12.3 Wall of Doom

Perchance, I could catch a glimpse of motorised activity on the coastal road from half a mile distance if a whale washed up. I decided to climb the Muro. I dropped the keys to my room and hurried to my bike. Kicked off at fast speed down the boulevard, turned to Carrera 4, on Calle 13, 15, and few lanes across to the so-called Swamp Road to the junction point of Avenida Medio. I was then in the foothill of the ridge of dunes known as ‘Muro de la perdición’ that stretches one and a half mile south behind the woods of Enselvado. Beyond the wall of doom, mighty Caribbean brings rising swells and waves without breaking the crests like a mountain range. Chopping and turbulence occur deep in the bottom when hit by the rocks a mile out and waves roll in dispersing spindrift in air and crush to the shores spreading a fizz of white foam.

Nobody goes beyond the wall apart from a few surf addicts and dating enthusiasts, like I did take Stella into the winnowing waves. Most who did never return. So is the story behind ‘Isla de Los Varados’ – most of us are stranded. Those who leave never come back and those who reach never go back. An island which is nowhere to be found on a map.

I skewed the wheels and climbed the top of the Muro. City lights behind me and the waters of Azul to my right, the town of Florina on the left. Ahead, I could see the shrubland under a revealing sky. Half a mile of beach grass descends to the surfaced rocks of Arena Roja and sandy beaches down there. A reddish tone gravel usually accumulated there. Some lucky ones might pick few other colours. I could not detect a light. I won’t be able to find a thing without getting down there and Arena Roja is 1.7 miles long. That half was still in the dark.

As I moved southwest slowly on top of the dune, passing Florina, I heard the hum of a generator set, or it could be many generator sets. Some folks used their own gensets. I could see a few headlights of moving traffic on Costero. Wind got in my legs and I turned back having no clue about a whale that berthed ashore.

Back in Safa, I entered Kamana Boulevard from the western bend near the woodlot. Closing to my corner, I passed a row of lodges standing identical on the south side. Each mounted with an 8 x 8 sq ft glass panel on the north wall façade of Bienvenidos. I could witness sleepers in the bunks if the lights were on and positioned so close to the road. None drawn a curtain in their grave state just because they could not see the outside.

Third room in the row, from Kala Hara corner, I caught Sophie Nadz lying in a bed with her ankles thrown out of the footboard. I stopped to gaze. She lay there on her back within a span below my eyes, next to a bloke in bed. She was smoking a cigar in sport. Nobody could see me seated outside on my bike.

I revved my motorbike in neutral until its piston rings heated up and popped. She jumped out of bed and put her face on the glass panel but she could not see the outside. I dropped over the head beam and made a face at her, dropped out my tongue and wagged. Now that she could see me. She got all those noble manners but with a smile that brought her boisterous looks, picked a pillow and slammed on the glass panel.

In a moment, she came out of a door and joined me, “Did you find out?” Now she wore a dark long skirt. I know it was actually dark brown but hard to say in the dim light like the black orchids that possessed a natural colour.

“Nope. It is too cold on the dune. I came to fetch my windbreaker,” I told her, “Who is that guy?”

“A stevedore.”

“A stevedore! Is that the muscular bull?”

“A different man.”

“What are you doing here?” I pointed to the blue gate opposite to the lodges.

“I’m running away from Gabi.”

“What is wrong with Gabi?”

“He’s mad at me.”

“Do you have kids?”

“One,” she said softly.

“Girl or boy?”

“Girl. Six years old,” she pushed me, “Go find out about the whale.”