My plane lands in Paphos,
and I head to the bus stop.
The next bus from the airport to town
will arrive in an hour.
I sit to wait,
and as the hour nears,
about seventy-five people
are waiting for the bus.
When it arrives,
we are dismayed to see
the bus is so small.
Many people scramble to get on,
but it can only take
about twenty-five people.
Not being a scrambler,
I stand back and realize that
I will not get a seat.
The next bus arrives in ninety minutes
and, clearly, there’s no guarantee
I’ll get on that one either.
The taxis cost more than my
accommodation for a night.
I check my map and see that
it is only ten kilometres to my hostel.
What the heck.
I tighten my pack,
lace up my shoes,
and start on my way.
Most of the route follows a little path
along the outside of the airport fence,
close to the sea.
For the full length of my beach walk,
I don’t see a single other person.
I’m feeling the heat,
so I strip down,
put on a golf shirt and shorts,
and carry on,
following the trail along the shore,
along the edges of farmers’ fields,
through a giant patch of cacti,
through patches of foliage up to my thighs,
along a public beach,
and then onto the city sidewalk,
where I stop to empty the sand from my shoes
and pull the burrs from my socks.
I see then that my legs are quite scratched
from walking through the foliage
and past fallen branches.
It’s dark when I stop to buy a
coke and a sandwich from a corner store,
which I consume as I slowly continue my walk.
Finally, I arrive at my hostel,
filthy, sweaty, my shirt sticking to my skin
like tissue paper to glue,
and I have a great thirst.
I pay for my room,
sit among my fellow travelers,
chat, and drink a litre of water.
What an adventure!
