I woke up on the morning of my flight out of Costa Rica and to Colombia at half 6 in the morning, not only with the most violent hangover I could possibly imagine, but also with the sinking realisation that something wasn’t right. The two girls staying in the other section of our dorm, Stephanie and Cat, had both come down with some sort of virus, from the dodgy water or mosquitos we didn’t know, and they’d suffered intensely with fever, dehydration and vomiting, much worse than the previous virus outbreak in the hostel a week before. As I felt my forehead burning up and rushed to the loo that morning, I knew two things: first, I was getting my second awful stomach bug in two weeks, and second, I had to try and push through it if I was going to make it to Colombia by nightfall.
To make matters comically worse, Paul had decided to wait until my last night in Puerto Viejo to confess his feelings for me, something even more unexpected than the aggressive dysentery I’d just caught, and we’d had one blissful night together before I ran away yet again. I looked at Paul, who was just waking up and realising that I’d fallen ill, and contemplated the six hours of local bus rides that I’d need to take to get me to San Jose’s airport for my 4pm flight. On one hand, I’d waste a lot of money missing the flight, and besides, my infected wounds and stomach needed a break from the tropical Costa Rican climate. But on the other, something so irrationally strong was pulling at me to stay with Paul, to not let him go, to stay with him and Lukas forever if I could. Was it even possible for me to travel in this state, without instant access to a toilet? In my insane dilemma I did the only thing I could think of, and called my mum.
Instead of calming my nerves, my mother told me she was worried I had contracted sepsis and needed urgent medical attention when I reached Bogota, so I thanked her dryly and hung up the phone. I was alone in this one, no one to tell me what I should do. I could barely move through my pain, could barely think through the intense fever coursing its way through my body. I needed to make a decision, and fast, before my bus left for Limon. I looked at Paul again, his big and curious blue eyes, his messy curly hair and tanned skin, and forcefully shut out the emotions tugging me towards him. In my head, mantras were echoing: I am solo, I do this alone. Keep moving. Come on, Cerys. Be brave. Be strong. Come on. I dragged myself out of bed and told Paul I had to keep going, trying not to cry. He said okay. We looked at each other for a long time, an unspoken back-and-forth of him begging me to stay and my stupid stubbornness at leaving Puerto behind. I didn’t even know exactly why I was leaving, or how on earth I would make it to my flight, given the risk factor involved in taking Costa Rica’s, shit at the best of times, public transport all the way from coast to airport. But I left, turning away from Paul and the hostel deliriously, and started my slow painful trudge to the bus station.
Fast forward seven hours and I’d miraculously made it to San Jose, after fainting twice while changing buses in Limon and almost throwing up an embarrassing amount of times, painfully swallowing down and sucking in disgusting body fluids so no one would fine me. The biggest problem now was that I only had an hour to board my plane. And the airport was a 30 minute Uber ride away. I felt simultaneously terrified and disassociated, too exhausted from the stress I’d already endured throughout the day to panic at all, as I wordlessly got into the Uber and prayed that I’d been gifted a lunatic driver. Sadly, said driver didn’t even get to show his potential because standstill traffic awaited us on the highway towards the airport, making it clear that we’d never even make it there in time. I received the inevitable, dreaded call from my airline telling me the gate was closing without me, and a single tear of desperation watered up in my eye before I blinked it away furiously, determined to keep calm and work something out. My Uber driver was more upset about the situation than I was, arguing with the airline woman on the other end of the phone to just wait five more minutes and looking at me with wide eyes. I waved the idea away and hung up the phone, assuring him that I was okay and immediately searching for the cheapest, closest hostel to the airport to crash for the night.
‘Fuck you, San Jose,’ I thought to myself after attempting to digest my first meal of the day, a humble Subway, and throwing it all back up instantaneously. ‘Fuck you for dragging me back here three times when I’m clearly trying to leave.’ San Jose has a funny way of engraining itself into your memory, becoming the beginning and end of all roads, the place you can never escape from. I’d developed a Jane Austen worthy love-hate relationship with it. And apparently I wasn’t alone: in my new last-minute hostel I met a severely annoying Californian man who’d managed to get himself stuck in this god-forsaken city for 18 months straight, doing absolutely nothing in particular aside from escaping California. I asked if he’d visited any other places in Costa Rica, in disbelief that someone can spend so long in a rough capital city without even liking it here, and he said no, looking confused that I’d even suggested leaving.
I had to get out. I’d booked a new flight the next day, for a very decent price considering the tardiness, and was now gearing myself up to take a shower, which involved the pain of standing up without getting explosive diarrhoea, and the pain of having to clean out my fondly-named “pizza leg” infection again, which at this point I’d accepted would never fully heal. It really was a horrible ordeal, taking me at least an hour to wash myself, and at the end I still didn’t feel much better. I could only hope that I would sleep off the worst of my illness tonight, and avoid nightmares of being stuck in San Jose for eternity.
When the flight attendant told me the next morning that I was safely checked in, with no problems at all, a comfortable 90 minutes before my flight, I was convinced I was still dreaming, and turned away from the desk clutching my boarding pass as if it would disappear if I relaxed even the slightest bit. The next thing I knew I was crying in relief. It didn’t even seem like a dramatic reaction given the last 24 hours, because for once, if briefly, the universe had stopped doing me dirty. I was so relieved that I’d actually be making it to Bogota that the excitement didn’t even reach me until we’d touched down and I snapped back into ‘go mode’. In the hour-long queue at customs I realised I really, really needed the toilet again, but was too stubborn to give up my spot, so spent the 60 minutes crouching in agony at my stomach pains and pleading I could hold it in. When I eventually made it to the desk I had everything out ready, turned to all the correct pages so I could rush to the toilet once it was over, but got stumped when the official asked me where I was staying. ‘How can I tell Colombian passport control that I don’t know where I’m staying without getting deported?’ I mused internally.
In truth, I knew where I was staying: with Arin, a friend from uni who was doing a study abroad year in Bogota. I just didn’t know where he lived. And I couldn’t tell the customs man I was staying at ‘Arin’s’; that would definitely get me deported. I wracked my brain for the address Arin had given me and the same address that I’d instantly forgotten without writing down, and managed to recall the name ‘Calle 18’ seemingly out of thin air, a dissolving cloud in my vomit-plagued mind. Confidently and completely unconvincingly, I blurted it out to the customs guy with a shaky smile. The problem with Latin American addresses is that they all either contain the Spanish for ‘street’ followed by a vague string of numbers, or will be something like ‘the green house on the corner’, meaning they could be literally anywhere. And there was definitely a lot of Calle 18’s in Bogota, the capital city of Colombia. He asked me where on Calle 18, predictably, and I was rendered thoroughly stumped once more. With only one hope to get the hell out of here and on the toilet, I reeled off a list of numbers in Spanish and silently prayed.
Clearly it wasn’t enough, because all I received was a dead-eyed stare and single blink from Mr Scary Colombian Customs Man. He set the pen down and I mused that it probably wasn’t a good idea to blatantly lie my way into Colombia, but I didn’t know what else to do. I had no SIM card yet, no Wifi, no way of contacting Arin. Aimlessly, I pointed at the map on my phone and blurted out some seriously incoherent Spanish for a few minutes, batting my eyes as much as I could through the pains that were writhing in my stomach, and thankfully, mercifully, finally, he gave in and stamped my passport.
By the time I got my hands on some Wifi to text Arin and ask him where the hell he lived, I was so exhausted by the day, and the lingering dysentery, that I just knew I needed sleep, and a lot of it. Within 48 hours I’d caught feelings for a German boy, gotten violently ill, attempted to take two flights, only successfully managed one, changed countries, narrowly avoided being sent back, taken a painful amount of buses, and was now sat in the lobby of an apartment block, unable to fully recount how I was still alive, breathing, and here. After telling him the whole story, Arin was pretty shocked too. He introduced me to his friends in the high-rise downtown apartment block, took me out for food, and even showed me the first draught beer I’d seen in months, but that was all my body could muster for the day.
And with all honesty, save the beautiful artisan coffee shop visits by day and hardcore benders at night, sleep was all I did for the next couple of days. Being in a real city with a real friend from home again had the same effect as waking up from a dream that felt real – I was disorientated, deflated, and drained. I really had left Central America behind. Arin made amazing efforts as tour guide, showing me different neighbourhoods in Bogota’s maze, local and fancy coffee syphoning methods, and the historical plaza Bolivar, constantly surprising me with his local-like knowledge of the city, but even despite all of this I couldn’t escape the feeling. The feeling, the miserable fact, that Bogota was dark and rainy and made me even more lethargic, strikingly similar to London. I just couldn’t fall in love with it. After the tropical beaches and pura vida lifestyle in Puerto Viejo, and after over three months of mystical Central American paradises, it was hard to adjust to dirty, busy city life. To wake up to the real world. Where crackheads tried to pull knives on you and a suffocating amount of cars were ready at any minute to flatten you. The weather was bad, the people walked too fast, and the only saving grace was finding a poke restaurant, I decided.
However, my intention of visiting Bogota had been clear from the start: I hadn’t come for good weather, or friendly people or to get a break from being cat-called, I’d come to party. The electrically intense reggaeton and techno parties I’d attended religiously in Guatemala were only distant memories now, and I found myself desperately craving Bad Bunny. I also knew that hanging out with students in Colombia’s capital city was the perfect way to un-bury those memories from their graves. Here, people partied all night and well into daytime, and then slept until it was time to go again, meaning that the lack of flair in Bogota was made up for because the only things you see are the four walls of a nightclub or your own bedroom. I was nowhere near this level of crazy, but I was admittedly excited to dabble in the student lifestyle for a few days. It started with a techno party where I witnessed more drama on one night out than I’d ever seen before. Arin and I joined a massive group of French students who were loud and loved to get with each other, as well as everyone else, so the night became a kiss-count competition and simultaneous argument over kissing the same people. I stood on the outskirts of the action observing, thoroughly confused and drinking water for my poor, recovering stomach, marvelling at how it was possible to so confidently grind on each other in the local ‘perreo’ dancing style.
Culture-shocked and hungover to my core, the next day I heard the best news I’d had in a while, considering the missed flights and dysentery. Anna, my lovely German friend who I’d met months, or what felt like centuries, ago in Mexico, was in Bogota and heading to Medellin next, like me. The last time I’d seen her we were stuck in Chetumal, the Mexican border town with Belize, and we’d eaten weird pizza in a weird restaurant to celebrate neither of our attempts to leave working out. Then we split, Anna heading to Palenque and I to Belize. That had been way back in November, and now, feeling like a truly seasoned traveller four months later, I knew it would be strange to see each other again after so much growth. I’d gone from having a planned itinerary that I was slowly starting to stray off from, to being a hectic, last-minute free spirit who decided on things mere hours before they happened. But Anna, a few years older than me, had always seemed head-strong in a completely spontaneous and chaotic way, and I admired her as much for her bravery now as I did back in Cancun on Day One. In a way, she was a lot of the reason why I’d become the traveller I had.
We were headed to the “biggest club in town” for Friday night, with mine and Anna’s plan being to party and then head straight for a night bus to Medellin at 4am. Instead of putting makeup on, I got ready by scrubbing my cheese-looking infected leg with a bar of soap in the shower and consequently picking out bits of dirt and yellow scabs with a pair of tweezers like I was performing surgery. Arin walked in while I was digging into my leg, phone flashlight in hand, glasses donned and wincing through the pain, and confusedly laughed at me before walking out again. I knew I must appear utterly bizarre in the real world now, after being shocked that he’d gifted me a real bed in his own room, that there was a hot shower, and that I could actually throw toilet paper down the toilet here, after months of getting used to disgusting sanitary bins. I slightly liked it that way, being completely out of touch with how it’s done in ‘normal life’, with my only worry being how I’d adjust when I eventually did end up back at home again. What would life be without squeezing all my belongings into a backpack every couple of nights and being covered in various inexplicable injuries? I wasn’t sure how ready I was for it to end.
Mine and Anna’s reunion was as heartfelt and movie-like as it could’ve been amidst the 2010 and reggaeton hits being blasted from Arin’s speaker at pre-drinks. We sat on the sofa in his friend Teo’s apartment and laughed and tried to catch up as much as we could, but the music and the dancing people and the alcohol quickly took over our attempts. We went on a search for a pair of socks and trainers for Anna, after she showed up wearing staple backpacker sandals and was too embarrassed to wear them in the real world of nightclubs, and upon entering the massive, multi-storied club went straight for a tequila shot to celebrate old times. While Arin and the group of French people methodically made their way around the venue, assessing the best rooms to dance in and socialise, Anna and I ran around like maniacs, trying and failing to convince the outdoor karaoke stage team to let us sing ‘Tequila’. We made friends with locals, got kicked out of a pub room playing slow-dance music, and taught a group of guys how unacceptable it is to refuse something after someone asks “por que no?”, which backfired (or was successful, whichever way you look at it) when they started relentlessly handing us straight whiskey to shot. At some point we realised we were completely drunk after buying barely anything. The night ended in what can only be described as a gay club room, being cheered on by queers and getting way too confident in our dancing abilities.
I woke up at midday and instantly remembered the 4am bus we were meant to get, which had turned into the 6am and then the 9am bus we were meant to get. Anna had disappeared off to her hostel at some point in the night, and, apart from texting me that she was alive, we’d had no contact about how the hell we were making it to Medellin in this state. Jumping out of my still-drunk reverie, I grabbed my phone from the floor and scrolled through my messages to Anna. She was online, so I sent a message demanding that we make the 2pm bus. Anna suggested just staying in Bogota for another day and hopping on a night bus as the more sensible option, but I was adamant that I would not stay in this godforsaken city a minute longer than I had to, so convinced her to come with on a whirlwind, hungover Uber ride to the bus terminal. Like zombies, absolutely starving and having probably never felt worse in our lives, we lugged our two massive backpacks around in search for a bus to Medellin. After finding one in 20 minutes’ time and separating to buy snacks for the journey, I found myself in a Dunkin’ Donuts waiting for my coffee and pastries, blissfully unaware of the clock and clearly still on Costa Rica ‘pura vida’ time, when Anna appeared from the waiting room in a panic, shouting that they were about to leave us behind. I was forced to remember that in the real world, a lot of things actually left on time, and grabbed my food, hurrying off to the bus.
After the initial shock of me almost getting stuck in a bus terminal in Bogota, Anna gave in to my good mood about it all and laughed with me, about my inability to be on time, or apparently care about anything. I realised that this was my first time actually travelling from one place to another with someone else since catching local buses with Lore in Belize, and smiled to myself as we chatted together and settled in for the painful journey ahead. I inhaled some orange juice, my body screaming for vitamins after the night we’d had, and then felt too sick to eat anything else, instead thinking about what awaited us in Medellin. I knew Conal was living there, the lovable northerner I’d worked with in Guatemala, as were Paul and Josh, the Scousers that had joined us in saving Christmas and cooking dinner for over 30 people. I knew it would be a legendary Mr Mullet’s reunion, but I also couldn’t help thinking about Paul and Lukas, who I’d left behind in Costa Rica and had now moved to Panama. I was surprised just how much they occupied my thoughts, at how difficult it was to keep travelling alone without them. But I was determined to keep going, so I plugged in my headphones, sipped my scalding coffee, and watched Colombia crawl by from the bus window.
my silly little solo trip 