Archive for the ‘College Essays’ Category

Their faces run through my mind like a silent slideshow that never stops. Whenever there is a gap or quiet moment in the day, I see their exuberant faces, and actually feel their incredible optimism. It is hard to believe that a little school and clinic in Ghana can change a person as much as it changed me, but it did. One of the most transforming experiences of my life was visiting and working in an impoverished school and clinic in Ghana where most of the children are orphaned and have AIDS. As I write, I realize it is a challenge just to express in words how deeply this experience affected me.

As I stepped out of the air-conditioned van and into the hot African sun, I was greeted by a hundred smiling children, all waving at me. I took a deep breath of the dense and heavy air, waving back as the school’s principal and clinic director led me on a tour of the clinic and the school. As I walked through the small stuffy clinic, I saw two nurses standing in the doorway. They were the only staff members on duty. The clinic was hot and dark, with barely any light in the main entrance area. We entered a room with only four small beds, one without a mattress. The clinic director told us a story about a mother who died recently on that mattress-less bed from AIDS. As we moved into another room filled with children lying on hospital beds, I tried hard to control my emotions, but had to turn away before they could see my tears. I saw children lying helpless and sick, without parents or comfort of any kind. The image of two little girls sharing one bed, both looking deep into my eyes as I stood there, remains vivid in my mind.

We stepped outside onto the dark red dirt that led to the school next door. It was lunchtime, and I helped serve the children their meals. Entering one of the dark classrooms holding bowls of rice, I saw there were no desks inside, only chairs. All the children were sitting in a circle, quietly waiting to be fed. I sat on the concrete floor of the classroom, just watching them eat. Nobody spoke; the only sound was the scraping of their spoons against the bowls as they devoured every last grain sticking to the sides of their bowls. I tried to ask for their names in their local language, but they did not understand my poor attempt. Instead, our exchange of smiles became our mutual language. When lunchtime was almost finished, I saw a little girl trying to steal more rice from a classmate.  Another little boy begged his teacher for more water. The room grew louder, and finally all the children began to play. One little girl clung to me. I asked what her name was, but couldn’t hear her mumbled response, so I just smiled and told her I was Ruby. Now friends, she held my hand and we danced and laughed as other children started to surround us. They each begged for my attention.  They grabbed at me, gesturing for me to pick them up and hold them. As I hugged the first one, and then another, I stared deep into all of their eyes and I saw the warmth there, despite their meager circumstances. That image, of their big bright smiles and their eyes filled with love, holds a place of honor in my heart.

The impact of this experience on the person that I am today is profound. This journey showed me two sides of life. On the one hand, I witnessed how unfair life can be. Yet on the other hand, I saw children playing and enjoying life despite very serious hardships. I am still inspired by the love these children found in their hearts for a complete stranger. I came to help and teach them, but they taught me to search for that same inner peace and joy no matter what challenge I may face. This was the greatest lesson of all.

I feel proud and fortunate to have taken this unusual journey, to have had this meaningful experience at my age. It has so far, been one of the greatest accomplishments of my life. Without taking this journey with Global Leadership Adventures as a high school volunteer, I would not have had this incredible opportunity. This experience allowed me to really test my boundaries, make new friends, see a whole other side of the world, and make a difference in someone’s life. The incredible journey I had is, and always will be, a part of me.

Many people claim that the time spent in long, hot showers leads to self-reflection and grand realizations; until my own epiphany in a shower, I would have scoffed at any idea like that. However, my shower was not characterized by boundless, hot water flow but rather by a rushed, icy rinse in a dirty stall.  In fact, I was showering in La Cruz, Costa Rica when I came to my powerful realization.

My three weeklong service trip in Costa Rica was an eye-opening experience for me, but not for the reasons you may think. At first, I was very nervous about going to a foreign country without knowing anyone, and I was even more worried about adhering to a strict diet of rice and beans. I arrived at the airport on the first day to find a tall, flamboyant African American boy wearing his red Global Leadership Adventure shirt, flailing his arms and joining me at the gate. This was Damion, and he, along with 31 other students, opened my eyes to the diverse world in which I live and yet am so unacquainted.

I grew on this service trip because of the people I met and what I learned from each person. The students on the trip came from different parts of North America, from Massachusetts, to Florida, to California, and even Canada. I noticed subtle differences between people who lived within the same state; I found that my life is completely different than the other students who live just a town away from me.  Unlike most of the Massachusetts students, I live a small town and go to an all-girls Catholic school.  Many Jewish, Protestant and Muslim students were interested in my Catholic faith.  Moreover, I didn’t expect to find solace in strangers.  When listening to Damion talk about his personal problems, the passing of his mother has helped me understand and cope with the recent passing of one of my own friends.  This experience made me feel more spiritually and emotionally connected to another.

Individually, each person offered something unique in the group. Yair, from Sonoma, California, shared his passion for soccer. Sarah, from Moorestown, New Jersey, showed off her knowledge of U.S. history, and always included a random historical fact in conversation that was guaranteed to make everyone smile. Jack, from Minnetonka, Minnesota, shared his love for fishing and country music, which earned him the nickname “country bear.”  Rocky, from Oakland, California, impressed everyone with his photographic skills, and never failed to set the mood with his music and speakers.

So, what was my epiphany in the filthy Costa Rican shower stall?  I came to realize that my life has been largely isolated from any kind cultural diversity that is so pervasive in the urban areas of Massachusetts and throughout the country.  Through sharing their varying lifestyles, religious practices, music tastes, or dialects, the students helped me appreciate that a person’s individuality enriches the uniqueness of another.  By stepping out of my comfort zone and spending time with people who don’t look or talk like me, I realized that I encountered as much cultural diversity within my student group as I did in the surrounding Costa Rican community.

There was tension in the air of the tiny living room as I stood facing my parents, a messy table on one side and a green sofa on the other. I was frowning hard to hold my tears from running down my cheeks as I stared at my opponent – my mother. I could feel something stuck in my throat, and I was so angry that my mind felt disconnected from my body. I could hear myself yelling and I could see my mother frowning with sadness written on her face. It was a Friday night, and I had just gotten back from hanging out with my friends, which was my weekly chance to breathe. However, my parents always seemed to complain about it, as if they wanted to cage me at home. That night, I finally exploded. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH!” I heard myself shout, still holding back the tears.

From earning good grades to joining and taken on clubs to my job as a mentor with young children, I was a typical, overworked junior in high school. As the year went on, it all weighed quite heavily on my shoulders. I felt like a donkey carrying a huge load of luggage on my back, unable to see what was weighing me down as I walked down an endless path. It was the path of doing well in school, getting into college, finding a reliable job and living a stable life. Once in a while, however, I felt like I needed to jump off that road, get those bags off my back and lay down on the grass facing the boundless sky so that I could breathe.

Over my 2011 summer, I finally had a chance to break away. I joined a program to travel and volunteer abroad in Cape Town, South Africa. One cold July morning, my group was assigned to repaint the wall of a bathhouse at a facility for needy women and children. We huddled together in a circle waiting for our equipment to arrive. All of a sudden, a three year old boy wearing a bright orange jacket peeked out from the edge of the bathhouse, looking at us. Out of boredom, we decided to play with him.

Every morning for the next week, when we arrived at the facility, the little boy would come find us with a sweet smile that cured our exhaustion from the hard labor. Fortunately, a member of our group was a South African, so we were able to communicate with him through her. Shockingly, we learned that he had already lost his mother and his father was missing. I tried to put myself in his shoes, but I could not. I asked myself, “Could I even have a life without my parents?” My parents had always been there for me. They provided me with food, shelter, and most importantly, love. I realized that I had been taking them for granted and that they only wanted to spend time with me. Listening to the little boy’s story, I thought back to that night in the living room and asked myself, “What have I been doing?”

Since I got back from that trip, I have changed. I am no longer the silly donkey who thought that I had to carry all of the luggage by myself. I have learned that if I look around, I can see my parents walking beside me, helping to carry my luggage to lessen the weight. I am not alone. Instead of jumping off the road and disappearing from my parents, I know I should take one step at a time, at a comfortable pace, along with them.

As I arrive in the Guatemalan airport, I am surrounded by new voices in a language that I usually only hear during a fifty minute Spanish class five days a week. My senses are quickly overwhelmed. I am in a completely new country, alone. Making it through customs, with help from strangers, I emerge into a crowded parking lot, looking for someone else in a red shirt; that is what we were told to wear so we could find each other; I don’t know if the GLA staff realized that all Mayan clothing is extremely colorful and entire families wait at the airports for long-awaited loved ones. I, however, have two strangers in very Americanized clothing awaiting me. Fredy, a taxi driver in the city of Antigua, spots me first. We quickly become close friends, talking about life, differences in our cultures, and tons of jokes including: illegal driving, “jus keeding” about everything, and my soccer skills. Although Fredy informs me about situations and customs of his country, it does not prepare me for what I am about to see.

Driving through rural Guatemala, I understand why Fredy wanted to prepare me. The conglomerations of houses resemble a junk yard as I look at them from our quickly moving van. They are made from old, rusty, corrugated metal. The roofs leak, turning the dirt floors into mud. Massive mudslides cover much of the road; there is a cross honoring those who died when a bus fell through a pothole where the earth had been washed away from the torrential downpours of the rainy season. Dogs roam the streets in packs, searching for food scraps, trying to feed their puppies milk with some nutrients in them. I see the hardships of those in a developing country that I couldn’t fathom from pictures; I have yet to see the people’s gracious and loving spirits a camera cannot capture.

I arrive at La Escuela Rural Pueblo Viejoin Tecpán and am greeted by over a hundred kids from the ages of six to thirteen. I can’t believe those are their ages; they are much too small. José, one of our leaders, confirms that indeed those are their ages, many suffering from malnutrition along with the already small stature of Latinos. Boys are dressed in traditional American clothing, some wearing tennis shoes, others wearing rainboots, but the girls wear brightly colored Mayan clothing with either Mary Janes or sandals. I learn that boys or men who wear traditional Mayan clothing are discriminated against when looking for a job. The rainboots set apart the children who have been up since the rooster crowed, working with their parents on the fields before school. The Spanish voices take over my thoughts. I don’t mind, however. All of this excitement and confusion translates into my acceptance by the children. José says something to the kids and they grow silent. Marcantionio, Rosita, and other children hold on tight to my fingers; they have already decided that we will become friends. I am surrounded by love and compassion from strangers, children who don’t speak my language, some who don’t speak at all.

On the second day at our hotel in the mountains, we notice a group of neighbor children that have begun waiting for us on the driveway. It is rainy and cold, but that doesn’t stop the older children. As we are running into the hotel, Kevin, at the front of the pack, stops by the kitchen. We get hot chocolate and lunch to take to the five kids on the driveway; the baby is inside. They invite us in the house to eat on the makeshift table and we begin sharing the modest meal that has been prepared for us. Laughing and playing with the kids, it is the most fun I’ve had in awhile. Their mother hands us the baby, Julio, so she can tend to the children’s clothes. Our differences evaporate into thin air. For a moment, we are all kids having fun, not judging each other.

Life has grown simpler. For these few days, I am free from the technological dependency I know so well at home. I am relating to people one on one, getting to know individual children. There is one deaf boy, my baby, who cannot express his feelings through words. He shows affection through small, silent, tender gestures; his fingers are running through my hair; he sits in my lap while we paint. He cannot say a word, but I know exactly what he is telling me.

This is the third day in a row that I am playing soccer with the older boys. Our field, a muddy, partly concrete patch of land, is much different from the perfectly manicured field I am used to at home. The ball is flat and has next to no shape; we don’t wear shoes because most of the players only have one pair. We all share lukewarm water out of my water bottle, playing through the scorching heat and the pouring rain. Many of the boys wear the same clothes they wore the days before. The first day they treated me like the privileged American they know I am, but today, covered in mud and sweat, I am just another kid trying to get away from the grind of everyday life.

Both at the hotel and the school, we learn about ourselves, the other people on the trip, and the kids whose school we have improved. We adapt to a new culture and language with minimal help from translators. Thousands of miles from home, my eyes are opened to a new world, one where food in your belly, clothes on your back, and the ability to go to school constitute a good day, a world where color, social status, and money don’t matter, a place where a smile and small gestures substitute for verbal communication. I am here to live like they do, to laugh, smile, love, and play soccer. In this back-to-basics community, my immune system is strengthened, my smile is broadened, my heart and soul are broken into two parts, one in Mobile, Alabama; one on the dirt patch at La Escuela Rural Pueblo Viejoin Tecpán, the most alive place I know.

Walking into a room with 32 American youth, I listened to the Costa Rican teacher as he spoke in fluent Spanish. Not even three years of Spanish classes could have prepared me for this moment. I was in a classroom teaching English at La Libertad, a school in a small town in San Dimas, Costa Rica. I was chosen for a leadership program called Summer Search that provides low-income students with year-long mentoring and two adventurous summer service trips. I was excited to be given such a valuable opportunity, but I was also afraid of being away from home and so out of my element.

However, seeing the enthusiasm of the kids on my first day as an English teacher melted away my anxiety and I could see how much I would be changed by them. The kids followed me around and I could see their faces light up every time I taught them a new English word. Their eagerness and enthusiasm to learn was infectious and encouraged me to teach them more. I transformed a simple childhood game of “Go Fish” using words instead of numbers to become the springboard for many English lessons. Every morning, I looked forward to the bright faces of the kids running up to the bus as we pulled up.

In Costa Rica, education is highly coveted. The children climbed muddy mountains, trekked through rivers, and even crossed country borders just to come to school even when it was not in session. Their never ending commitment and passion for learning made me see education in different ways.

Before this trip, I felt that my own poverty limited my opportunities, but here, in a place surrounded by poverty, the kids did not allow it to limit theirs. As I once saw myself as impoverished and disadvantaged, I no longer allow that aspect of my life to define me. Although my immigrant mother cannot provide me with educational support, she did, however, provide me with a different outlook on life that other people may not have experienced. She taught me to be independently driven, both in and outside the classroom.
Before travelling to Costa Rica, I thought that all learning came from within the classroom. Instead, the children taught me that learning depends on a person’s desire for knowledge. My desire to get out of poverty pushed me to study harder and challenge myself further. The children I encountered in Costa Rica reinforced this belief and showed me that education is not limited to the classroom, but can be found in everyday life. I am always learning as long as I am open to it. I am proud that I was able to help those in need in Costa Rica. Seeing the smiles on the kids’ faces, who do not have much, made me love what I was doing and appreciate what I have at home even more. I believe that as long as I have a thirst for knowledge and consistently push myself, I can excel under any circumstances.

Living with a roof over my head, sustaining nourishment on the table each night, and a great academic school to return to each September makes it difficult to remember that some people live without these privileges. The simplicity of transportation or finding something to eat for a meal overshadows the reality that some people go days at a time without food, or are never able to leave their hometown. This summer I traveled to the Dominican Republic with a summer program of 15 high school volunteer students to study sustainability within impoverished urban and rural communities and see these world issues first hand. Throughout my stay in the Dominican Republic, I took a special interest in the poor educational system that was available to the Dominican children.

The second day of my stay I was able to learn the issues with the educational system of the Dominican Republic. The whole group started the day with what we were told would be an “easy” hike to the top of Brison Mountain. This “easy” hike became a two-hour continuously steep ascent that left us drenched in sweat and extremely exhausted. With burning calves we made our way to our final destination, a one-room schoolhouse where we were met by the bright-eyed, smiling school children that took our hands and led us inside.

Packing into the schoolhouse, we squeezed into the tiny desks so graciously offered to us as the school children sat on the floor. We were greeted by Manuel, the sole schoolteacher for all 30 children who attended the school. He acquainted us with the usual school day and the set up of two classes; one taught in the morning for children grades five to seven, and one in the afternoon for grades one to four. I was surprised when finding out that the limitation of school supplies was not their biggest setback, but their inability to teach past grade seven due to the lack of funds to buy and install lights.

Without lights, children that wish to continue their education are given the option of commuting one hour down the mountain of Brison to a school that provides education till age eighteen. Some children, with relatives in the town of the other school, typically move in with that relative. Those without that convenience commonly find it impossible to maintain their education and still help support their family after school hours. For me, the thought of taking the path we all had so much difficulty hiking to school each day seems almost unbearable, and all due to the lack of a few hundred dollars for lights.

In the United States, children are guaranteed a school education within close vicinity to their house. No child experiences a two mile walk—up or down hill—to arrive at to school each morning. By having a private high school experience, I am grateful that I was able to take advantage of meeting with teachers one-on-one, small class sizes, and a close-knit community that motivated me to do well. Good education is something that should be available to every child. A child without an education is unlikely able to have a profitable life. More importantly, that child is unable to expand their horizon and have awareness in depth of the world around them.

Studying in the Dominican Republic allowed me to step out of the comfort zone of my small school community and experience a different culture. Witnessing the education system in the Dominican has taught me to be thankful each day of all the resources that are available to me. I now remember to appreciate each class and remember that every test and exam is attributing to the betterment of myself. When I don’t perform as well as I would have liked on a test I remember the smiling Dominican children holding my hand as I walked through the door of their one room school house.

As I stood in front of a group of strangers on an expansive plain in South Africa under a hazy winter’s twilight, I first realized I could become something greater than myself. As a high school volunteer, I had traveled nine thousand miles to a land that was completely foreign to me, and after two weeks of living in Cape Town, I found myself standing in what was undoubtedly one of the most important moments of my life.

A group of international students, including myself, spent the day visiting a group of homeless residents of Khayelitsha, a township of the Mother City, who had been living on a plain despite efforts by the truculent police force to evict them. We first met in the tent maintained by the community for communal gatherings. We then toured the living conditions, which were so deplorable that most families had to resort to sleeping under bushes or holes in the ground that they had dug. Finally we all gathered again outside the main tent to eat the meal that we had prepared for them earlier in the day.

As the African sun descended, and the air filled with the mellow atmosphere of a subequatorial winter, the children were finishing up their cups of soup and bread, and were now playing with the dog that the community owned. Our group leader then pulled me aside. He said to me, “How would you like to say a few words?” I did not know how to respond to this, but by the time I had given it a thought, I realized the optimistic chatter of children around us had died down and most eyes were on me.

At this point I realized I didn’t have a choice. Still I was afraid I would embarrass myself, or worse, the group. What if I said something ridiculous or politically incorrect? An overwhelming nervousness began to kick in, but it dissipated as I began to look at the eyes that were watching me in that moment. The adults, wearing sad smiles, conveyed simple human frustration about being unable to feed their young. The children themselves, overjoyed about finally meeting a white American and with their bellies full from the soup kitchen earlier, seemed eager to hear what I had to say. I could hesitate no longer; it was time to speak. I opened my mouth.

I began by introducing myself and named cities where all of us students were from: New York, Barcelona, Shanghai, Seattle, Los Angeles. We were truly an international force connecting on this one plain. Next, I tried to explain the effect that the afternoon had had on us, but the force was just so immense, words seemed to slip by me. Instead of thinking before I spoke, I began to just speak, letting the eyes of the starved people I was looking at inspire my words. When I was finished, I remember the sad smiles of the adults changing to reflect an optimistic glow. I remember the hugs of the children, their laughter emanating from a place that has been the subject of police brutality, famine, and death.

Most of all, I remember a man approaching me afterwards, shaking my hand, and telling me – “When you return to South Africa, I will be waiting for you with my family, down in my hole in the ground.” That night I realized for the first time I could be someone greater than who I already am. I realized that with just one little push, the elimination of all of my hesitation could yield immense rewards not only for me, but for all those around me. If I could apply what happened that night in Africa to all aspects of my life, I am now convinced I can do wonders with my life, and more importantly, with the lives of others.

One day I plan to return to Khayelitsha to seek out the man who lived with his family in the hole. He should know that with just a few words, he changed my life forever.

As I stepped off of the dala dala onto the red dirt of the Himo School’s courtyard, I knew immediately ­– this was where I was meant to be. I was in Rau, Tanzania, a 45-minute drive from anywhere close to being recognizable as a town. Fred, the school principal, greeted us and led our group of thirteen into the small, dank room he called an office. Even though I’d come with low expectations, I was taken aback by the lack of supplies, space, and even usable desks for the 1,400 students. Our orientation consisted of a quick visit to each class and an overview of what they were learning. Then Fred gave us our assignment: teach English for two hours every day. We were on our own to figure out what to teach and how to teach it.

Luckily, our mentors had prepared us to anticipate this lack of direction, so we had brainstormed lesson plans before arriving. I chose to teach the eight year old group, not realizing this meant their knowledge of even basic English would be so limited. What made it even harder was the lack of accuracy in what they had already been taught. Students were learning to speak in present continuous, saying things like “I will running,” and they were given misinformation, like the capital of the United States is New York. We were presented with the challenge of re-teaching the already complex rules of English grammar.

The first day of class, the sixty pairs of eyes staring attentively at me were daunting. My uneasiness was compounded by the absence of a teacher in the room, who had decided it was a good time to take a paid day off. I could have used her assistance as a translator, given that I’d only had two Swahili lessons at that point. My teaching buddy, Andrew, and I had to learn by trial and error. We figured out that the students loved to sing, so we taught nouns through songs like Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes and Old MacDonald. To our delight, the kids were engaged, smiling and understanding the material.

Our next challenge was to get the students to let us know when they did not understand something we were teaching. They were afraid to make a mistake, and would not raise their hands. Andrew and I had the idea to bring them paper from our letter writing stash, a luxury for many of them. We asked them to spell the words for animals, and common objects. They were happy to participate in this exercise because they didn’t feel put on the spot. By looking at their writing, we gained insight into which students understood the concepts…and some actually did! I was so proud to see we were getting through to them! It was even more rewarding to work with the struggling children because, when they finally understood something, they were encouraged to learn more. I certainly developed a greater appreciation for my teachers and the lessons they create for us every day.

My first exposure to this connection between education and reducing poverty in underdeveloped countries was from Greg Mortenson’s book Three Cups of Tea.  It inspired a group of us to start a branch of his program, Stones into Schools, at our own school. We raised money to send girls in South East Asia to school. I loved being involved with this, and wanted to do more. I saw some of my fellow students getting involved with their passions beyond our own school, and I wanted to be a part of it. This is how I ended up working with GLA  in Tanzania. I decided to make a difference first-hand in someone’s education. Now that I am home, my enthusiasm for the Stones into Schools club is renewed. As an officer, I want to encourage more students to raise money or get involved in a bigger way by teaching, because it will change their lives and it is so rewarding.

As I prepare for college, I am excited to continue learning about underdeveloped countries and how I can make a difference. While I intend to study medicine, I plan to return to Tanzania to continue teaching, and also to pursue another dream of mine –making medical care more accessible in remote areas like Rau. I know it’s possible, and I am up for the challenge.

The scene is set in Xela, Guatemala, where a teenage boy is sick of shopping even though he has thoroughly enjoyed haggling with store owners for lower prices. He has a plastic soccer ball in his bag that he purchased for 3 quetzal or roughly 38 cents.  To entertain himself he takes the ball out and starts juggling it. After he plays for a while, some local children come up to him and ask “podemos jugar?” The boy can speak about 3 words of Spanish and has no idea what the children are saying, but he infers from their gestures that they want to play some futbol. He says “si” and they proceed to show him where the goals are and sort out teams.

One goal was between 2 glass bottles, and the other was the bottom of a set of steps. The impromptu game goes on for a little while and the boy eventually learns how to say “here” in Spanish. As the game goes on, more and more local children join. Their enthusiasm was contagious as each goal celebration mimicked a World Cup Final. The teenager eventually has to depart and the local children realize that their fun is over. They hand the ball back to the teenager, but he immediately says in his newly acquired Spanish “aqui” and hands the ball right back to the kids.

Confused at first, the kids quickly realize that the boy is giving them the ball, and their faces light up with joy. They had never expected when the game started that they would be the proud owners of a soccer ball. Soccer is a game that can help cross many boundaries, such as language, age and race and the teenage boy received a small taste of its ability to cross these borders.

If you haven’t guessed by now, this teenage boy was me. This little exchange as a high school volunteer  had a big impact and broadened my perspective on the world. Coming from a comfortable existence in a suburban town in New Hampshire it demonstrated to me that material things are not that important. I saw how these kids who had next to nothing were much happier in life than people with all the money in the world. These kids with no shoes, or shirts played for the sake of playing. At the end of the day it didn’t matter who the winner was, they played their hearts out simply because it made them happy. They taught me to appreciate the little things and gave me far more than a 38 cent ball would ever be worth.

I’m not the kind of girl who devotes every waking hour to “the cause.” I shop, I waste time online, and more often than I’d like to admit, I sit at home wishing my life were different yet never seeming to do anything about it—or at least I did.

I wish you could have seen the look on my parents’ faces when I told them I wanted to spend $6,000 on a high school volunteer abroad program in the Galápagos Islands. First thing they said? “Well, it sure isn’t going to be our money that gets you there.” And let me tell you, it wasn’t.

At a very minimum, I spent twenty hours per week during my summer vacation babysitting to the death. I signed over every paycheck to a seemingly insatiable debt that was my trip. At times, I nearly became convinced that it had become nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Yet, somehow, nothing had ever felt so right. Even now, when people ask me why I decided to go on this trip, I find myself at a loss for words. Perhaps a story will do justice.

It was our fourth day on the Islands and a peculiar man named Jefferson had apparently requested that my group take the day off of our usual volunteer work and come help him instead. We were told that Jefferson was an employee of the Galápagos National Park and that he manned the enormous greenhouse that services the entire island of San Cristóbal. We learned that because of park budget cuts, all of the other workers at this greenhouse had been laid off. Jefferson had been left on his own to tend to and distribute the thousands of plants that were growing in that palace of a greenhouse.

That particular day, he needed us to accompany him to a place on top of an old volcano called El Junco Lagoon. We were to be planting seedlings of the miconia plant—an endemic species that had been nearly wiped out of the area by invasive plants and animals. When we arrived at the base of the trail, the weather was miserable. High winds, rain, cold, mud, you name it. As we hiked up, the conditions only got worse. Most of the group was put off by this and begrudgingly carried on up the slippery trail. I, however, could not seem to help the euphoric sensations that were erupting inside of me. I felt so lucky and humbled to be of aid to this man who was so clearly in need of it.

As we began our work, I quickly fell into a rhythm with José, the man with whom we were both living and working for the rest of the week. As he dug, I transported and planted the miconia, carrying more and more back with me with each trip I took to the receding bins in which the plants were stored. Somehow, I could always find my way back through the bushes and fog and there José would be—shaking with laughter with his goofy and nearly toothless smile at me, slipping and stumbling up the lava rocks to meet him. His absolute joy and determination made the hours pass quickly that day. I soon found that our time at the lagoon was almost over and we had even worked straight through the group’s designated break.

Rarely have I ever felt as in synch with a person as I did with José that day at El Junco. It amazes me even more as I recall that neither one of us knew more than a few basic phrases in the other’s native language. Though this must seem like a glaringly obvious barrier, at the time it could not have felt more insignificant. Indeed, there was next to no verbal communication between the two of us—or, for that matter, between myself and so many of the locals I met on the Islands throughout those two, sublime weeks I spent there. Despite this, these relationships that were formed through such bizarre circumstances turned out to be infinitely more deep and powerful than I ever could have expected.

I had found my cause. And that life I’d always longed for? I’m living it.