Wind.
Again the wind. I’d like to say the sound of it awoke me just now in this tiny hostel in Laguna Bacalar, México but in reality, nothing that simple or soothing pulls you from slumber here. It always seems to be the roosters first, then the insulted dogs, then the vehicles pup-pupping down the narrow dusty side streets. This morning I had the added pleasure of religious drumming from somewhere nearby followed each time by a long horn blast like an exclamation point.
Now the local barkers on their clanking ancient tricycles heave past, yelling out their services, advertising their wares. I’ve grown accustomed to all of these sounds through many years of Latin American travel and find them oddly soothing because they remind me of my surroundings. But the one sound that raises the hair on my neck is the strong wind bullying the fallen dried palm fronds outside my door this morning, creating tiny funnel clouds in the rundown hotel courtyard. Wind. There exists no two-wheeled traveller on our round planet who rises excited at the thought of a day spent riding in strong winds. It is not your friend. I do not recall many days during my 34-month bicycle journey with Mary where the sound of the wind outside our tent would bring smiles to our faces except those very rare days when the wind would magically line up behind us and push us south toward Patagonia. I could count the total of those days on both hands but at least we were happy to have it when it was at our backs.
But for motorcyclists, there is never a desire for those angry invisible tendrils to be pulling at your machine at highway speeds. It’s mentally and physically draining and it’s dangerous. I’m hopeful that it will blow itself out by the time Holly wakes up and we’re ready to ride.
This is truly the first time on our journey south to Costa Rica that Holly has experienced spending a night in a tiny hostel. Thanks to the kindness of our hosts along the way we’ve been handed from friend to friend as we ride south and by virtue of this, we’ve had wonderful accommodations each night: a beachfront home in Pensacola Beach, Florida, beautiful homes in American suburbs, Mexican multi-tiered family homes that seemed to stretch for a city block, hotels overlooking the beaches of downtown Veracruz, a jungle lodge. And now this. There’s a hole in the thatch of our ceiling, the wooden slats covering the windows are merely suggestions after years of neglect and mistreatment. The door latch is broken, the ancient tiled mosaic floor is littered with dried leaves which we pushed into a pile with our boots and swept out the door. And I couldn’t be happier because this is the side of travelling I really wanted to share with Holly, where you have to take care to close all of your bags so a hitchhiking spider or cockroach doesn’t surprise you the next time you open that bag. Where you really do have to shake out your boots and helmet in the morning. Where there’s no hot water for showers. Where the evening entertainment is watching the owner’s two neurotic vomiting chihuahuas as they nervously dance around the hallways as if stepping on electrified tiles. Where your alarm clock is the living pulse of the country through which you are travelling.
I was happily explaining to Holly that this was exactly the kind of room we used to seek out on our bicycle journey because it was always very cheap. We would have been thrilled beyond reason to have a room this large to park our bicycles in safely for the night so we could lock the door (with our own padlock, much like I did here last night) and go exploring.
Holly skyping her wonderful Admiral Elementary School teacher Mme Miller from the hostel lobby hammock
Holly’s first words upon entering this tiny hotel last night? “Dibs on the hammock in the lobby…” 🙂
I’m glad to awake this morning with fully functioning arms and legs after being bounced by the truck yesterday in Palenque. I didn’t help things by falling backwards from standing on the bed last night while trying to pull the dirty cotton curtains down for privacy and carefully checking for scorpions in each fold of fabric. My pant leg went over an unseen bedpost and when I went to step back off the bed, I fell and landed flat on my back on the tiled floor, right in front of Holly. For the second time in 12 hours I got the wind knocked out of me. I laid there a minute, asking the universe what message it was trying to send me. Holly propped my head up with a pillow and giggled at the absurdity of what had just happened, which made me see the bright side: I was fortunate again that I didn’t seriously hurt myself.
It’s time to wake my sleepy traveller daughter to begin packing our gear for today’s short ride up the Mayan coastline to the town of Tulum.
And yes, wind…I still hear you.
