January is in its final days. Harmattan winds have been blowing through the mornings for the past six weeks. As the mid-morning light brings with it dust-laden breezes, I pour in a second liter of petrol to the cobalt blue tank of Kwame’s knock-off, 70’s era Honda CB. The tank holds at least 2.4 gallons, or nine liters. Osman sells me four liters at 5,000Le each from the chicken wire wrapped cage. His storage space looks more like an oversized stool than a petrol stand.  Each pink-tinted liter, all a vaguely different shade than the previous one, gurgles out from the 1.5liter water bottle it was stored in. 

Village boys gather around Mille and I as we prepare to leave. She stands off the back left of the bike, facing the delta that makes up the entrance of Mapaki. Her H&M denim shorts carry dust from the dry season roads. She wears a heather-grey tank top. Her soft, peach-tanned skin holds a mist in the sun. The air is cooler than normal for this time of morning.  I hand off the last liter of petrol to Osman and pay him. The cap for the tank is placed on; it’s keyhole no longer functioning.  On the stubby, chrome rack above the taillight I double-check my black Manhattan Portage courier bag. Inside we’ve packed wedges of Laughing Cow cheese, crackers, and bread and cheese sandwiches; bananas are there for our potassium.  My Nikon N80 bounces next to a transparent grey Nalgene water bottle covered in stickers.

I pull the FDMCO around in a U-turn, clicking down one gear, and entering first. Unlike traditional motorcycles, its gear system is all down or all up. The top is neutral. In first gear, I keep the rpms steady as Mille mounts the back. We haven’t a plan, and no functioning odometer. I calculate we can get at least 100 kilometers on the poor quality petrol. Colleagues from the school and children gather around as I roll us out of the village. We head northeast towards Limba country. From the veranda of his timeworn, chipped, yellow and green concrete veranda, Paramount-Chief Kebombo meets with his headmen and village elders. They wave while we pass in slow retreat. I yell, “Se ne kane so,” over the low-whine of first gear. See you back.

Mille laughs as we turn left at the dog-legged curve closing out the village. “You’re like a little boy now.” I smile back over my left shoulder. In brown flip-flops, Stussy shorts, a Pushead Metallica shirt, and backwards black and white mesh hat, I switch the FDMCO back to neutral for the hill. Out and through the country we catch open spaces revealing the long, rolling, grass and planting-heap dotted hills that only Africa can create. At the lower depths of road we slow for narrow sections, still washed out and unrepaired from the last of the rainy season storms in October. Deep, rutted channels are cut into the steeper sections of road where the rain found its natural path of least resistance. We talk over the FDMCO’s steady, puttering whine. The rice swamps are dry now. Dry, and cracked like the skin of an elephant. Once rich humus soil looks like flakes of cow dung.

Women and children balance tools, baskets, and cooking items on their heads. Before we approach they fade into the tall, ocher powder covered grass. “Walle-Walle,” we shout to one another. Hello, hello! From a hill, smoke is seen rising above the mango trees, still waiting to bloom. The road flattens out. Less than a dozen mudbrick and thatch homes line either side of the road. At the water pump students brook their clothes for tomorrow’s classes. Excited cries of “Eh!” and “EhBo!” hang-high above the motorcycles noise. I slow down for the dirt speed bumps ahead, only after I hit it at 45kmph.  They are shocked to see two whites this far out, on a motorcycle, one a teacher; the other his “wife” they’ve heard of, and may only have imagined seeing before. “Walle-ne!” I reply.

We move out of the village at a steady 30kph. Down a slight incline and flat through more swamps. Traction is difficult to gain as we ascend; Mille asks that I go slower. I listen. I acknowledge that I’m not worried what happens to me, but should she get hurt, well. Villages appear, their notorious speed bumps now a keen sight in my vision. Children run after us. Walle, Walle trails the FDMCO, until I can shift into 3^rd and pull deeper into the tight, rutted road. There is one village, with a clear fork. Veer right? I know that goes to Makeni. Or, left? We head towards Makeni. Maybe 30 minutes have passed. We talk about looking for a place to stop.

I can sense Mille wants to push further, but fears a flat-tire or an accident. We are out here. In awe and truth I think of where we are. That no one, except for she and I, knows where we are. The villages we’ve passed know only our skin color. Few may recognize me as the teacher from the Chiefdom Headquarters. It’s here, for the first time, do I feel the purest sense of freedom. Of escape. Of extreme bliss. A man and his woman, on the road, under the sweltering African sun. Alone. Together. Blades of grass seem to pass slower, the clouds lack movement. I am at once content and amazed.

Either side of the concrete bridge shows the dried remains of a flooded river six months away. Up the hill, I navigate the FDMCO towards firmer ground. Treads of previous drivers mark the way. The bike traverses the hill in broad sweeps and then short, calculated turns. Over the hill’s peak, we spot the unmistakable clearing of a schoolyard. We agree to pull off here. Villagers on their way to the farm pass through the back of the field carrying machetes. I park the FDMCO under a mango tree. The yellowed, ranch-styled school building extends to the left. We greet the people at the far end of the field. I untie the bag from the rack. Mille asks to take my picture next to the bike. I refuse worried that somehow Peace Corps will see it. You’re being a fool. Under the shade of the rusted zinc awning we smoke Gold Seal filters. From the bag I take out our lunch. I capture a photograph of her looking off to the buildings end. The smoke of her cigarette trails up in the near-still, twelve o’clock air. We rest here for sometime, smoking, talking; reflecting. Nobody knows where we are. 

        Dusk falls calm and stable over Domes. A waxing gibbous moon has yet to make its evening ascent into the sky on the northwestern edge of Puerto Rico. In the faint afterglow of a backlit point, lines of the last swell continue to rope in.  Only a handful of surfers wait outside. The beach is almost cleared of its denizens. Punta Higüeras Lighthouse stands erect on the cliffs. Once a savior for sailors and seamen, it now stands as protectorate of surfers and whales. In another 360 degrees its light will guide. With daylight running low, we make the call to head south and seek out a proper place to pitch camp. Añasco presents itself as the most viable option. 

            Evan rides shotgun and reviews the rental car map. His face is a newly minted red from a day spent driving cross-island. Reflecting the final light of day, his sunglasses catch rays from the cars ahead. Charles sits in the back. He wears a crisp wife beater and tan shorts with a fresh pincho grease stain. He is given the task of digital navigation. Stretched out among water jugs, leashes, and haphazardly placed clothes, he checks his Instagram or texts his chick –neither of which help us get any closer to camping. We wind through the town of Rincon. Founded in 1771 by Don Luis de Añasco, the town harkens back to its European ruling. An archway rises above the colonial era entrance to the swept streets and central plaza of town. Rincon is an eye-blink village - beautiful in clean simplicity, majestic under a night sky – and easily missed in a town only several blocks long.

            We drive south. 115 Este will bring us towards Añasco. Charles begins to offer proper directions. Under a canopy of vines woven across mango trees on either side of the road we approach our turn. A large, brown and white sign marks, “Playa Tres Hermanos.” Behind us three friends switch their signal indicating a right turn. Inside town, families are returning home from work, few children play on the streets. The road meanders through a series of lefts and rights, all taken a degree too sharp. Another sign has yet to appear. We talk of where we are headed – we haven’t an idea, only a name. The feeling of nervous confidence in blind faith builds. Noventa nueve punta cinco, la Radio Isla plays western and Puerto Rican hits over the speakers of the now salt and dirt encrusted Versa. Three days in and its versatility has begun to prove itself.  

        The town here only reveals a few tiendas. Each selling the same necessities; cerveza, vino, leche, salsa, comida, items vital to long days spent working and raising families. Lights have come on in the establishments. Outside of the barrio, we proceed towards nowhere. Homes are now spaced farther apart. On the right we can see glimpses of the ocean. Palm trees frame out the edge of the sand where it meets a horse farm. A young boy rides parallel to the street, jockeying his caballo. Two houses stand at the road’s end.

        I slow the Versa. Its taillights illuminate the hood of the SUV behind us. Edging the car off the pavement, we pass over hard-packed sand. The center of the road is grown in in patches of light grass. A fence and wall are to the right. A la izquierda is a solitary home. Around the home spreads a pasture of some 10 acres. Whether horses are grazed and cared for here we do not know. The road banks left again, passing the front of the house. I edge the Versa slow for any potholes or people. On a right hand turn the sand becomes soft. Across the windshield stretches the vast spoils of beach, only barely lit by the horizon-shielded sun. 

        Cars are backed in incase of a potential quick exit. Kyle, Dylan, and Mike spread out to case the area. Evan and I look north where a small fire glows, and south where an outcropping of land hides anything further than a mile. Evan shrugs his shoulders. Looks like home. Mike organizes scraps of driftwood to form a base for a fire. Some of the pieces are charred from previous guests. We devise to set our tents in a circle. Oregon Trail style. If someone comes they’ll at least have to work around us. I push my tent a little closer from the edge. Mike will sleep in the car. We unpack in the dark. Headlamps flicker off tent poles and stakes like the tails of a thousand fireflies. The fire begins to grow.

        At the fire’s edges we drink from cans of Buyé and Medalla. I find my sachet of sangria and sip from its Capri-Sun inspired pouch. The sugar coated alcohol tastes like bad frozen strawberry syrup. Under the stars we come and go from the fire. Dylan and Charles share whiskey. For the boys, the feeling of being at the edge of the world is only beginning to sink in. We arrived in dark and won’t recognize the golden, sunlit beauty of the site until rising in the morning. Constellations poke out from the sky. They are close enough to pluck, yet too far to comprehend. The moon creeps through palm trees where beach becomes bush. Conversation is steady at times, and pauses for moments; each person immersed in their own sense of wonder, of gratitude. Before resting we will walk the two miles to town, keep our voices low, the fire lower, and appreciate the solitude we found for ourselves at the corners of paradise and freedom - on the doorstep to the Porta del Sol.