Ironically, of all the places we’ve been, returning to the USA I was faced with the most intense culture shock to date. The shock was likely exacerbated by a few additional factors: the roundabout route we took to get home, the fact that we had been away for so long, the intense heat wave we experienced in the south, and the pleasant reminder of American political discourse during election season. But successfully getting our Panamanian car across the Mexican border into the States felt like a victory nonetheless. With that hurdle cleared, we were committed to the long road trip from McAllen, Texas, to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where I grew up.
Despite my wide-eyed ambition of buying a car in Panama, the reality of said purchase proved to be more complicated than I’d envisioned. Unaware that non-residents couldn’t cross the border with Panamanian license plates, we quickly found ourselves in a bit of a Kafkaesque scenario. But as always, where there’s a problem, there’s a solution—and we’re nothing if not persistent problem solvers. We managed to mitigate this bureaucratic faux pas, and after briefly celebrating this small victory could only imagine what obstacles would come our way next. We knew more hurdles were inevitable, but didn’t know when or where they’d surface.
Mexico was rife with travel warnings due to increased cartel activity, and by the time we reached the peninsual's northernmost city of Merida to plan our exit, the situation had escalated dramatically. Every local we spoke with warned us against crossing the border on our own with the car—they predicted we’d be stopped, mugged, stripped of our belongings, and left stranded without cell service and no shoes, if not worse. Determined to find a safer alternative, we embarked on the difficult search for some kind of loophole to act as our saving grace.
Fortunately, after consulting every local we encountered, we eventually “found a guy who knew a guy,” and our problem seemed solved—at least for now. We hired this “guy” at a very reasonable price (for us gringos at least), who was familiar with navigating the cartel and knew how to tackle the roadblocks we’d been thoroughly warned of. He planned to drive the car for two days, sleeping as little as possible while sprinting through the most challenging spots without getting stopped. This was his full-time job—regularly making these risky drives. The plan was for him to drop the car at the McAllen, Texas airport parking lot where we’d fly to nearly a month later. Our hopes were that the car would be there, with a full tank of gas, ready to take us to Philadelphia.
Needless to say, we were beyond relieved. Now, all we had to do was survive the final leg of our road trip across the southern US states and up the eastern seaboard. I had driven cross-country before and knew what to expect, especially through the heart of America. But this road trip hit differently, almost immediately, after witnessing how the rest of the world lives and the state of the places we’ve explored. Entering Texas, I quickly realized that I didn’t need to go to the edges of the earth to see the impact of our actions on the planet. It was staring me in the face right here on home soil.
The scorching heat, the trash lining the roads, the endless stream of trucks hauling the trinkets of American consumerism, and the overwhelming number of fast-food chains—it was clear we were back in America. It felt dystopian, as if we had conquered the once untamed American west, to now celebrate our plunder with meals encouraging obesity and the dopamine-induced “one-click purchases” of corporate conglomerations.
I wondered if we’d ever get used to the heat, doubting if sweating this much in the car could ever feel normal. I found myself sleeping in the front seat during long hauls, limiting my sun exposure by blanketing myself with a sun shield intended for the car’s windshield. With the outside temperature hitting 101°F (38°C), our air conditioning couldn’t keep up. The need for water was overwhelming, forcing us to buy plastic bottles at gas stations since our sustainable water containers just weren’t cutting it. The heat fatigue was unlike anything I’d experienced before. I had already cut half my hair off in Mexico because it was too difficult to manage, and I ended up cutting even more off in Texas just to keep it off my face and neck.
My legs were turning a deeper shade of tan from the sun beaming through the car windows—something I would have loved back in the early ’90s as a kid, blissfully unaware of the sun’s more adverse effects. But now, I longed for the freezing ice showers of the Solomon Islands and the Philippines, or the fresh-caught fish in Vanuatu. I almost would have preferred the tiny tents of Thailand over yet another day on the historic Route 66. Yet in the usual edges of earth fashion, we’d planned a somewhat substantial 13-hour detour from Texas to New Mexico. In doing so, we found ourselves driving down the main highway bordering the small town of Alamogordo, where the billboards were impossible to ignore:
“Missing a loved one? Call here.”
“It’s ok to ask for help.”
“Wounded in action vets never stop the fight!”
“Need a new gun? You can get it here!”
“Addicted? We’re here for you.”
“Jesus loves you.”
Mental health, violence, religion, and war seemed to dominate the landscape, interspersed with signs advertising the nearest cannabis shop in 19 miles. Then, digital signs flashed messages like “Thinking of all those who were lost during the wildfire.” It all seemed connected—the unhealthy lifestyle, the underlying hurt and pain, mixed with the unnatural, extreme conditions outside. From Texas to New Mexico, Oklahoma to Arkansas, Tennessee to Georgia, we made our way through the callously dubbed, “flyover states.”
As an American myself, I couldn’t help but ask myself if it was easier to tear into American culture given how used to it I was having grown up here. And also how much of its influence had been replaced by my pursuit of this expedition. Another facet of road tripping through the states one cannot ignore, is simply how vast the United States is. Hours upon hours of driving through the exact same landscape can leave you in awe of this place’s size, but it also reminds you that there is no “one America.” So many of the stops on our expedition featured some profoundly small and homogenous countries—but America certainly does not share this attribute. And perhaps its enormous size, its cultural diversity, landscapes and distinct communities only intensify the problems staring me in the face. At the end of the day, it was important to remind myself that, just like everywhere else we’ve seen on expedition, Americans are doing the best they can to get by with the resources they have available to them.
Between the sweltering heat and the almost cartoonish nature of the surrounding advertising and billboard messaging, I felt a surreal form of anxiety bubbling up. I needed something to put my mind at ease. As we veered off the main highways and into the country’s natural monuments, parks, and sanctuaries, we found solace. There’s no denying that America has some exceptional natural spaces that have been preserved. Those natural monuments became our lifeline, as we prayed our Nissan X-Trail, which had survived so much of the Americas already, would last just two more weeks until we made it back to my mid-Atlantic home town. We were inching toward some natural highlights I had yet to see, steering clear of the more crowded summer vacation spots.
The vortex of two million bats at Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico was an unforgettable sight. This is where bats emerge from the depths of this cave system around sunset and begin their nightly hunt. As they rise, they form a vortex shape, reminiscent of any Batman movie you've seen. The caverns themselves, often called the Grand Canyon underground, were equally next level. Despite the modern elevator that descends 750 feet into the earth and the paved walkways guiding tourists, we tried to imagine what the ancient settlers of this land must have felt when they first encountered this natural wonder. With the intense heat keeping most tourists away, we found ourselves exploring the cave system in peaceful solitude.
We then set our sights on the remote sand dunes in New Mexico, but military missile testing kept us from entering. Undeterred, we continued on to Santa Fe, traveling along a six-lane highway flanked by flatlands and, you guessed it, more fast food chains. A pit stop at a place called Pistachio Land, advertised on what felt like 100 billboards, became a welcome distraction from the weightier issues on our minds. The promise of pistachios provided a much-needed break from reality.
By the time we reached Santa Fe, it was raining, and I found myself welcoming the dark and stormy clouds like an old friend. Santa Fe turned out to be everything we needed. The red clay pueblos and the winding Rio Grande river created stunning backdrops as we explored the region. The food was always accompanied by either green, red, or “Christmas” chilis— a mix of both colors—and the burritos and tacos were exceptional. The laid-back, slower pace of life, with hints of First Nations art scattered everywhere, made the city feel like a haven. Locals sported quality cowboy boots, wide-brimmed hats, and large jade jewelry, creating a style that was both fashionable and rooted in tradition. The three days we spent there were blissful, almost like a vacation after what we’d just endured. We even managed to fix the AC.
Reluctantly, we said goodbye to Santa Fe, a place we had quickly grown to love, and returned to the flat, scorching landscapes. Leaving behind the 7,000-foot elevation, we crossed the Texas border into Oklahoma. The scenery shifted to farmland, the air thick with the smell of cow manure as we passed countless feedlots. This was clearly cattle country, where steakhouses and BBQ joints ruled. I was struck by how flat and green the landscape was—cattle and crops stretching out as far as the eye could see, hour after hour.
By the time we crossed the border from Oklahoma into Tennessee, we were thoroughly exhausted. It felt like an eternity crossing these borders, with countless hours of nothing but farms. However, a detour to prairie lands led us to an encounter with an American bison, holding us up for nearly 45 minutes as it curiously followed us each time we tried to move forward. Alone in the middle of the road with this great symbol of the American west, without a single car in sight, was a moment of awe that brought me closer to this part of the country that I was struggling to connect with. Once again, nature provided that glimmer of hope, and the universal appreciation no matter where in the world you are. I found comfort in the enduring presence of natural America—something that may not be that prevalent in the near future.
Arriving in Memphis, we were surprised to learn we had landed in the most dangerous city in the country—a detail we had somehow overlooked in our research. The cautionary advice to "stay safe out there" greeted us everywhere we went, from our hotel to restaurants and even on the streets. As we dug deeper, we discovered that this city, rich in history and legend, was also plagued by high crime rates, both major and minor. One of the highlights of Memphis was actually a mega hunting store in the shape of a pyramid, called Bass Pro Shops. Unfortunately, this didn’t feel like as much of a home-away-from-home as the Maskelyne Islands of Vanuatu did. We made our next move to Nashville, trading the home of blues for the home of country music as fast as we could.
Nashville is a vibrant and up-and-coming place, filled with kind people who were eager to hear our story and engage in conversation. Surprisingly, I loved visiting the Jack Daniel’s distillery—another destination steeped in incredible American history. It served as a reminder of how the land’s resources have been sustainability harnessed for decades to create something iconic and enduring. The scenery through Tenneesse was remarkable, fostering optimism that was fading in and out during our Route 66 voyage. As we traveled further east, our outlook began to shift; the deserts and flats gave way to fields and forests, which eventually transitioned to the low country–a place I had been dying to experience for years. We had arrived in South Carolina, which was a significant milestone on our expedition.
The emotional rollercoaster of a roaring 20s American road trip was draining. One moment, I was exhilarated by the natural landscapes; the next, I was sinking into an internal dispare, wondering how many years it would take for these remote places to be developed—replaced with fast food chains, highways and advertising about life’s woes. The call to action never felt more clear. Right now, each of us has a choice: to succumb to the real-world anxiety and let it paralyze us, or to channel it into meaningful action.
Whether it’s working to preserve critical habitats, advocating for human rights, or striving to create balance in a polarized world, we all have a part to play. Little did I know, this cross-country road trip was exactly what I needed to be reminded of my “why.” With every mile down, it was inspiring me to do more, work harder and commit my time and life to something much bigger than myself. Sometimes, these types of reminders don’t stem from swimming in crystal clear waters of the Pacific Islands or having some otherworldly wildlife encounter. Rather, the unglamorous can be exactly what’s needed to inspire us to keep moving forward.
To be continued …
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