CAPÍTULO I: FOREST WOOD
I look at my watch and see it's 6:45 p.m. I've just landed at Nomad Coast Airport and I feel like I've been here before. I inhale deeply and suddenly feel a thunderous tranquility wash over me. I do this every time I land. These past few years, I've been backpacking around the world, and Nomad Coast is my last stop before returning home. I know there's something that connects me to this island, and I'm going to find it. A few years ago, while organizing my grandfather's basement, I found a box that caught my eye. It was a very old fabric box wrapped in cobwebs. Inside, I discovered a string of weathered white clay beads and a letter addressed to my great-grandfather. What was strange wasn't just the sender, but the address on the envelope—a place my family had never told me about before:
Old Town, 1, Nomad Coast
Upon entering the arrivals area, the first thing I see is the airport's large window, from which you can see the city in the distance. I can't help but linger for a few moments, somewhat bewildered, gazing at Nomad Coast, blanketed in an orange sunset. I'm filled with curiosity to discover what this new place will hold for me.
At the airport, people are coming and going in droves. Some have happy faces because they've just arrived on the island; others, on the other hand, are more sad to have to leave, because of the wonderful vacation they must have had. I look for a way to get from the airport to the hostel, which I've booked in an area called Forest Wood. Initially, I was going to book a room at a motel in the Barracuda district; however, I noticed it didn't have very good reviews online. The hostel room I decided on is surrounded by nature. When I travel, I always prefer to stay in the most secluded and remote places; that way, I get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. As I leave the arrivals area, I notice a sign showing all the bus routes, including the one I should take: Airport Bus-Forest Wood.
After two long hours, the bus drops me off at the last stop, which is located in the middle of the forest. As I set foot in Forest Wood, I breathe in the air, much cleaner and fresher than that of the airport. The lushness that surrounds the forest is wonderful. To avoid getting lost, I turn on my phone and enter the address of the hostel. As I walk, I can see some brightly colored larks flying and landing on the path, hunting for some insect they can spot from above. It's the first time I've seen this species of birds, so I take a photo and, with the Lens I discover they are nomadic larks, a family of birds native to the island. Above the trees and in the most intricate places, I suddenly make out a slippery civet, on the lookout for everything, like a true spy; and suddenly, like a shadow, it disappears from my sight. Along the path, I see some houses lost in the middle of nowhere, and I imagine what it would be like to live there, among those pleasant places.
After a few minutes on the road, the GPS tells me I've reached my destination. I look up and spot what appears to be a horse ranch. The lodge is located within the ranch itself.
I approach and, upon arriving, cross the threshold. The first thing I see is a bar, where what appear to be regular customers of the restaurant are huddled together. They're drinking nonstop and talking loudly. One of the customers is complaining to another about his soccer team's poor performance. In the corner of the bar, a plump, gigantic man is drinking beer with some eagerness, looking from side to side without fixing his gaze on any one point. The innkeeper is cleaning the counter rather hastily, and one of the customers asks him to bring him a small glass of wine and a plate of wild boar casserole. Apparently, wild boar casserole is a typical dish of the area. There aren't even cats at the restaurant tables. The bartender, who is a short, very thin man, looks at me over the rims of his glasses, and before he can say anything, I approach the bar, and all the customers huddled around the counter turn their necks in perfect synchronicity.
"How can I help you?" the waiter asks.
"I've booked a room for two weeks," I reply.
I go to show him the reservation. The waiter makes me sign some papers and gives me the key to my room. I go up to the room where I'll spend my nights in Forest Wood, drop my backpack, and return to the restaurant for dinner. The smell of wild casserole spreads throughout the establishment. I sit down, and since the aroma captivates me, I decide to order the local dish. A young woman with short reddish hair and grayish-blue eyes passes by. She smiles and approaches me.
-Hi, are you from here?
"No way," I reply, "I arrived on the island today. I'm on a trip."
"Well, they say Nomad Coast is a place to stay," he tells me.
"I don't think I'll stay, I don't usually fit in," I deny his proposal.
"Well, we'll have to see about that," he answers me defiantly.
He sits next to me as if he's known me all his life and smiles at me again.
"Is this your first time traveling?" he asks me with some curiosity.
"No, I've been doing it for several years. One day I left home with my backpack and I still haven't come back," I reply, smiling.
"I think the best journey is getting to know yourself. When you know who you are, you stop looking for a place to fit in and discover you can belong anywhere," he tells me.
"I agree, it's important to know yourself, that's why I came here," I reply.
"Well, you've made a great decision!" he tells me. "I'd love to travel and discover the world out there, too, but I have a lot of obligations here, and it's complicated."
-Well, we are all born with certain circumstances, but we should always try to do what we are passionate about despite the limitations.
"But what about family?" he asks. "Don't you have a family?"
-Of course I have, but that's no excuse not to go out and discover the world out there.
-Come on, you're a free spirit -he tells me.
In this society, it's difficult to be completely free. Today, we live chained, enclosed within invisible fences. The monotony, selfishness, haste, and voracious consumerism of our society are destructive factors I try to distance myself from.
The girl looks at me thoughtfully without saying a word. I look at my watch and realize it's getting late.
"I'd love to keep talking to you, but I'm planning on going to the mountains tomorrow and I need to rest," I tell him.
"Sure, no problem. If you need anything, I'll be here," he answers with a smile.
"Are you staying here too?" I ask.
"I live here," he answers.
We say our goodbyes, and I return to my room. As I lie down on the bed, I realize I'd forgotten to ask her name. I grab my phone and plan my route for the next morning.
It's 7:23 in the morning. I wash my face with cold water, get dressed, and decide to put on the white beaded necklace I found in that mysterious box in my grandfather's basement. I leave the hostel and head toward the residential area of Forest Wood. Along the way, I see the wandering larks singing their morning song again and the civets climbing among the trees and rocks, marking the beginning of a new day of survival among those jungle-like surroundings.
After a long walk, I reach a residential area that covers the area of a single avenue. Surrounding the avenue are old houses that are wide open, as well as cottages that also possess a certain primitiveness. Something that surprises me is the presence of commercial buildings from all kinds of sectors. As I walk along the lonely avenue, the occasional car zooms by.
At the end of the road, I take the path leading to Mount Hāmau, which rises a few steps from the village. This mountain is the highest on the entire island and the busiest among tourists visiting Nomad Coast. From nearby, I can see hikers climbing the slopes, guided by tour guides, who show off the peak in all its thriving form on their adventure trips. I can also see some mountaineers scaling the steepest and most dangerous parts of the peak. The agile climbers ascend the crag with enormous skill, using only their cable-linked harnesses. Some climbers ascend more quickly and reach the summit first; others are left behind, but all aim to complete their climb, reaching the top of the mountain via the most rugged path.
I continue along the thorniest and winding mountain paths and, after ascending, reach the summit. A pleasant, cool breeze envelops me as I complete my ascent. I'm at such a high altitude that I can touch the sky with my bare hands. I can glimpse from the distance, a village rising to the south, surrounded by an immense wall of trees. For a long time, I gaze at the horizon, my eyes fixed on that mysterious hamlet. The views are fascinating, and I feel the need to know what lies beneath that endearing village. However, it's far away, so far away that I'll hardly be able to visit it. Furthermore, from what I've read on the signs at the entrance to the trail, it is prohibited to go beyond the mountain and enter the forest surrounding that primitive village. As I was about to get out, I suddenly saw the figure of a pale, emaciated old man, wearing an old, worn tunic over which a long white beard fell, reaching down to his feet. Suddenly, the stranger fixed his gaze on my face.
Fear consumes me, and I remain in shock for a few seconds when I see those deep blue eyes. Without looking away, the old man shouts at me:
-Children tun kaidala! Children tun kailada!
"Who are you! Where do you come from?" I exclaimed with some fear.
The unusual old man begins to make strange gestures without saying another word. Suddenly, he turns around and disappears into the mist that surrounds Mount Hāmau. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I snap out of my stupor and set off down the mountain again.
When I arrive at the hostel, I see the girl I spoke to last night again. I approach her, and when she sees me again, she asks:
-How did it go for you in the mountains?
"It's really impressive, there are fabulous views," I reply. "By the way, I forgot to ask your name."
-My name is Monica, Monica Rhodes, and you?
-I don't tell anyone.
Monica is surprised to hear the answer I gave her, and then she says to me again:
-And how do I refer to you?
-Call me Nomad -I answer.
"Okay, Nomad," he says with some surprise.
Both of hers and I share an involuntary smile that sparkles into laughter.
-Hey, would you like to come to the annual surf competition? You can come with me and my friends, you'll like it.
-Sure! When is it?
"In two hours," he clarifies. "We can go together; the competition is held in a cove to the north, near Forest Wood."
"I have to finish some things. I'll come by later," I tell him. "Give me your number and I'll text you when I get there."
-Great, take note.
As he gives me his phone number, he stares at my beaded necklace.
"What's going on?" I ask.
-Nothing, nothing, I'll see you there in a bit - he concludes.
After finishing up my errands, I head out of the hostel again, leaving Forest Wood and heading to the address Monica Rhodes sent me.
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