The Kindness of Strangers (Lonely Planet Travel Literature)

by Don George

we were morally obliged to share it with his family. Not because they had fed us, or welcomed us into their home, but because we had simply met them.

What would be enough? When would we have satisfied our moral responsibility?

That was something within our power, our comprehension, something we could fit within our schedules.

So there’s no room for a categorical imperative here. There’s no room for doing what you need to do. There’s room only to do what you want to do, with your head a hive of guilt.

Crossing the road, I was met with the upturned glances of children, their dusty bellies poking out beneath too-small shirts. One boy took my hand as I crossed. His feet were bare, as wrinkled as a forty-year-old’s. His hand was moist in the heat and warmed my own.

I did, with both hands. Tony checked the buckle, spread his arms, and leaned forward, over the edge. His eyes were closed. The wind parted his hair, and I could see light brown roots. He wasn’t leaning far, but it was enough; he was trusting me with his life. After about ten seconds he straightened up, whooping and laughing. ‘Man! That was amazing!’ he said. ‘Your turn.’ I took my place on the cliff’s edge, Tony behind me. He held my belt with both hands. I leaned forward, eyes open, tilting far enough so that my feet disappeared from my peripheral vision and the land seemed to sail by beneath me, moving at the speed of wind. I howled with elation. This was nuts, we were insane, and I loved it.