A Good News Story about Social Media
Reconnecting across continents and decades
Most reporting about social media concerns divisive comments, election rigging, privacy violations or censorship issues. It’s all very dizzying and wearying. No one could be blamed for abstaining or opting out. In fact, unplugging from technology and social media for periods of time is linked to improved emotional well-being.
In times as tumultuous as these, we need to ration our exposure to any bad news that steals our energy needed to stay functional. As surely as answering work e-mail on a weekend is a guaranteed buzzkill, getting in and out of social media emotionally unscathed has become a survival skill.
Facebook, Instagram and other photo based social media are criticized for perpetuating a culture of unhealthy comparison. Seeing our friends enjoying great vacations, family relationships and other good fortune does not always engender the best feelings of self-worth in the observer. Especially when we are not included or worse, are experiencing adversity. It is as though such posts are screaming “I’m having a great life and you’re not!”
Despite this, I have a social media experience that is 100% good news. You’ll see that these platforms can be used for social good to bring people together.
One beneficial take away from my unconventional upbringing was meeting people from other cultures and backgrounds. My white parents did not stick to their own kind. They cultivated friendships with Italians, Asians, Blacks and East Indians. They were not content to view the world through the lens of North American, status seeking materialism.
While my father had a lucrative, small town law practice and very little competition, something about spending his adult life chasing the almighty buck didn’t sit well with him. He began progressively living his life and making family decisions according to his internal hippie compass.
In the early seventies, my Mom’s younger sister and her husband took a lengthy trip through Latin America in a Volkswagen van and spoke of it enthusiastically. I remember their slideshow vividly to this day. This had a telling influence on my parents who gradually eschewed North American travel destinations for increasingly exotic locales. They vacationed in Mexico for three consecutive winters and fell in love with the people and culture.
In 1976, I was 11, my brother was 9 and my sister was 6. My father was at the peak of his career and earning power. He came home from work one day and made an announcement at the dinner table. He told us that he was selling his law practice, our house and the office building he owned.
We were going to decamp for Latin America and tour the South American continent in a pick-up truck and fifth wheel trailer. We would take our education by correspondence with our parents as tutors. My father was going to buy a truck and 5th wheel trailer in California and we would meet him later in Mazatlan, Mexico.
Upon arriving in Mazatlan, we set up our trailer at a beachfront campground that was largely populated with American retirees. My parents were neither unfriendly nor solicitous of the friendship of the other North Americans.
After a few ill-fated lessons, it became clear that distance education was not going to work for us. I guess we were not ideal students or they were not ideal teachers. The correspondence education got chucked after a week. We were free range children after that.
We were introduced to a cab driver that my parents befriended on a previous trip. His name was Justino. He had a wife and four children. I remember going to their humble, dirt floor home for a barbecue one day. Neighbouring kids stared at us through the holes in the fence. We were the only shod, white kids in the vicinity.
My parents’ Spanish had become serviceable after three trips and we socialized often with Justino’s extended family and friends. One of Justino’s friends described a stint in the county jail where he was jailed with his burro in the cell. All for smuggling corn across state lines! How innocent that seems today.
While in Mazatlan, my father was in a car accident. While no one was hurt, it stalled our travel plans and we were marooned for a month. My father ended up having to bribe an insurance adjuster to get our truck back. With the return of our repaired truck, we bade adios to Mazatlan and Justino’s family.
Our luck behind the wheel didn’t improve. Our 5th wheel trailer clipped an overhanging tree in Mexico City, shearing off much of one corner. We got stuck there for a month. Not before befriending the Pedrosa family in front of whose house our latest accident occurred. After another bribe to another insurance adjuster, we eventually made our way through Central America.
We stopped in Tikal, Guatemala and climbed the Mayan pyramids in the dense jungle. There were lizards crawling up our hotel room wall and monkeys and parrots everywhere. A tapir greeted us every morning to a drink from the swimming pool.
El Salvador and Nicaragua were in the midst of revolutions. I remember trucks full of young, armed soldiers heading for the battlefront in San Salvador. In Nicaragua, there were tire fires in the street. We took a cab ride through Managua. The driver had a copy of Mao’s little Red book on his dashboard. His car had palm branches attached to the front bumper to sweep away all the broken glass in the street. We didn’t stick around and kept going until we hit Costa Rica.
We settled into a camp ground in a lush, high altitude region adjacent to a national park. There were friendly colourful, neighbours beside us. One was a retired US Navy Veteran who had served alongside ex-president Richard Nixon. He and his wife drank martinis from 12 noon to bedtime every day. This was during the Carter presidency and very fresh off the Watergate scandal. Bill, the Navy vet, regaled my father with stories about Richard Nixon and what a conniving bastard he was. I fondly recall waking up to parakeets. We later visited San Lucas Island penal colony and bought souvenirs from the prisoners.
After a few weeks, we went to Panama City. We learned that we could not drive through to Colombia as the Darien Gap was not navigable by car. Again my Dad befriended a cab driver. He needed some local help as we would have to ship our truck and trailer from Panama City to Barranquilla, Colombia. The cab driver showed him around the Panama harbour and later asked to borrow money from him so as to buy his child medicine. We later learned his daughter died.
After finding a shipping arrangement for our vehicle and trailer, we flew to Barranquilla. We visited historic Cartagena for a few days before heading east towards a campground in Santa Marta. There were bullet holes in most of the highways signs.
Along the highway, we were stopped by a military checkpoint. Our vehicle and trailer were searched as we were frisked at gunpoint by soldiers who looked no more than eighteen. After we arrived in Santa Marta and hooked up our trailer, my Dad let loose the stress from the checkpoint. He was quite shaken. We learned that a soldier at the checkpoint had been killed earlier that day. The suspect was still at large. We explored around Santa Marta and enjoyed the beach for a few weeks before leaving for Maracaibo, Venezuela.
Driving through a residential neighbourhood, we stopped to ask directions and were invited into a family’s home. We befriended the Alvarado family and ended up staying in the city for a few months. Inez, the lady of the house, cared for us like we were her own children. We went for many picnics at Lake Maracaibo where oil rigs pumped around the clock. Venezuela was an oil rich, prosperous democracy where there appeared to be very little poverty.
My parents decided that I was too idle and I was sent to a local school. My Spanish was insufficient to feel competent. People already had established friendships and I just wandered around the school yard aimlessly.
We then set off for Tobago. We stayed in a guesthouse in the idyllic village of Buccoo Point. We frequently accompanied the son of the guesthouse who also owned a glass bottomed tour boat. There were colorful coral reefs teeming with tropical fish. I played tennis in the street with local kids, climbed trees and ate genip. There were beautiful parrots and beaches. People were friendly. It was as close to paradise as anywhere I’ve ever been.
After six weeks we began our trek back to Canada. Freddie, the younger brother of Mr Alvarado was going to journey with us. Along the way it became apparent that he was not going to contribute to any travel costs including his own. We dropped him off in Mexico to fend for himself.
We crossed the border at El Paso, Texas. There the border police searched and partially dismantled our trailer looking for drugs. We stayed at a hotel there where my Dad and I watched Jim Plunkett and the Oakland Raiders beat the Philadelphia Eagles in the Super Bowl.
My brother has connected with Justino and the Pedrosa and Alvarado families on social media. We have not been successful in tracking down the family in Tobago that owned the guesthouse.
Justino settled in Phoenix Arizona where he and my Dad have had one reunion. Justino’s family came up to Victoria, BC for another.
Mr. and Mrs. Alvarado divorced. Inez has remarried. Her son from her second marriage settled in Montreal, Quebec where we’ve had several great visits. His Venezuelan wife has since joined him there.
None of these reunions would have been possible without social media. These exchanges have helped our family reconnect with a vital part of our history. The trip to Latin America had a big role in shaping our world view. As I approach retirement, I am happy to see that I have a way to reconnect with some of the special people we met along the way.