It was past noon. The marks of that worn-out, rusty, and creaky '68 Jeep were still imprinted in the sand. Seeing those lines sealing a path, the suicide had only one thought: to escape that future, to escape immediately. To escape by dying.
After thirty minutes, everything was packed onto the iron steed. The dark sunglasses covered the expression of confusion that had emerged from the encounter with the sadness correspondent.
The motorcycle sped off. The wind against his body felt pleasurable.
He had often wondered about the sensation of flying without the protective glass, feeling the wind at over 700 km/hr., but he would have to settle for one less zero.
After a few curves, rain started pouring down, forcing him to seek shelter at a roadside stop. He hated being wet.
Once, the wretched one and he had made plans to travel, but their intentions were always ruined, either by the suicide or by her.
Being there, completely drenched, almost at the start of his journey, he felt disheartened. The rain seemed like an omen of the results he would encounter on his trip. He didn't like the augury, and even less so that he already had setbacks without even leaving the state.
He dried all his clothes and waited for the rain to ease.
Regaining confidence as he saw that it was just one cloud causing the bad weather, he took the situation more philosophically. "We travel not to go anywhere, but to go," he said aloud, recalling Stevenson's words.
The phrase was fitting, especially for him. That destination he sought might be just a few kilometers away or on the other side of the world.
Sitting on the concrete bench of that roadside stop, he remembered those conversations, those plans they had made so many times. "Let's move to Mexico City," "we should take a trip around the whole country." Curiously, at some point, the idea of a motorcycle journey had arisen. "It's important to bring raincoats," the wretched one had said. Today, the sky proved her right.
Once, the plans were almost certain. The planning had lasted for months. The suicide even talked to the Flight Operations Director. Everything was ready. At that time, the happy couple lived together.
The dream ended one morning during breakfast. After discussing their plans for their new life, the wretched one decided not only that she would not go, but that they should separate. The suicide left the house in anger.
Not even ten minutes outside, his heart demanded that he return. He loved that woman and would not let fear take her away. He opened the door, and she was on the phone. She was talking to another ex-boyfriend, a guy named Julio, to see if she could stay with him for a few days... that was the wretched one.
"Why can't I stop thinking about you?" he said, looking at the rain as he waited.
After the raincloud passed, he got on the motorcycle with the idea of reaching Tepich that day.
In a few kilometers, his plans changed. He passed through several towns, some smaller than others.
He went through a tiny village between Tulum and Felipe Carrillo Puerto, Chunyaxché. A place inhabited by one hundred and nine men and eighty-two women, more of a ranch than an urban settlement.
He left behind the marvelous turquoise blue of the Muyil lagoon a few kilometers back, as well as the Nopalitos cenote and many others he had heard recommendations about. He didn't stop at them; he repeated to himself: "The paths promise."
He quickly distanced himself from its ruins, a vestige of the Guatemalan Petén migration and an elaborate trade route throughout Mesoamerica. That held no importance for him. Going where no one had gone and reaching where no one had reached was the only crack through which a little light entered to his primary purpose, that ambition that grew with every kilometer he covered.
A small and uninteresting detour directed him to Chumpón. He didn't care about the town or the detour, but the dampness of his clothes and his luggage forced him to stop again. To stop there and find the place of the blue gazes.