Estimated reading time: 7 minutes
The light flashes on, burning retinas momentarily. Hands shoot out to shield faces that aren’t already buried beneath the bedsheets.
“Sorry, guys,” comes the apologetic voice.
An apology softens the blow. There are, however, some times where no apology is offered for late arrivals, and boy, does that do well for public relations in overcrowded dorm rooms.
Now, the inevitable wait. The interminable wait. Staring at the ceiling or the mattress of the bunk bed above. Counting off the seconds. Listening as backpacks are fastened, unfastened and refastened again. The satisfying click of buckles. Zips (when they worked successfully). Up and down. Fast and slow. Hard plastic ties looped around bags, rattling metal bed frames beside your head. Christ, make it stop.
Underneath all those sounds is at least one voice – the gentle snores of that rare breed in hostels. The deep sleepers. Born with the uncanny gift of long uninterrupted slumber, wherever they lay their head. Alarm clock be damned. Circadian rhythms rule.
I press the button on my Casio – an indispensable companion that allows my mobile phone to be secreted away in a hidden compartment of a backpack or under my pillow. The LED display shows 4.24am. My restless mind fires synapses, surmising what further adventures await our nocturnal foragers on their journey. If, like the legion of backpackers who have travelled through the hostel in recent weeks is anything to go by, it will be one of two choices. Travel further inland towards Bogota or search for warmer weather on the gringo trail. Northbound. That would be my bet. Catch the first morning bus from Medellin to Cartagena. Recover sleep on the shuttle bus. Early check in to the hostel around 10am. It’s warmer on the coast.
The sudden thought of sandy beaches makes me realise how exposed my own feet are, sticking out from the bed. The last person to bed failed to turn off the aircon and so, we have all had to endure the cold breeze of the fan in the corner, angled in my direction. I roll over, hugging the wall and pull the thin sheet across my legs. This movement shuffles the entire frame of the bunk bed, its metal squeak chased by a disgruntled groan below me.
“Sorry, guys.” It’s the woman’s turn to apologise. The sincerity in the tone probably buys them another two minutes before anarchy breaks out, I reckon.
There are sounds as bags are emptied, plastic sheets housing important documents – scanned and returned again to their secret chamber. Clothing is vomited from bulging backpacks, making their former home look gaunt and hollow. The couple have gathered their life belongings together into the centre of the room. Set a light to it, I think, sharing the inner thoughts of some of my fellow sleep deprived spectators. We are a captive audience of at least three, watching from our galleries high above.
The couple, late twenties and European, rocking golden tans with wrists covered with colourful and presumably trendy lace bands, continue their fruitless search. Pockets are pulled from scrunchy jeans and badly wrinkled shorts. Cotton sock balls are split open. What once was structured and compartmentalised – toiletries pocket, dirty clothes, smalls, important documents, electronics; has now become a skipman’s delight.
“Turn it off!” comes the muffled and merciful cry below me. To be fair, it could have come from anyone. For once, I’m grateful for Grunt’s interjection. The couple become even more animated and frantic in their search.
“Sorry, guys. I turn off now,” the woman says.
Collective sighs of relief as the room light is turned off before we hear the flicked switch of a torch. I watch as the man shines the beam on the small heap on the floor, crouching beside it with his companion. A backpacking Mulder and Scully, their crime scene is localised to a small area in the centre of the room. The woman traces the path of the beam, removing items and replacing them with small shaking hands.
Eager sleepers lean away from the commotion, covering heads with pillows. Bed springs creak and the tall frames of bunk beds wobble. Why do they always put the tallest people on the top bunk? The solitary snorer continues to hold a sentinel in the land of the nod, patiently awaiting our arrival.
The couple are trying to be silent, they almost succeed, which makes it even more frustrating because whatever it is they’re looking for at this Godforsaken hour, requires urgency. Further noises in the darkness prod the tired mind, seeking clarity and shape. Does that sound like a belt buckle or a sandal clasp? Was that foil? Could that be a sandwich? That’s a strange noise…
I need to follow it to a conclusion. Sleep has evaded me, and not for the first time in this six month holiday. Until this couple have left the room, I’m confident there will be no sleep for the remaining residents of Room 104 of El Viajero Hostel.
I prop myself on an elbow to get a better look. Panic on the man’s face now. One hand moving at speed through the bundle of clothes and assorted cables. The woman is standing and watching. A hand by her hip and the other at her mouth, desperately chewing a thumb nail. Their conversation is low, but loud enough to get a rebuke from someone in the lower decks, less than pleased with their night/morning fumbles. Their focus is absorbed by the bundle that separates them. The world outside doesn’t exist.
“Scuse me. Excuse me,” I whisper, tapping the woman on the shoulder. She is startled and leaps back from the bed suddenly. Her eyes widen in alarm, before she recovers and nods quickly. “What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Our passports,” she says. “We can’t find our passports.”
I look down at the floor. What had been a clear corridor of space between the six bunk beds was now littered with clothes, books, bags, toiletries, documents and all manner of paraphernalia. The man has stopped his search, sitting now on the hard floor. The shining torch light hangs limp in his hand, signalling defeat.
“Your passports? They take them off you at reception when you check in.”
The woman takes a few seconds before her face registers this information. A dawning smile breaks, and she quickly turns to the male and relays this information in a foreign language. They quickly shovel all the contents from the floor into both bags – noise be damned or not – and after offering rushed apologies and a final thank you to myself, exit the room.
Their steps in the hallway soon fade away and a long unbroken silence descends on the room. I take a deep breath and pull the cover tight over my head. I notice that they were kind enough to turn off the air con on their way out. All is right once again in the world. The dark cloak of sleep envelops me as I—
“Hey, guys.” The sound of a switch and the room is bathed in light. “Just checking myself in. Won’t be a minute.”
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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