Moon Walk

Last Summer of (Relative) Freedom

     It was the summer of 1969. Judy and I wanted an adventure while we earned money for out last year of college. If all went according to the proper sequence—graduation, finding a job—this would be our last chance.

     Judy's parents had visited Galveston, Texas and thought we could get jobs there for the summer. They were right. We both landed jobs at the historic Hotel Galvez, across the street from the beach. It is so solid many Galveston residents have ridden out severe storms there since 1911.

     Judy was hired as cashier in the bar. I started as a waitress in the dining room and was soon promoted to hostess, but filled in as waitress when staff was short, which turned out to be often. Tourist towns knew college students were temporary so got as much as they could out of you. Maybe laws have changed that now, but I had a strong work ethic and was reluctant to say no to extra hours. I went weeks without a day off and by August was suffering heavy burn-out, grateful I wouldn't have to do that my entire life. It was sobering insight into the plight of those who have little choice, including many of our co-workers there.

     We rented a cheap, shabby house just a few blocks from the hotel. It had the basic amenities but cockroaches so big we joked you had to step on them with both feet. But, we were rarely there, except to sleep or change clothes, so it was acceptable.

That's One Step for Man...

     I've never had a strong interest in space exploration or spaceships but the world was focused on Apollo 11 that summer because the astronauts were about to land on the moon. Even I was caught up in it. On July 20^th, we gathered around the television in the apartment of a fellow waitress from the hotel, with her three small kids, to watch the historic event. It was impossible not to be impressed and wonder if it really was happening.

     In late August, Judy and I bid farewell to Galveston and took the train from Nuevo Laredo to Mexico City for the last leg of our summer adventure. My family was living in Mexico City at the time so we saw the sights there, then traveled down to Acapulco. As part reward for a summer of hard work and a soon-to-graduate present, our parents put us up at Las Brisas, a beautiful resort hotel with private cabañas. It was great being the guest and not the worker, for a change.

The Mexican Connection

     Late one afternoon, we had just returned to our cabaña from the beach when there was a knock on the door. A staff person greeted us with tropical drinks and invited us to a reception on the main patio for the astronauts. Really??! We had no idea they were even in Acapulco, let alone staying where we were. So, we got dressed and joined the party. Those generous fruity drinks were deceptively strong and my words were probably slightly slurred as I told the astronauts how very proud we were of them. Looking back, they must have been so tired of hearing those words and continuous superficial events like that—and much larger ones—for months on end. They must have wished they could be sealed back up in that tiny space capsule, far from the adoring crowds.

The Colombian Connection

     Fast forward exactly two years. I'm a Peace Corps volunteer in Colombia, working with Servicio Nacional de Aprendizaje, the National Service for Learning. They offered classes throughout the country, from business and technology in cities to raising animals and home economics in the countryside. I was teaching nutrition, health and first aid in rural areas as an itinerant teacher, spending 2 or 3 weeks in a site, then moving on to the next place a course had been requested. I usually stayed with a family or in the casa cural with the priest and his housekeeper.

     This assignment was high on a mountain in the cordillera of the Andes, in a little vereda called Valparaiso. A vereda is a small community where, rather than living next door to each other, residents are scattered on little fincas (farms, mostly coffee and cacao) on the sides of hills. You could watch the children work their way up, down and across the facing hills to get to the school, usually built by the Colombian Coffee Federation.

     Getting to Valparaiso was a challenge since the vague outline of a “road” had long been washed out by rain, leaving a very rocky path. There were no horses or mules available my first trip up, but another Colombian service organization loaned me their driver and '59 Jeep (the gas pedal tied to the steering column with a rope!). It was a bone-jarring, neck-wrenching hour, but we made it with just one flat tire. Thereafter, the most comfortable trips to and from Valpariso were by mule or horseback. Those involving vehicles (Jeep or truck) always took other passengers, which was understandable since there was no scheduled transport to Valparaiso and no one in the vereda owned a vehicle.

     I stayed with a lovely family at the top of the mountain and, as always, learned more than I taught while living with them. There was no electricity there, though they had rigged up pipes from a stream for water. All cooking was with wood and baking was done in a hand-built mud oven. It might seem a “simple” life, but when you realize all labor was physical, there was no refrigeration, corn was pounded by hand into meal, and fresh milk shaken in a gourd for butter, all clothing, sheets, towels, etc. washed by hand and dried by air, even in the rainy season, it didn't look so “simple.”

     In the evening we would visit (no t.v, of course) and one night the subject of the astronauts walking on the moon came up. Most of the family was skeptical that it was real. The father was convinced it was all done in Hollywood.

     Each weekend I returned to the apartment I shared with three other volunteers in the capital of the state we were living in. It happened there was an article in Time magazine (all volunteers received a free subscription) with spectacular pictures of the moon walk on the second anniversary. I took the magazine with me to Valparaiso the following week. When I showed it to the father, he just looked at me with a crooked smile that said I was so gullible to believe photos that good could be taken on moon. They were really good; he even had me entertaining fleeting doubts. And why not, living where and as they did? When he'd asked how I had gotten to Colombia and I said by airplane, he asked how many days that took.

     At another site, which was a village, not a vereda, I was walking in the town square with my hostess one night when the moon was full and beautiful. She, too, brought up the moon walk and was amazed that men had actually done it, She harbored doubts too.

     At the time (1971), it seemed we were in such a modern era. I couldn't have imagined Peace Corps Volunteers today using cell phones, nor even the concept of cell phones or personal computers, and being able to keep in touch with their families through e-mail and Skype. "Snail mail," telegrams, phone offices (in larger towns) and notes sent with bus drivers were the main methods of communication then.
     I often wonder what places like Valparaiso are like today. It occurred to me last night that I could Google it. I didn't find much, other than the weather and some maps. Valparaiso is a common name for towns and the photos showed a flat place by a body of water, obviously not the same one.
     Colombia went through some horrific years during the drug wars. The family I'd stayed with had moved to Valparaiso from elsewhere due to the previous political violencia in the 1950s. I do hope the daughter who wanted to be a teacher, and was an excellent student herself, was able to fulfill her dream. If so, she'd be near retirement now. How I'd love to sit with her in the evening today to hear her story.