La carne de un coco
Colombia“Necesito un coco frío, por favor.” The shade from the roadside stand didn’t solve the heat nor humidity, but it took the sun off of my neck for a moment.
“¿Desde dónde vienes?” one of the men said, but he said it too fast, and dropped several of the consonants in a typical costeño slur, so I gave him a blank stare until he repeated himself.
“Oh – Cartagena,” I replied with both pride and self-pity. Cartagena was 85 miles away but seemed closer than my destination, the beachside village of Tolú, still 22 miles out.
The woman hacked open the coconut with a machete while the three men bantered. I didn’t understand much of what they were saying. The older man held a baby monkey that was no bigger than his hand. I stared while I sipped.
Finishing the coconut, I thanked them and began to mount my steed. They looked at me like I was loco. “No vas a comer la carne?”
“No, necesito seguir,” I said, worried that I was already behind my expected timeline and I needed to push ahead.
“La carne!” one of the men repeated, astounded that I was about to leave good food behind. “Ok, ok,” I conceded. The woman chopped to coconut in two.
Why did I feel the urge to leave the carne behind? The old triathlon and trail running days habituated me into treating breaks as an unnecessary and even guilty indulgence. “Just keep moving,” the mantra went. The tortoise who keeps moving beats the hare who sprints and takes takes breaks. But I’m not trying to beat the tortoise nor the hare – I’m not in a race. I’m not trying to optimize a workout and I don’t have to be back in the city by 11 for brunch. Why did I have to make it to Tolú by three? All I wanted to do was jump in the ocean, watch the sunset, and sleep. Five will do.
Peeling the flesh out of the shell, my sweat caking dry on my face, I bantered with the costeños about my bike ride. And realized that breaks aren’t an indulgence anymore; they are integral. The breaks are why I’m here – to talk to the people, to experience the in between places.
Over the next few days in the sweaty lowlands of the Caribbean coast, I took breaks at every attractive opportunity. And the breaks were the parts I’ll remember. Chatting to curious locals over maracuya jugos and papas rellenas. Stopping to swim in the ocean and bathe in a mud volcano. Or just sitting down on the side of the road in the shade of a banyan tree, breathing, relaxing, and being free. Making sure to peel all of the carne out of each moment.
