The three stars of Orion’s Belt blink familiarly at me from an unfamiliar night sky. I look at them, shaking my head in disbelief. What the hell am I doing on the back of a motorcycle at nine at night in frickin’ South America? I’m fifty-four-years-old for god’s sake.
The young teenage boy driving the bike leans into a corner and, instinctively, I lean in the opposite direction, hoping my move will keep us upright. My grip on the young driver’s thin waist is at first tentative, uncomfortable with the intimate connection his threadbare T-shirt causes, but then more desperate as I watch the pavement race by beneath my feet. Hey - what did that sign just say?? My destination’s thirty kilometres away? On this metal purveyor of death?
I feel like I’ve stepped into a book and am watching myself, a crazy woman in a faded orange singlet and drab shorts, sandwiched between a skinny teen-age boy and a big, dirty backpack. Her frightened eyes wide beneath her short and messy dirty-blonde hair as she scans the darkness trying to see what lies beyond the single beam of light the small dirt bike gives off.
Clearly, I hadn’t been thinking straight ten minutes ago, when I climbed off the small wooden boat that had brought me across the Rio Magdalena. It was much darker than I’d expected when we landed and there were no lights to assure me we were in Mompox where I thought I’d been headed. Hustled up the slope to an assortment of vehicles and moonlit bodies under a tree, a mass of men rushed at me.
“Aqui, Señora!” “Here, Madam! You want a taxi?” “You want ride?” From every direction, voices yelled at me. Some in English, most in unintelligible Spanish. Tired and overwhelmed by the noise, I searched the faces, hoping to find one that was less aggressive than the others. A young boy smiled at me from behind the crowd and I pushed through the others to reach his side.
I grip this young boy’s body now, wishing that it had been a taxi driver who smiled at me back at the river. That I was speeding down this dirt road wrapped in a protective metal frame instead of perched on the back half of a narrow, vinyl seat, afraid to relax my feet in case my leg touched the hot engine. With my pack safe beside me on a seat instead of feeling like it was going to topple me backward off the bike, wondering how much it was going to hurt when hit the ground and my bare legs skidded across the dirt at a million miles an hour.
I blink rapidly as something flies in my eye and though I’m reluctant to let go of the boy’s waist, I do, desperate to fish out whatever is plastered on my eyeball. I slide the much-smaller-than-it-feels mass out of my eye then retrieve my death grip on my young driver.
Able to see now, I relax a bit. It’s not that bad, I admit as the warm wind cools my face, ruffles my hair. I look up again, at the blackened sky, at the thousands of stars twinkling down at me. No…I think…it’s not that bad at all. As long as I don’t look down.
I smile with a sudden thought of my bike-loving sibling, always trying to get me on her dirtbike when I was young. Look at me, sis, I think! I did it. I’m on a motorbike! And not just in any old place. In the middle of South fucking America!
We drive on and on through the darkness, the bike’s high-pitched whine the only noise in the still night, not a glimmer of light other than the faint golden beam ahead of the bike.
Twenty more minutes pass before I see anything that hints of civilization, but then, we pass a dim light in a small, curtained window, and then another. More lights show up and we suddenly hit pavement. Are we here?
My young driver pulls off the road and turns to me. “Cual hotel, Señora?” I tell him the name of the hotel I plan to stay at. A hotel, that, according to my guidebook, has a reputation for kindness and cheap dormitory beds for 20,000 pesos (nine dollars).
We wind through the village’s empty streets, dark but for the moon and the white facades of homes it lights up. Then I see the river again, a dark shadow behind the silhouettes of trees. The air smells musty, of river rot and decomposing leaves, carried to me by the light breeze.
We slow down as we reach a line of dark buildings and then stop. My driver nods at one of them. Though the last bit of the ride was better than the first terrifying part, I breathe a sigh of relief as I climb off the bike on to the unmoving pavement.
“Puedes esperar una momento?” I ask the boy. Can you wait for a moment? He nods.
I walk up to the huge wooden door and knock. A moment later, an old woman peers at me suspiciously through a barred window. “Tiene cuartos?” I ask. Do you have rooms?
Her eyes sweep over me, taking in my old sweater, shorts and dusty packpack. “Yes,” she grunts.
I turn back to the young boy on the bike. "Gracias por esperar." Thanks for waiting. I hand him some coins then wave as he heads off into the night.
I turn back to the hotel owner. “You speak English,” I say, smiling.
“Of course I do. I’m American!” she spits at me. “The rooms are 70,000 pesos,” she says, almost angrily. What the heck - where’s the friendly smile? Apparently, she didn’t read the guidebook.
"I can’t pay that much," I say. "Can I stay in one of your 20,000-peso rooms?"
“WHAT?” the old lady screams. You think I will rent you a room for 20,000 pesos? Are you crazy? Do you know how much it costs us to run this place? I can’t imagine what you were thinking, coming to my home this night, thinking I would let you stay here for 20,000 pesos.”
I try to calm her. “It’s only what I saw in the guidebook, I’d be happy to pay a little more,” I say.
“What guidebook did you see this in?? No guidebook would say there are rooms here for that price! You must be crazy to think it would be worth my effort to make up a bed for 20,000. You should just leave,” she says.
“Yes,” I say through my shocked stupor, again feeling like the night’s not quite real. “Thank you. I’ll look for another place.”
“Well,” she says, I can’t imagine what you were thinking…but, since you’re here…you might as well look at the rooms.” She opens the medieval door and beckons me in.
Despite my misgivings about staying with this unfriendly old woman, I follow her through the cavernous rooms of the hotel toward a small room and then she goes off on another rant. “Look how big these rooms are, and these beautiful new bathrooms!” We walk by the kitchen. Angrily, she shouts out. “You see this bleach? And that dish soap? Do you know how much I pay for those things?”
“Yes, I do see that, señora,” I say, again trying to calm her. Your house is very beautiful. I’m torn between sucking up to her and bolting. But she continues her tirade, and finally, I’ve had enough. I’m obviously so not welcome here.
“Thank you, señora,” I say. “ I’ll find something else.” I turn and walk out of the kitchen, my eyes searching for the door to the street. She follows me. With a last insincere thank you and terse goodbye, I walk quickly away from the house into the dark night.
Trudging along the quiet river through the warm humid darkness, my mind races. So, what next? I guess I should have had a Plan B. I shake my head and snort in disbelief. What a crazy night this has been!
I follow the river past more darkened buildings and fifteen minutes later, as my back begins to ache from the weight of my heavy bag, I finally see a hostel. The Casa de Viajero - the Traveller’s House – that sounds lovely. I walk through its arched doorway.
A young woman greets me with a most welcoming smile and, within ten minutes, I’m slipping into my PJ’s and crawling appreciatively between the crisp, sweet-smelling white sheets of my simple, single bunk. I pull the thick quilt from the foot of the bed over me and snuggle it up to my chin, sighing in relief and contentment.
I’m the only one in the room; the other three bunks are empty for now. Again I sigh, more deeply this time, exhausted to my core. I close my eyes, savouring the silence.
But despite being so tired, my thoughts won’t quiet. What a crazy trip this has been already! I’ve had more adventures in the last three weeks than I had during the entire year prior. Or maybe the last two years! As I think about my journey, the last anxious hours slowly disappear, replaced by memories. Of dancing in the moonlight, floating in mud volcanoes, standing up to an army of lobsters and having their siblings for dinner, eating no end of weird food, and puking numerous times.
This is why I love travelling, I think as I relax more deeply under the covers. Living life to its absolute maximum, every day different, growing and learning with each new adventure.
I wish I could convince my friends how magical, how life-altering travel is. Simple travel. Minimal clothes. Long-term, budget travel. The kind of travel where you don’t know where you’re going, but somehow, you know you’ll figure it out.
I have no idea what the next eleven months in South America is gonna bring, but I can’t wait.