Best Women's Travel Writing 2010

“ ¡ Bajo!” yells the bus conductor. I look around hopefully, checking the other passengers’ faces. Everyone else is asleep. I glance back at the conductor. He’s definitely looking at me.

“Bajo, bajo,” he says, pulling my backpack off the shelf and shoving it at me. I take it from him and pick my way to the door, over parcels and sacks, past passengers falling over each other in a debauchery of sleep. I move carefully. Two hours of Arnold Schwarzenegger terminating in Spanish on the static-ridden bus TV has left me exhausted, and I don’t want to step on any stray limbs. I climb down the stairs, rubbing my eyes as I peer into the blackness. Not a single light on this side, either. I turn back to the conductor. “Por favor—”

I knew I should have left Quito earlier. I did try. I was told that the buses for Mindo Nambillo left every quarter hour, but I waited for an asphyxiating hour and a half by the queue of departing buses. The conductors, rounding up potential passengers with the fervor and conviction of stockbrokers running insider trading, kept telling me that the Mindo bus was due to arrive next.

This is supposed to be my “weekend off.” After this, I have a language intensive course to revive my flaccid Spanish, and then I head into the Amazon to visit the communities I came to South America to write about. I figured Mindo would be a good place to start: I am covering the impacts of extractive projects (oil, gas) upon the lifestyles and traditions of the Amazon’s indigenous peoples. Mindo Nambillo is one of the most biodiverse regions on the planet, and also the site of a controversial new oil pipeline. I wanted to enjoy the rain forest before donning my journalist hat. But now it looks like I may just mosey off into oblivion instead.

The night is clear and cool, the road screened by thickets of bush. These are the highlands, and around me rise the shoulders of the Andes, colossal and lush. I fish out my headlamp, then trudge about until I locate a small dirt road angling off the big dirt road upon which we stopped. The homemade sign reads HOTEL MINDO NAMBILLO, with an arrow. In that case the town, which I presume exists, must be that way too. And the road is even going down, which is reassuringly in accordance with the conductor’s laconic instructions. I square my shoulders, adjust my headlamp directly ahead, and start walking.

They’re right. My friends, my family. Everybody who loves me and tells me I’m crazy to travel alone. I am out of my mind. Nine o’clock at night, total darkness, and I’m in the middle of nowhere, Ecuador, wandering down a dirt road toward a town that either does not exist or is so far away I can’t even see the lights. Are there animals in this rain forest? Of course there are animals. But are there animals that eat people? Probably. Unless they got wiped out by development. You know, the same kind of ecologically devastating development I’m here to write fiery prose about. I pray briefly and fervently that there’s nothing around here capable of mauling a human being. No doubt I am a spineless hypocrite, but I really hope that the beasts around these parts got eradicated.

Presently I turn off my headlamp and relax into the walk. A crescent moon emerges from behind clouds, casting a wan silvering palm over the scene. Huge trees surround the road. I turn the corner and am heralded by an orgy of tiny flickering lamps: fireflies, leaping about in nocturnal exhilaration. And to my right—there it is! Mindo! A cluster of lights at the very bottom of the valley. It can’t be less than five miles away. I keep walking, maintaining light conversation with the fireflies and various other whirring, clicking, buzzing critters filling the night with a steady drone. Let me tell you about Quito, little friends. Big city, mucha gente, several leagues from here.… Wait. Everybody just pipe down. I hear something—is it possible?

I turn as a car roars by. I reprimand myself roundly. Just plain brainless. Why wasn’t I ready? I keep walking, debating the risks of hitchhiking. If one car came, another will. I decide I’ll flag it down with my pocket-knife at the ready.

The next car is preceded by loud Castillano folk music, assailing me in bursts as it careens down the mountainside. I turn, place one hand on my hip, and extend the other one, thumb up. I am brave. I am reckless. I am that character from the Tom Robbins book, minus the deformed thumb.

The car pulls up. I hold my breath. The passenger window rolls down. Tinny vocals swell the air, and a round face emerges. I exhale in a rush, giving silent thanks. It’s a woman. Get in, get in, she orders, smiling broadly. What in God’s name are you doing out here? The back door opens and I clamber in, next to three kids who all stare at me open-mouthed. I balance my backpack awkwardly on my lap and pull the door shut.

The woman turns around, still smiling, and introduces herself as Jenny. The driver—not my husband, she whispers, no, no, my husband is a doctor—is Diego, and the three children are Pepe, Maria, and Pablo. They’re still staring at me. Pablo’s mouth has been open so long he’s beginning to drool.

How to explain the wanderlust that draws me, time and again, to the solo journey? That I’m forced by circumstance to be totally open? That there is no refuge from sheer experience? That every day is a new adventure, every chance meeting a wee blessing? You’re the reason, I want to say. You, Jenny, and Diego, and the fireflies, and Maria with her pigtails, and even that accursed bus conductor.

“But alone, at night, on this road?” Diego asks, turning to face me. His features are bunched up toward the center of his face, like a knot on a balloon. The car careens into the blackness as he scrutinizes me.

I hear this a lot from locals—particularly women—and right now I’m inclined to agree. She grins as I nod and shrug regretfully—sí, soy loca—and the conversation moves on. Jenny explains that she and her husband are the new owners of a small hotel-restaurant in Mindo—the Café Mindo—and I am ceremoniously invited to stay. I accept, gratefully.

The hotel portion of Café Mindo is small—three rooms, to be precise, on the second floor—and my room is currently occupied by a couple of the kids. Diego, who manages the café, shuttles their stuff out apologetically, and I settle in. I am on the verge of collapse, but Jenny urges me downstairs. I tramp down to join them at one of the wood tables comprising the café portion of Café Mindo. Jenny smiles voluptuously, her eyes crinkling into mere cracks above the swells of her cheeks. She pats my hand. “So, tell me everything about San Francisco.”

I am about to embark on my two-minute summary when the door creaks open. A new arrival—tall, handsome, black, and wielding an ancient guitar—shoulders his way in, peering about timidly. He smiles at Jenny, holds out his arms, and she is up, out of her chair, kissing him extravagantly on the cheeks. “¡Mira!” she shouts. “¡Aquí esta Ramiro! Ramiro, Marisa. Marisa, te digo—¡Es una negrita, pero todavía es artista!”

It takes me a moment to rise; I am thrown off-balance by the blatant and apparently routine racism. He’s black, but he’s an artist nonetheless. I smile at Ramiro, and we give each other the customary peck on the cheek. We all sit down, and Diego, tiny and hunched, shuffles a chair up to join us. Ramiro picks up his guitar and begins to tune the blackened strings. We wait expectantly. Then he settles it on his lap and starts to sing.

Aye. Voice like late summer sun, fingers like driving rain. Voice like thunder, fingers like grass stealing its way out of the dirt. I slump in my chair, a puddle of gratitude. Ramiro, amigo, sing it. Sing it, brother.

Jenny nudges me. I open my eyes to a tall glass. Rum and something sweet and fizzy. She pushes it at me again and again. Toma, amiga, toma. Drink, my friend.

Ramiro sings folk songs of love and loss. Loss and love. Love and loss. There are no other themes, it seems. What else is there to sing about, in truth? Love and loss pretty much sum it up, I conclude, as my body tingles pleasantly with the rum. We are clustered around him now, listening, each adrift upon the paper boat of our own love-and-loss ruminations. The other tables are unoccupied, but the lights blaze. Come to Café Mindo. We are an island of warmth and song, a small glowing oasis for wayward travelers.

Instead, Maria, Pablo, and Pepe, who have been playing outside, come banging in the front door. Pablo sidles up to Ramiro and attaches himself to his knee. Thumb in mouth, eyes black pools, he stares adoringly up at the musician. Pepe grabs Maria’s hand, pulls her to him, clasps her in his chubby arms. The two of them waltz around the room, giggling and occasionally lurching into an ill-placed bench or table.

The song—a lament about an incurable cheat—draws to a close. Jenny hands Ramiro the rum and leans toward him, batting her eyelashes. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen anyone bat their eyelashes. “Something happy, Ramiro,” she murmurs. “Something upbeat.” Her eyelashes blur.

Ramiro takes a healthy swig of the rum. He smiles at Jenny, winks, and strums a few major chords. She laughs long and loud, opens her mouth, and issues a warbling soprano. What Jenny lacks in skill she easily makes up in enthusiasm. Hand on chest, eyes screwed tightly shut, she belts it out. I back my chair up a little, hoping she doesn’t notice. To my left, Diego is somehow drifting off to sleep.

The song draws to a close, and Jenny’s voice leaps an octave in a rousing finale. Diego shudders awake, eyes snapping open in alarm. I wonder briefly about the neighbors. We all applaud, Pepe and Maria pausing to bow and curtsey. Jenny smiles, puts her arm around me. “Isn’t he good?” She gestures at Ramiro.

Ramiro stares modestly at the floor. He fiddles with his guitar, picks out a slow dirge. Jenny sighs deeply. Her hand returns to her chest, eyes drawing slowly closed. “How could you leave me, my love?” she croons. “Where did you go, after this world? If I cross the seas, will I find you?” I watch with mounting affection as the odd tear slides down her face. The woman wears her heart smack-dab naked-splayed on her sleeve. If only we all could. If only. Wars would freeze mid-battle, opposing soldiers dropping their weapons to chant duets. Trials would unfold in four-part harmony. Oil company CEOs would abandon post to belt out Andrew Lloyd Webber, oil workers leap athletically into Busby Berkeley sequences.…

Feeling my gaze, Jenny opens her eyes and smiles. She takes my hand, lifts it to her thigh, clasps it in a sweaty, urgent grip as the song wrenches out of her. When she finishes, we all sigh heavily. Loss and love. Love and loss. Who can guess the torments we have suffered through? Who can know the heart’s hidden ways, who can understand what led us each here, at this very—

A low, throaty keening slices the silence. Diego is slumped over double in his chair, sobbing. Jenny looks at me with wide eyes. “His girlfriend,” she stage-whispers. “She died after ten years together.” She nods meaningfully as this sinks in, then rises to sit next to Diego. She lifts his head to her shoulder, arranges his skinny arms about her. He sinks into her chest, weeping. Maria and Pepe come close, run their small hands across his heaving back. Ramiro stares glumly at the floor.

We sit together quietly as this man releases all that has been pent-up inside his tiny frame. He hurls himself in desperate, rhythmic assault against Jenny’s generous bulk. She coos softly, a wordless murmur of comfort, stroking his head, his back. Gradually his sobs ease into a soft wail. Jenny pulls slowly back, wipes his sodden face with gentle hands. Estás bien, Diego, she says tenderly. You’re O.K. You’re with us here.

Diego nods. He settles into his chair, back hunched, hands moving over his face like an infant discovering the sense of touch. Jenny looks at Ramiro, raises her eyebrows at his guitar. Ramiro’s fingers flit over the strings, whittling a high, happy melody. He pauses, meets Jenny’s eyes with a grin, and they both open their mouths and launch into song. Pepe grabs Maria and begins spinning her around the room again. Diego’s hands are still covering his face, but his foot taps in time with the beat. I lean forward, opening my mouth to join this song I have never heard before. I discover that my cheeks, too, are wet.

Jenny reaches over and pulls me up, toward her. She takes me in her arms and leads me in a wild, reeling waltz. We thread our way through the furniture, gallop up the stairs and back, and return in time to applaud Ramiro’s virtuosic finale.

“Pues,” says Jenny, smiling so fiercely that her cheeks become small planets orbiting her chin and nose, “Well. I think we knew each other in a past life, amiga.”