Tenacious Traveller

I realized as I got off the bus that I’d made a tactical error. The city was scorching, but in the mountains it was cold and rainy. But I’d come this far: I leaned onto the bus, asking in Spanish: “This is the stop for Monte de la Cruz, right?” He nodded, pointing up the treacherous road. As in many rural areas in Costa Rica, vehicles only go so far.
I’d wanted solitude, so I was dismayed to be hiking with a kid on his phone. Where was the peak I came for? After an hour toiling upwards in the rain I started questioning the driver’s surety. I was panting.
The kid turned around, hearing my wheezes, and I breathed an ironic “Hola.”
His name was Hector. I asked him how far to Monte de la Cruz, and he guffawed: I was nowhere near there. I asked if there was anything up ahead, or if I should go back and wait for the bus. Hector winced and invited me to his house for coffee.
We toiled on for fifteen minutes, but we arrived at a tiny house overlooking fields turned blue in the fog. Two old men played cards by the door and Hector’s mom stood over them, a protector. They invited me in, and the mom brought coffee and some tortillas.
It turned out my rescuers were Nicaraguan immigrants. In Costa Rica, Nicaraguans are like Mexicans in the U.S.: they’re mistreated and disrespected. I wanted to ask if they, like other Nicaraguans I knew, had walked for days and, hearts fluttering, crossed the border at night. I wondered if Hector felt alienated at school. I wondered if the he was lonely, so far from home.
It was getting late, but I didn’t want to leave. The family was very poor, but their wits were sharp and their hearts open. Finally, as darkness crept in, I asked about the last bus.
“It’s at around six,” Hector said, but time is fluid there. I could get down by 5:45; would that be too late? I thanked my rescuers and stepped into the rainy dusk, and caught the bus shivering but with my faith in humanity renewed. I only wish that I remembered his mother’s name.