Journey to Miss Milky Way: A True Story
I woke up to the smell of sea salt and the sound of my own pulse against the rolled up sweater I was using as a pillow. I peered blearily up from my hammock, unsure of what country or year I was residing in. An untouched sky stretched above me, the neverending stars so close feeling that I might’ve reached out and dipped my hand in them. My alarm began to screech again. As I shifted to turn it off, a lightning bolt of pain shot up my ankle and I remembered everything. Today would be my last day in Central America. Three days before this moment, my dad had called to tell me that he was going to check my grandma into hospice. Months before, she had been happily chowing her Milky Way chocolate bars, but now dementia had taken food away from her too. Two days before this moment, I had twisted my ankle in the forest. My screeches of pain attracted two Howler monkeys who looked down at me with what I interpreted as derision, but, upon reflection, was probably something more akin to concern. Late that night I woke up needing to pee, but I couldn’t drag my lump of an ankle fast enough and peed myself before I had even made it out of the campsite. A day before this moment I had tried not to cry in a coffee shop because the wifi kept cutting out before I could get through the process of buying a ticket home. The waiter approached me, asked what was wrong, and for only the second time in my life, I quite literally burst into tears. The velocity of the bursting was so great that my body was thrown back against the chair and a gob of snot may or may not have flew out of my nose and across the table, landing somewhere on the border between Canada and Alaska.
But this is Costa Rica, year 2016, I reminded myself, easing my protesting ankle onto the sand below. Five months of trekking had taken me from Antigua, Guatemala, to a free beachside campsite in Montezuma, a small town overflowing with pure life, or, as the local ticos call it, “Pura vida.” A town with an inconsistent population of backpackers, surfers, Costa Rican Artisans, and fire dancers fusing ballet and martial arts into their dances. The place was a haven of rivers, waterfalls, rainforest, and, yes, only one semi paved road. I dragged my bum ankle down the beach to say one last goodbye to the starlit ocean.
Feet damp and full of sand, I stuffed my hammock into my bigger backpack, wincing at the ever so slight smell of pee emanating from the plastic bagged shorts in it. I hadn’t been able to properly wash them since the shower I could do it in was a long way away for my ankle, which was at this time slowly deflating from cantaloupe status to grapefruit sized. My other backpack, which at one time had held ingredients for cooking in hostels, smelled of the forgotten clove of garlic that had fallen to the bottom and rotted, crushed to a pulp before I could discover it and fish it out. I slung one smelly backpack onto my back and let the smaller one hang in front of my torso. I picked up my walking stick, and limped towards the dirt road. I was going to meet my taxi driver in the town square at three am. He would take me to a bus leaving at four am which would take me to a ferry leaving at five. Two buses would follow before I even set foot in the airport. I tread lightly as I passed Yerson and Funky’s tents, my Costa Rican artisan friends. When I had arrived a week before, they greeted me with coconut rum, mangoes, and rapid fire spanish. Funky’s given name was Juan, but Funky fit him best. I wore one of Yerson’s bracelets and had a boa constrictor bone he had gifted to me tucked into a special pocket of my backpack. The night before, I had felt fluent speaking spanish with him on the moonlit beach about the stars, the ocean, my grandma, and, of course, the relentless mosquitos, or “zancudos.” Only I had accidently said “san culo,” meaning “Saint Ass.” He pointed out my mistake and we laughed until we cried.
When I made it to the road, I took one last look at the campsite, thinking of how it would look when the sun rose at five am without me there.
Montezuma is a very small town, only a few blocks worth of grocery stores, hostels, and restaurants. I was five minutes late to meet my taxi, but that was no biggie, because he wasn’t there yet. I sat down on the street corner and waited. My phone was running out of battery since there was nowhere to charge it on the beach. Checking the time at three fifteen, the screen blipped and it died. My uninjured leg started to jiggle, but I tried to remain calm. Customer service isn’t so high strung in Costa Rica. I had nothing to worry about, he was just late, pura vida am I right?After another five minutes I started limping between hostels to see if anyone had a security guard with a cell phone. But who needs a security guard when every single person in the town is asleep? And I mean every single person. The street was silent, empty as Yerson’s bottle of coconut rum. Yerson! But it would be a twenty minute limp back to camp, and even then, when it would already be too late, he might not have anyone to call. If I missed that ferry, I would arrive at the airport hours after my flight left. I spotted a few people sleeping on the floor of restaurant and saw this as my only opportunity. I chose one, a young tico who was using his guitar case as a pillow, and shook him gently.
He jerked awake and rubbed sleep out of his eyes as I explained my situation and asked if I could use his phone. His name was Pedro and he had one, but he didn’t know who to call. I didn’t either. The taxi driver had seemed so confident the night before. Or maybe it had been I that was too confident.
Watching my face fall, Pedro waited for me to speak, but I had no more ideas. He shrugged.
“Soooo….party?”
At the time, this felt like a slap in the face, but it was actually a pretty amiable reaction to a wide eyed garlic and pee smelling gringa waking him up at three thirty in the morning.
I shook my head, my stomach dropping. I paced a few steps and caught sight of something parked on the street.
I turned to him. “Is that your motorcycle?”
The passenger section of his motorcycle was missing a footpeg, so I would have to keep my right butt cheek clenched to keep my bum ankle hovering above the ground. I gave him twenty dollars of the sixty agreed upon to speed to the ferry. It was now past 4am. I asked him if I could hold on to him. He nodded and as I wrapped my arms around his skinny torso, something occurred to me. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.” He said and turned the key. The engine sputtered to life, the single headlight giving off sparks as it followed suit. We roared out onto the dirt road. I held on and tried not to move, even though my back was already pinching from holding my right leg above the ground speeding by below. I tugged my eyes away from the sparks flying from the headlight and tried to watch the stars. What would grandma think of this? She would probably laugh even as she scolded me. Though my dad had said she couldn’t communicate much these days. The dementia had taken her far faster than anyone had been ready for. Before I left for Guatemala, she had gifted her copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare to me.
“Don’t you need this? You love Shakespeare.” I said. She just shook her head and told me to enjoy it. Growing up, I had rarely seen my grandmother without a book in her hands. The idea of something taking that away from her was unthinkable.
“Whoa!” Pedro swerved with an unexpected sharp curve, laughing.
I clutched his skinny body and clenched my butthole until we were on safe, straight dirt road again. The near empty countryside zoomed by, but not fast enough. I felt the fist that had been clutched around my heart all morning squeeze tighter. The deep indigo sky began to lighten. I tried and failed to ignore it, then began to focus on it as if by mere willpower I could prevent the world from turning to face the sun. My ferry was to leave at five am, the same time the sun had been rising every day. As a streak of pink peaked over the horizon, I closed my eyes and prayed. Not to any god, but to my grandmother. I reached across the miles and imagined how it would feel to hold her warm hands in my own. Help me, I said silently. Please, let the dock be just around the corner. Let the flight be delayed. Help me, I thought, with eyes shut tight, help me get to you.
I opened my eyes to a sky alight with sunrise and a long road ahead.
The fist clutching my heart released. Speeding through those rolling hills, I lost everything. Pedro kept driving as I waited for tears that wouldn’t come. I let go of her right then, my book loving grandma, Miss Milky Way chocolate, the woman who baptized me in her own bathroom and called me her darling girl.
As I watched the sky light up through the canopy, I thought of the candles in my grandma’s empty apartment. Ocean Breeze, Tropical Oasis, and Balsam Wood. I fell into the sea and tree smelling air and the roar of the motorcycle.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into Paquera, rolling our way down to the water. The trees cleared for a moment and I saw one of the most beautiful things I have seen in my short life; the boat that would take me home.
Turns out my friends had been wrong. Due to a recent schedule change, the ferry was now leaving at five thirty daily. Pedro whooped as he parked next to the ticket booth. I threw my arms around him, saying “Thank you” so many times that the syllables began to run into each other. “Thankyou, thankyou!.” I said as I gave him the rest of the money. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” I said as I bought my ticket and limped on to the deck. He waved once, then began to roll his motorcycle around, back to Montezuma. I walked to the front of the boat and let my smelly backpacks fall to the floor. I leaned against the rail and watched the still rising sun trace the distant mountaintops. “Thank you.” I said aloud, closing my eyes to her warm light.