in the spirit of 11n11, here are eleven things that have changed after six months on the World Race.
The question is no longer, What else do I need to put in my pack to make sure I can experience the next eleven months well and in relative comfort? Rather, it’s, How much more crap can I ditch from my pack and still survive?
You know which of your teammates are going to freak out about living with large spiders or not getting to take showers–and which of your teammates are going to freak out about killing large spiders or having to take showers.
You also know which of your teammates will be willing to help you finish your plate–who will eat that massive pile of rice, who will pick the scraps off the chicken bones, and which brave soul will take one for the team and eat four helpings of teeny-tiny, salty, whole fish, eyes, brains, bones and all.
Things that used to seem like absolute necessities have become true luxuries. Consistent electricity? Wow. Water? Even better. Air conditioning? A treat reserved for grocery stores and immigration lines. A bed? Relish that beautiful gift from the Lord, because it’ll be gone before you know it.
A shower that sprays water over your head is a huge blessing. A shower with good water pressure is an even greater one. A shower with good water pressure and reliable hot water? Almost too good to be true. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve prayed for hot water.
. . . Heck, a shower more than once a week is a true blessing in itself.
You’ve learned the secret to preserving those precious American toiletries: don’t bathe. When the shower situation is far from ideal (read: there’s no water, period), you’re used to going up to a week–or longer–without a shower.
You trust that nobody (or almost nobody) will notice or care if you wear the same outfit five days in a row.
On the flip side, you know your teammates’ clothes so well that you immediately notice any new acquisition. If it came from the free table, you probably know who owned it last . . . and the time before that, and the time before that.
A day without a conversation about poop is a strange, incomplete day. How else can you evaluate your teammates’ physical, mental and emotional stability?
You’re adept at doubling or tripling the intended carrying capacity of any vehicle. You’re also accustomed to praying sincerely for God to protect you because you probably don’t have a seatbelt, an entirely functional or well-maintained vehicle or a careful (or sober) driver. I’ve ridden in three-person motos with six people, in motos that seemed determined to fling themselves off the side of a mountain, in pickup trucks packed with thirty people in the bed, on long-distance buses driving kamikaze along winding mountain roads, and with a wide variety of crazy drivers whose vehicles did not have seatbelts.
