Traveler Privilege

by Angela Sanford

  I come from privilege, and I am very aware of it. Traveling always serves as a stark reminder. I love visiting other countries, experiencing places I have only read about or seen on screen. Later, I especially enjoy recognizing those same locations in movies or shows, knowing I have been there myself.

   I am fortunate to have an understanding family who knows that if it weren’t for them, I would be a free-spirited traveler, collecting experiences around the world for as long as I was able. That, in itself, is a privilege—one I wish I could share with every student I have ever taught. I want them to recognize the advantages we have living in Nova Scotia, privileges that many others do not.

Over March break, I took a trip to the Caribbean, beginning in Puerto Rico. The country was beautiful and remarkably clean—much cleaner than I had expected and, in many cases, cleaner than Nova Scotia. We strolled the streets freely, feeling little concern for our safety.

   Over the next six days, we visited five additional countries: the Dominican Republic, Aruba, Curaçao, St. Lucia, and St. Kitts. The landscapes were phenomenal—vivid colors painted both horizon and skyline, bustling markets welcomed visitors, and each destination held a new adventure. If one never stepped beyond the port, the differences between these places and home might seem minor. Even with excursions booked through a travel group, there remained an air of privilege—like-minded tourists experiencing a engineered version of a destination, designed to appease the traveler.

   However, choosing to tour via local taxi provided a glimpse into the everyday reality of the people who live there. Sure, we complain about potholes, especially as spring arrives, but I have a newfound appreciation for our roads—wide enough to drive at a consistent speed, lined with guardrails on dangerous curves, and regulated by safety inspections to ensure our vehicles are roadworthy.

   As we entered seaside villages where homes had only holes for windows—often without curtains—I reflected on the privacy my blinds and windows afford me. Many homes were in shambles, dilapidated vehicles sat abandoned in driveways where driveways even existed, and the houses were stacked so closely together that the road literally touched their front steps. I found myself appreciating the amenities my home provides, the space within it, and the yard where my children grew up playing.

   On our way to the Pitons, a banana plantation, and an active volcano—though it hasn’t erupted in over 2000 years, it still presents a  looming threat for those living nearby—I witnessed something I had only read about but had never truly confronted. When you see something firsthand, you can no longer pretend it doesn’t exist.