Stuck in Popayan

If you are ever unfortunate enough to end up in Popayan, you will often find yourself interacting with venders. Twenty times a day sounds about right and don't worry about finding them. They will find you. Almost invariably, they will be selling objects of little use and, should you choose to buy, of questionable quality. The encounter usually occurs at a café or bar and the victim is left either feeling guilty or stupidly holding something as useful as a sticker. After only a few encounters, newcomers usually adopt the local method; a quick “no thank you” followed by whatever means they feel will encourage the seller to move on.

While I was reading in a bakery, I was approached by two kids, first one and then the other as they worked the crowd. The first was selling a sewing kit and the other was selling notebooks. It later occurred to me that a notebook might be useful in-spite of its neon pink cover, but the sewing kit? Those needles would most likely end up in the bottom of a backpack, poised to poke probing fingers. I asked him what he expected me to do with a sewing kit. What would most men do with a sewing kit? What would most women, in this age, do with a sewing kit? Nothing. He responded with an open hand, pointing to his worn shoes. I pointed at mine, just as worn. Yes, I felt a little guilty. Perhaps sensing this, number two came over with his bright pink notebooks in hand. I was clearly breaking the cardinal rule; never show any interest. They sat down, taking turns and, forgetting the usual steps, stumbled through a well rehearsed act of suffering and despair. Cute kids but poor actors and struggling to understand why I wasn’t interested in a sewing kit or a pink notebook. They shuffled off, exaggerated disappointment. In a complete turnaround a few steps away, they paused by a window to admire the cakes inside; they smiled, laughed, put their arms around each other, and walk out; good friends, perhaps even brothers. True suffering… If we can call that suffering, then I’m probably suffering more. From lack of purpose, first of all and, secondly, from a bit of self pity. At least these kids seem to have a purpose, selling such things. Are they happier than I am? Does purpose contribute to happiness? Is a beggar with something to sell happier than a traveler with nowhere to go? In this case, I would say, yes. So what am I doing here? I have no purpose in staying here, except to wait on motorcycle parts. What? I feel embarrassed to say it. MOTORCYCLE PARTS! As if my life depended on the arrival of a few pieces of metal! Is a motorcycle the only way to get down the road? I should have left a long time ago! My days here are spent reading and surfing the web; dreaming of other places and coming up with reasons why I hate this one. It’s not such a bad place, seen objectively, or at least I’ve seen worse. But then again, I’ve seen a lot and maybe it’s time to leave. Perhaps I should walk out to the highway and beg to leave. I could be at least as convincing as these kids and it seems to work some of the time.

But I’ll wait a few more days, till Friday at least. I should resolve this now or when Friday comes I will be tempted to say it again and thus never leave. These last three weeks have been an almost complete waste of time. Yes, another embarrassment statement and even worse than the first. Let me put them together to ensure my place; I have wasted three weeks of my life waiting for motorcycle parts. I have wasted three weeks of my life! I wonder what percentage that is? It leaves me feeling empty. It’s one thing to waste money, sometimes even popular, but to waste time! Is there a better way to say you are wasting than to say you are wasting time? When I leave Popayan, it will be with relief that I finally found the courage to do it. The courage to leave that hunk of metal parked where it is and dare to travel as the common people do. Who came up with the idea of long distance motorcycle travel anyway? Curse you, Che. Wait, maybe this was my idea. In that case, it only seems natural. I am already at the bottom in my own regards. Natural that I would leave home on two wheels, only to become glued at the hip with, above all things, an XR650L! Lewis and Clark didn’t cross the Rockies on camels, why did I try to cross the world on a dirtbike? I am becoming less and less attached to it by the day. In the event that it should be repaired, a minor miracle, it will even seem strange to it ride again. I’m thinking of that saying, “a dog returns to its vomit” or something like that and it reminds of returning to that horribly uncomfortable seat, battered by the rain, wind, and bugs, and moving down the highway at a remarkably slow pace. A bus seat is much more comfortable. Does anyone want to by a motorcycle?