Travelers

There are so many bizarre people traveling. For all of us, there is a portion of our spirit that craves the chaos, the uncertainty. This component might lay dormant for years, but once fed it returns like a street cat, clawing at the front door, moaning for attention. We are all drifters, more or less dirty; mostly more. Appearance falls to a last priority. Sweat and grime embed everything. There is no concern over what to wear each morning for there are only 4 options. Every item of clothing becomes shabbier by the day, stained and ripped but still worn. No one cares if they have a good hair day. Some even go so far as letting their hair nap into dreadlocks.

We pack and unpack, sleeping in a new bed every few nights. Sometimes we have our own room. Often we find ourselves in a dormitory surrounded by eight or nine sleeping bodies sprawled on bunk beds. More than not, the mattresses we sleep on dip in the middle. This is uncomfortable, but helpful if you find yourself on the top bunk as you are less likely to roll off in your sleep. Towels, underwear and swimsuits hang from ladders and the frames of the bunk beads. Shared bathrooms collect hair and grime. Some of us can’t remember the last time we let the skin on our asses touch the toilet seat. The personality that can handle this over months is an odd one.

This morning I relax in a hammock in the common area of the hostel. In addition to mine, there are 3 other hammocks strung around a courtyard. Several large chairs are also positioned facing toward the center courtyard. All of the dormitories and rooms enclose this common area. Dormitory A houses 16 beds. Beside each is a locking chest (assuming you brought your own lock) barley large enough to fit all of your things. In dorm room B, another 14 beds can be found. All told, the 3 dormitories and 4 private rooms house 54 people who shared 4 bathrooms. 54 people all on different schedules, some raise early. Others sleep late and party into the morning.

In the hammock next to me, there is a young mother dozing with her toddler son draped over her body. They are both limp, paralyzed by sleep. The mother’s long brown hair hangs casually over the hammock edge swaying in the breeze. The small child is dressed only in a diaper. His toe-head nestled at his mother’s breast. Their family took a private room at the hostel two days ago, the same day we arrived. Father, mother, 8 year old daughter and baby all on the road.
During the daytime, the parents cook for their children and work tirelessly on beaded necklaces, bracelets made of elegantly twisted wire, and earrings of varied stones and shells. They support their little family from hostel to hostel. Fellow travelers purchase their merchandise, displayed upon a folding table that is carry with them. While her mother sleeps, the daughter has made a small fort out of cushions pulled from the surrounding chairs. I wonder what the children must think of the other backpackers. The Brazilian guy with the snake tattoo over his jaw, the hoards of Israelis recently freed from their mandatory army stint, hippies, holiday seekers, Spanish students, and every oddity in between . Everyone is in a varied state, hung-over, fresh from a shower, prepared to go out on a hike, eating, talking, playing cards, drinking (some as soon as they wake up) or on a lap-top checking email. Lonely planets, cameras, sunscreen, MP3 players, towels, and flip flops are abundant.

I pull myself up from my hammock. I hate having to pee in the communal bathroom. As I hover above the seat, I notice a dried bloody loogie stuck to the folds of the shower curtain. Looks like someone’s coke problem might be getting a little out of control.

I walk by the bare bones kitchen in the hostel. The three Italians that we partied with the night before are in the midst of cooking lunch. The two men are working on something over the stove. Each is dressed in the typical uniform of a male traveler: shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. My eyes immediately gravitate to a giant block of cheese that their female companion is cutting. Real cheese. I have not seen good cheese since Guatemala. She is cutting a chunk off of what looks like a 10 lb block. I stroll over to Gretchen (I hope that is her name). “Hi there,” I smile. Self-consciously she readjusts the fifteen or-so bracelets that she wears on her left arm. Now they nearly cover the many scars that run across her forearm from wrist to elbow. I caught her with her guard down. She was and maybe still is a cutter. I have learned that discussing such things is unwise. Each of us has our own scars, some are just more visible than others. Sensing her discomfort, I try and keep my eyes fixed on the cheese.

“Did you find that here? I have been looking for cheese everywhere.”
“Oh, no. We brought it from Italy.”
“You brought that all the way from Italy?”
“Yeah, we each brought one.” She gestures to her two friends. “We all carry one in our backpacks.”
“What a brilliant idea.” I tell her.

“Hey you cunt.” A guy with a blond mop of hair strolls up to us. He holds a beer in his hand and takes a long pull from it. Despite his rude comment, I smile. I should never have taught Winston, an impressionable 18 year old Austrian boy that swear word. Never again. He asked me two nights ago what the worst word in the English language was. I told him. After that, I spend 20 minutes trying to convey the severity of the word. I made it very clear that this word should only be used in the most extreme situation.

“I have probably only said that word 3 times in my whole life.” I explained, offering up “Douche bag” as a great alternative for every day profanity. Unfortunately, I also had to explain exactly what a douche bag is. But for some reason, he took a liking to the former word.

“You are going to get your ass beat one of these days if you keep saying that.” I tell him.
“Yes, but I like it. I think it is a good job.” He also picked up “good job” from us, but always manages to use it slightly out of context. Winston makes me laugh. He reminds me of myself when I first ventured out into the great wide world.

Rolda, a German woman in her 20s is washing dishes in the large wash basin. Rolda has been with her new man for 4 months and is quite sure she is in love. In any other circumstance they would be an unlikely couple, She is German, her lover, Juan is Nicaraguan. They met when Rolda spent several nights at this hostel where Juan works. At 5’6” she stands six inches taller than Juan. The lower 2/3rds of her head is shaved while the upper red -brown mane is tied up in a braid. It hangs eight inches off of the top of her head. Neither fat or thin, she still outweighs her partner by 40 pounds. A black v-neck t-shirt clings to her upper body revealing an abundant view of cleavage. She wears a red and black plad school girl skirt reminiscent of that worn by Britney Spears in her “Hit me baby one more time” music video. When the breeze hits the skirt just right, I get much more than I bargained for. Around her waist is a belt with a fanny pack like pouch that holds her 4 inch folding-blade knife.

In contrast, thin soft spoken Juan, wears a hat and vest. His jeans are the only part of the outfit that feels unlike the standard attire of a 50’s newspaper sales boy. Juan is a professional in the service industry that caters to the come-and-go of backpackers. He is friendly and speaks English well. The two of them take every available opportunity to make out. Juan sneaks up behind Rolda as she washes dishes. While she washes a plate, he sucks at her neck. She is leaving in one week. Upon departure she vows that the relationship will thrive against all odds. Both partners plan to figure out a way around visa requirements for each other’s countries. Her trip back to Germany for the holidays will last just long enough to sell her things.

Unable to watch the PDA any more, I tell the Italian crew that I will catch up with them later. I return to my hammock. I have hardly repositioned myself when Stephan walks over to me. He works at the hostel part time. This strung out French man has lived in Nicaragua for 15 years. The cheap price of coke is enough to keep him here for 15 more, or until he dies from his habit. In Stephan’s world, cocaine has replaced lunch and liquor suffices for dinner. His anorexic limbs swim in his t-shirt and jeans. Blue circles loomed under his deep set eyes. Wrinkles framed the corners of his eyes and the skin on his face has toughened under a consistent assault of cigarette smoke.

“You went home early last night.” He says to me.
“Ya, it was about 12:00. How late did you stay out?” I ask him.
“I’m still out.” He smiles wide, displaying smoke yellowed teeth.
“No rest for the wicked,” I joke. He gives me an all too knowing wink.
“You make me love so much.” He extends his hand for mine. He puts it against his heart. Then releasing it, “I must go finish working.” This kind of behavior always makes me a little nervous. Thankfully I am leaving this afternoon, never to see any of these people again. There will be no good byes. What kind of strange individuals will I meet on my next stop?