin building marked “Internet Café.” Intrigued, I went inside.
I was greeted by a wrinkled old man with an authentic mouth. “Sorry,” he said in broken English. “Internet is broken.”
“It is,” I agreed. “It is very broken indeed.”
He frowned. “Satellite crack by storm. No can write son in Churi. Village want medicine. You have phone?”
I knew immediately what he was saying to me. “We must spend less time on our phones,” I concurred, pointing to my pocket. How could it be, I thought sadly to myself, that this man could see what most Americans could not? “The Internet is broken,” I said aloud. “That’s the perfect word for it: ‘broken.’”
“I wonder,” I asked the man, daring to presume, “whether you have read my series on the need for stronger federal age-verification regulations on websites that refer to cigarettes?” He smiled, to confirm that he had. “And maybe,” I continued, “you agree with me about the pressing need for what I have lately taken to calling, ‘The Venturesomeness of Cordiality?’”
He nodded. Then he said: “I have five-watt charger. You have phone?”
I do not mind admitting that I was floored by this insight. “Complementarity!” I shouted, laughing. “Yes, yes! That’s what it’s all about.” I held up my hands and folded all my fingers together to show that I comprehended what he was arguing. “Reciprocity!” I declared. “Commutualism!”
In response, he put out his own hand. “You have phone?” he said.
“And you have five-watt charger!” I replied, without missing a beat. “Reciprocation!”
Judging by the expression on his face, he was as shocked as I was at how quickly we had found a kindred spirit in one another. “This is a long shot,” I ventured, relaxing a little. “But have you by any chance ever been to the Restful Minds, Exquisite Souls conference in Sedona, Arizona?”
He shook his head.
“You’d like it,” I told him. “Next year, it’s at the Four Seasons.”