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by Ursula Wehrer
She heaved her 14-kilogram backpack into the compartment of the bus and got on, slumping into a window seat. She was tired – from sleeping in bunk beds, being scammed for puny amounts, cold showers, eating street food, getting sick from it. For the first time in six months, Frederike truly enjoyed the comfort of an empty seat next to her, and the prospect of traveling in silence.
This would be her last bus ride before taking the flight back home to Amsterdam. The fast-paced city life was just hours away and she asked herself if she was ready to return.
As tired as she was, Frederike never neglected writing in her travel diary. Memories of warm encounters with locals, countless conversations with likeminded backpackers, descriptions of historical places – she had captured it all. Her travel diary was a trove of written treasures. She reached into her bag and took it out.
She gently flipped through the pages filled with her elegant handwriting – sketches, and tickets glued into them. Her description of Machu Picchu, the iconic Incan monument with its breathtaking sight into the Andes, caught her attention. Savouring each word, she re-lived her experience.
Unexpectedly, the bus came to a halt in the middle of nowhere.
Frederike looked up and saw four males in working clothes lining up at the door of the bus.
“Limpien sus zapatos.”
The driver had just told them to clean their shoes before entering the bus.
Frederike diverted her eyes back to her diary. The sharp smell of sweat burned in her nose as the men boarded the bus.
The first three men passed the empty seat next to her. But the fourth, a middle-aged man, sat down.
“Hola, señorita.”
“Hola,” she replied, detached.
Normally, Frederike relished the opportunity to practise her Spanish, but her fatigue had gotten the better of her today. She cast her eyes side-ways and looked at the man’s hands - they were those of a working man, a hard-working man.
The man’s smell reinforced his reality to Frederike, and she focused even more on her notes – this time about a trip to the Atacama Desert.
“¿Te gusta leer?”
Frederike, not willing to engage, only nodded. Yes, she loved reading.
“¿Sobre qué escribes, señorita? Eres escritora?”
Frederike stayed quiet – she always avoided people's questions about her writing.
To her relief, no more questions came. She opened a new blank page in her diary but wasn’t sure what to write about. Due to a lack of inspiration, she wrote down the name of the bus station where she got on.
When she realized the man was observing her, Frederike closed her notebook, hiding its content from him.
She looked at him, warily.
“No te preocupes, no sé leer.”
He was illiterate. A wave of shame and guilt overcame her as she struggled to find a reaction – there was none.
The two strangers continued their journey in complete silence for another hour before the man disembarked in a small village.
She opened her notebook on the next blank page and wrote in big, bold, blocky letters:
“I am ready to go home.”