Backpacks

Mountains loomed beyond the purple misted vista. Thick, undyed, cotton clouds staggered against a sky too vast to harvest them. Blistered surfaces mocked tattered moccasins. Shoulder straps burrowed deep, even with only the essentials. Necks stiffened, nerves taut with the weight of worldly belongings. Foreheads drenched with sweat from the afternoon’s fever. The sun’s gaze was spiteful. But the shade, forgiving. This was the daily odyssey.

As the sun crested the hostels exhaled. Locals could mark time by the revolution of transients. Twelve o’clock. Checkout. Luggage wheels appraised cracked pavement. Feet tramped toward the next waypoint — cafés stuffed with unkempt vagrants who debated their entrées in unfamiliar tongues.

A town obscured from most modern comforts. A new pair of underwear, ones that fit, sat four hours away. No malls, no supermarkets, no car services. No buses, no trains. Taxis taxed wallets. Quiet roads where gravel cackle underfoot. Hectic intersections perfumed with gasoline and grilled meat. Narrow pathways tucked between bungalows and fields where cows grazed. Banana leaves tackled stray chickens.

Motorbike rides offered to fatigued hikers. Nods exchanged in passing. Names bartered, then promptly discarded. For a few hours each day, we haunted similar spaces. Formed relationships burdened by the inevitability of departure. In the daze of marijuana, mushrooms, ketamine, and nature’s beauty, life hid itself beneath an in-between place.