"How are you. Hope that all is well. After the last time we talked in Flandes, I've had no idea in which part of the world you could be. Hope to receive a reply."
(translated from Spanish.) The letter was not signed, yet I saw the sender's name Arles in the heading of the e-mail.
I could not recall where was Flandes or who the person writing to me was.
Curious to know, found the place on the map: Flandes was a small village in Colombia´s province Tolima, near Girardot. I assumed that I had been travelling from Mesitas del Colegio at the time, going to Ecuador. That was about two and a half years ago. Memory refused to help.
Searched my notebook where had kept track of all the rides of the journey. It took me a little while to find Flandes but there at last it was:
Notes are taken in Estonian and handwriting is pretty bad, probably I had written these down in the car. Here is an English summary:
Day 144 (on the move), June 4th (2009), I had altogether four rides (311-314 counting from Estonia) travelling form Flandes to Neiva: 7+5+100+50 = 162 kilometres. Was picked up from Flandes by a taxi driver Jorge Gutierres who did not charge me for the trip, then travelled with a young lad Mauricio to Espinal - he had invited me to try the local meat "lechon" and a pastry called "pionono", yet that was already 13 km out of Flandes. Then travelled with two trucks for a longer distance. I remember the night when I had come to Neiva. I went to the cathedral, talked to the priest after the mass and the curch provided me with food and refuge for the night.
Could it have been Jorge Gutierres writing to me? But the name of the sender said Arles and not Jorge. I looked in the book of contacts for an Arles - nothing. Still the data from my diary gave me an important clue: I had started in Flandes, it means I had also slept there. But where? In a church? I did not recall. Perhaps it was that time when I met a kind couple, owners of a little shop near the cathedral, and they allowed me to camp in their yard. I put up my tent under a mango tree and in the morning had to clean it - mangos were in season and falling from the tree had a soft landing on the roof of my tent. When they fell on the ground the ripe fruit splish-splashed its sweet juice all over my humble house. I remeber washing and drying the tent in the morning. Meanwhile the family gave me food to eat, showed photos of their adult children, helped me pack. I tried to refuse the money for the road, but without success, the man squeezed the notes in my hand. I thanked both kindly and parted. I believe I had left them my contacts on a small "thank you" post-card.
Could it be him writing? Or was there someone else? Someone who stopped me just before I was to hit the road asking where I came from and where I was headed. Wished me luck. Asked for my contact and I gave him my e-mail.
Two and a half years later...it was not the first time to get a similar letter and go through the same process of trying to remember. I suddenly felt warmth: there are hundreds of bonds out there formed in an instant, now uniting us. We never really forget, just not always remember...
That same evening I received another letter from Arles. He could not believe I had remembered the mangos.
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