Faith in Travel

If you want to test your faith in God, travel abroad.

In a place where you don't know the language.

Alone.

And then get lost.

I have been lucky--blessed--to have experienced this a few times, and have everything turn out all right. 

My Advanced Workshop students were traveling (so to speak) through our lesson "Complaining about a holiday".  Our final task was to role play a conversation between a tourist and their travel agent, but some of the students had suggested a small group discussion instead.  "We could use more of the phrases," one pointed out. 

That's one of the things I enjoy most about Advanced students.  They're more able to express opinions if you ask for them, and they usually have good advice.  And it's a bonus for me to see them at this level, when I met some of them as Intermediate students just two years ago.

The second time I taught the lesson, a few students asked for me to tell one of my bad holiday experiences.  I was caught off guard.  I've been working hard this past year to reduce my TTT (teacher talk time)--if you want people to learn to speak English, you have to shut up so that they CAN!  I hadn't planned to talk about any of my experiences in class, but I immediately thought of my trip to Turkey in May 1998.

I'd been studying in Athens, Greece since March and a few of my classmates wanted to take our spring break in Istanbul.  They were planning to go down to some beaches after the city, but I wanted to see Troy, as I'd read about the Trojan War in school.  So we made different travel arrangements.

I'd read about the May 1st Labor Day riots in Istanbul, but I figured they were over by now and wouldn't be a concern.  That's what being 20 years old does for you!  Luckily, I was right.  I was flying on May 2nd, a day after my classmates.  

Upon arrival I queued up with the rest of the tourists and natives to go through Customs and Immigration.  My agent looked up from my passport.  "Where is visa?"

"Huh?  Uh...I was told I didn't need one!"  I'd called ahead, as recommended by my classmates.  I was told the same thing they were:  a visa wasn't necessary.  But this guy wasn't letting me go.  "Need visa," he said, shrugging.

"How much?" 

"One-hundred U.S."  No sooner had I started counting my Greek money than he interrupted.  "Only U.S. or Turkish lira.  No drachmas."  I'd heard that the Greeks and Turks weren't exactly friendly with one another.

"But...I don't have...um...where can I get some lira?"

My agent handed me my passport and waved at someone behind me.  Up came a man with a huge rifle.  I don't even remember his face.  All I remember was that big gun.  He held up the red rope for me and indicated that I should follow him.

Oh, crap.  Were we going to a scary interrogation room somewhere?  I prayed hard that we were going to an A.T.M.  In spite of the big gun, the man didn't seem intimidating.  I prayed again that I was right.

And I was.  Phew.

I withdrew a sum of 2000 lira.  That should do it, I thought, unable to remember the exchange rate.  Dollars, drachmas, lira...

A group of three white tourists happened to be passing by.  "That's about four bucks, honey," an overweight man said with an American accent.  His buddies smiled.  I hated being called "honey" by random men, but I appreciated the tip.  "Thanks!"  I called, waving and sticking my bank card in again.

My "friend" with the big gun escorted me back to the Customs line.  I got my visa and hoped I had enough money left for a taxi to the hostel.  I clutched the hostel address in my hand and went out into the bright heat to find a cab.

Immediately I was accosted by a young Turkish man.  "Taxi, you want taxi!  I have taxi!"

"Uh...okay..."  He looked quite young, and very plainly dressed.  I wasn't sure this was right.  I looked around, but no other cabs seemed to be immediately available, and I wanted to get to the hostel A.S.A.P.  I couldn't wait to tell my classmates about my visa issue.

The taxi driver kept walking ahead of me, enthusiastically gesturing and smoking.  I followed him through two parking lots, and kept increasing my distance from him as the minutes ticked by.  Was this right?  Was this guy some kind of creep?  Why wasn't his taxi parked closer to the entrance?  Why were we going all the way over here?  But the broad daylight and my 20-year-old cockiness kept me following.

We arrived at a small maroon sedan.  There was no light on the roof, no logo on the side.  I hadn't grown up in a taxi city, but I thought I knew what to expect.  As the driver opened his door (unlocked, if I remember correctly), I peered in through the passenger window.  I saw a legitimate-looking meter.  The car was rundown but clean inside.  Nothing seemed to be wrong with the vehicle--the tires were full, nothing was leaking, no funky smells.  I got in the taxi.

And held on for dear life.  I learned later that Turks believe your fate is written across your forehead at birth, and that pretty much nothing you do (or fail to do) will change that.  So they drive like crazy people.  Rather than staying in his own lane, my young driver created his own lane a couple of times by either driving on the shoulder (next to a concrete divider at high speeds) or by squeezing the nose of his vehicle between the two cars ahead of us.  They moved over amiably.  I pressed my feet to the floor as if I could brake the car somehow and prayed not to die.  The man swerved, honked, sang to the song on the radio, and never missed a beat.  He didn't curse or get angry.  He was enjoying himself.  And it was kind of contagious.  I relaxed just enough to enjoy the wind whipping through the window and tangling my hair.  I actually managed to smile when I paid and said goodbye.

At the hostel I was given a note as soon as I showed my passport.  In it, my classmates had written that they'd switched hostels.  They'd written the address, a promise to explain later, and orders to ask this hostel to call me a taxi.  The bottom was covered with smiley faces and their now-familiar signatures.

Oh, great.  At this point I was tired and just wanted a stable place to set down my stuff.  The level of fear and anxiety I'd been feeling since the Customs and Immigration line had kind of plateau'd and even decreased.  I had to get through this.  I had to get from this hostel to the other one.  What else was I going to do?

When I arrived at the other hostel, they'd gone out for the day, but all of their stuff was in the room we'd be sharing.  I looked at this stuff--belongings of people I'd known as classmates for less than two months--it felt like I was looking at the stuff of loved ones.

Having faith in strangers isn't easy.  It isn't fun.  It can be scary and ugly, and sometimes it turns out horribly, horribly wrong.  When you're foreign, especially when you're not in an English-speaking or European country, you stand out--you could be a target.  And being a woman alone makes you even more of a target.  You hear scary stories all the time about young girls trusting the wrong man--and never being heard from again.  About foreigners getting abducted, even in America.  Or that German pilot who deliberately crashed his plane, killing himself and all of the passengers. 

But, as the Chinese say, mei banfa--literally, without the way, or no choice.  In other words:  "What can you do?"  Am I going to stay locked in my house 24 hours a day because I'm afraid something might happen?  Maybe my fate isn't written on my forehead, but God has counted all the hairs on my head.  He knows when I sit and when I stand. 

Sometimes you have to trust random people if you want to get from point A to point B.  If they say, "Get on this bus, this is the right one," you have to believe them.  You have to take it on faith, because sometimes you don't have a guidebook, and even when you do, sometimes the guidebook is wrong. 

I've come to believe that some of these strangers are sent by God (like that annoying American dude who "honey"'d me) to give us a tip at the right time and the right place.  Maybe they're angels, who knows?  No one knows their airline pilot personally, but we all pay hundreds of dollars and let him or her fly us to our destination.  Whether we acknowledge it or not, we're trusting a complete stranger with our lives.  I'm willing to bet that some of them are angels, too.

There is something scary about this, but also something strangely exhilarating, like riding a roller coaster (which, oddly enough, I really don't enjoy).  You are locked in.  You can't get out.  The vehicle is falling downhill and you can hang on and scream for your life with your eyes screwed shut (which is usually my roller coaster style) or you can let go and throw your arms up and open your eyes, because you can't get out until the ride is over.  (Interestingly, my travel style is the second one.)

My students who've gotten lost in a place where they don't know the language have that look in their eyes that I feel--a spark, an excitement--and a desire to do it again.