Barbequed Brakes and Chips of Many Flavors
All high drama was saved for the very end. On our last day in Manizales we acted like the tourists we were, purchasing soccer jerseys at the Palogrande Stadium sports shop for the boys, their brothers and friends, buying local chocolates and coffee for the grown-ups back home, and for ourselves, the ultimate souvenir—N95s and surgical masks. Avianca Airlines prohibits cute or cloth face coverings.
It began when our bus to the Pereira Airport—a 75-minute drive away—was nearly an hour late. The time was closing in on 6PM and our group had an 8:25PM flight to Bogota with a connection back to New York. When the vehicle finally pulled up the hill and parked in front of our hotel, out popped the driver and his helper with the bad news: the key to the luggage compartment was lost. We would have to load all of our suitcases and the twenty-five of us onto the bus itself. An assembly line formed, bags were heaved, perspiration manifested, while the rest of us turned our attention to the rear right wheel. It was smoking profusely, emitting a burnt rubber smell. Diagnosis: a failing brake line. Suitcases loaded, nerves on high alert, the driver, aware of our late departure, literally sped off. We could either take a chitty-chitty chance on this automotive or miss our flight.
The drive from Manizales to Pereira is a mountainous one. Sharp curves, steep hills, big trucks, small cars and motorcyclists. If there’s any ride you need good brakes for, it’s this one. But our driver took turns at 80km/hour, the screech of the dying brake piercing our eardrums at every pedal compression. It’s hard to say whether the high-pitched shriek or the BBQ scent of the singed brake line was worse. The front door remained open the entire time, for ventilation or monitoring, it was unclear. Though our senses of smell and sound were accosted, our eyes still benefited from the beauty of the journey. We were leaving Manizales at sunset, and there are few rides as magnificent to behold. Then, it started to rain.
We pulled up to the terminal with sixty minutes until take-off and if the check-in counter wouldn’t have been empty, we would not have made our flight. I admit, while I prayed our bus wouldn’t fly off the mountain, I confess I wouldn’t have minded missing the plane. I love a spontaneous trip extension, especially with a group of people I’ve come to enjoy and cherish like this one.
In Bogota an hour later, our fear turned to hunger. The capital city airport is sleek and modern with many stores and food options. But at 10PM on Tuesday night, all dining options were cerrado, a newsstand the only source of sustenance. Dinner was a choice of Margarita brand chips: Limon, Mayonesa, Tomate and the if-you-dare Pollo, the Willy Wonka chip of rotisserie chicken. Every kid and adult crunched and chomped on her own large bag, our final meal together. Only when boarding did I notice there was potato chip grease all over my passport.
Sy added Doritos and Oreos to make a three-course meal, then asked for a new mask since his was now covered in Dorito dust. Once I was asleep, he ordered a Coke from the passing drink cart. There is a serious beverage detox in his future.
We are home now. Safe and thankful, but a little somber. There’s no question that the better the trip, the deeper the sadness upon return. The memories and sweetness of travel is shadowed with the questions: Will I ever return to this enchanted place? Will I even see these amusing people again? Of course I know that life doesn’t deliver the same flavors or views or vantage points twice. But I can’t help but want to hang onto these for a little longer. Don’t judge, but I still have my leftover chips in my carry-on. I’m not parting with them or this adventure just yet.