"The Shortcut: My First Solo Trip Almost Turned Into a Nightmare":
My first solo trip was to Costa Rica, a place I’d dreamed of visiting for its lush jungles and vibrant culture. San Jose, the capital, was my first stop, a city buzzing with life—street vendors calling out, music spilling from open windows, and the hum of traffic weaving through crowded roads. I’d spent the day exploring, my sneakers scuffing against the uneven pavement of the central market, where stalls overflowed with bright fruits and handmade crafts. I’d snapped photos of colorful murals, sipped sweet coffee at a tiny café, and marveled at ancient stone carvings in a museum. By evening, my legs ached, and my heart was full of the thrill of being on my own in a new country. I was ready to head back to my hostel, a budget place called Pangea, to rest for another day of adventure.
Standing on a busy street corner, I raised my hand to flag down a cab. The air was thick with the smell of grilled corn and exhaust. A yellow taxi pulled up, its paint chipped and faded. The driver, a man in his forties with a weathered face, thin mustache, and slicked-back hair, leaned out the window. “Where to, señorita?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost too friendly.
“Hostel Pangea, please,” I said, sliding into the back seat. My small laptop bag sat on my lap, heavy with my essentials—passport, laptop, camera, a notebook, and a thin stack of local currency. I’d read enough travel blogs to know to keep it close, and my fingers gripped the strap tightly.
“No problem,” he said, flashing a smile in the rearview mirror that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “First time in Costa Rica?”
“Yeah,” I replied, settling into the worn leather seat. The cab smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. “It’s been incredible. The market was so lively today, and the people are so warm.”
“Traveling alone?” he asked, his eyes flicking to me in the mirror. “That’s brave. A young woman like you, all by yourself?”
I nodded, a little uneasy at his tone but brushing it off as curiosity. “I wanted to challenge myself. It’s been fun meeting people along the way.”
“Be careful,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “Not everyone here is what they seem.”
I forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m learning that. But everyone’s been kind so far.”
He didn’t respond, just nodded, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. The city lights flashed by, neon signs and streetlamps casting fleeting glows across the dashboard. But then I noticed we’d turned off the main road. The streets were narrower now, lined with shuttered shops and crumbling buildings. The crowds had vanished, replaced by empty sidewalks and flickering streetlights. My stomach twisted.
“Is this the way to the hostel?” I asked, my voice thinner than I intended.
“Shortcut,” he said curtly, not looking at me. A soft click echoed in the cab—the doors locking. My heart lurched.
I glanced at the door handle, wondering if I could unlock it quickly if I needed to. “It just… doesn’t look familiar,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I came through the main roads earlier.”
“Relax, señorita,” he snapped, his voice sharp now. “I know these streets better than you.”
My pulse quickened, thudding in my ears. I hugged my bag tighter, the straps cutting into my palms. The buildings outside grew darker, their windows boarded up or broken, like gaping mouths. The cab’s engine hummed too loudly in the silence, and the driver’s eyes kept darting to me in the mirror, cold and calculating. I told myself I was overreacting, that he was just a grumpy driver taking a faster route. But my body didn’t believe it. My hands shook as I checked my phone—no signal. Of course.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asked suddenlylaught, his tone mocking. “You’re making me nervous, too.”
“I’m not,” I said quickly, but my voice betrayed me. “I just want to get to the hostel.”
He chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “You tourists. Always so jumpy.”
The cab slowed as we pulled up to a building that looked like my hostel, its neon sign flickering in the distance. Relief flooded me, but it was short-lived. I reached for my wallet, my fingers clumsy. “How much?”
“Ten thousand colones,” he said, turning to face me fully. His eyes were hard, like stones.
I handed him the bills, my hands trembling. But as I reached for the door, he lunged forward and grabbed my laptop bag, yanking it from my lap. The force knocked the breath out of me. “This isn’t enough,” he growled. “You need to pay more.”
My heart stopped. “What?” I gasped, pointing at the meter on the dashboard, its numbers glowing clearly. “That’s what it says!”
He ignored me, clutching my bag tightly. “More money, or I keep this,” he said, his voice low and menacing. He leaned closer, his breath hot and sour. “Everything’s in here, isn’t it? Passport, camera… you’d be lost without it.”
Panic clawed at my chest. My passport, my laptop, my camera—my entire trip depended on that bag. Without it, I’d be stranded, helpless. “Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I don’t have more. That’s all I have.”
“Empty your pockets,” he demanded, his grip on my bag tightening. His eyes bore into mine, dark and unyielding, and I felt like a trapped animal. The locked doors seemed to close in around me, the cab a cage.
My hands shook as I fumbled in my pockets, pulling out every last bill—about fifty dollars in colones. “This is it,” I said, holding it out. “Please, just give me my bag.”
For a long moment, he stared at me, his face unreadable. Then he snatched the money, his rough fingers brushing mine, making me flinch. I thought he’d keep the bag anyway, but he suddenly shoved it out the window, letting it thud onto the sidewalk. “Get out,” he snarled.
I scrambled for the door handle, my fingers slipping in my panic. The lock clicked open, and I stumbled out, grabbing my bag from the ground. My knees buckled as I stood, and the cab’s tires screeched as he sped off, the red taillights swallowed by the darkness.
I stood frozen, clutching my bag, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. I checked it frantically—passport, laptop, camera, notebook, all still there. I’d lost the money, but nothing else. Yet the fear clung to me, cold and heavy. The street was too quiet, the shadows too deep. I felt eyes on me, watching from the darkness.
Then I heard it—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, coming from the alley across the street. My blood ran cold. A figure emerged, tall and lanky, his face hidden in the shadow of a hooded jacket. He didn’t move, just stood there, staring. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced myself to move, backing toward the hostel’s entrance, my eyes locked on him. He took a step forward, and I ran.
I burst through the hostel’s glass door, the bell above it jangling loudly. The receptionist, a woman with dark hair and a gentle smile, looked up from her desk. “Are you okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she saw my face.
“I… I was almost robbed,” I stammered, my voice barely audible. “The cab driver… he grabbed my bag, took my money, threatened me.”
Her eyes widened, and she stood, coming around the desk. “Oh, no, that’s awful. Are you hurt?”
I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “No, just… scared. He locked the doors, and then… there was someone else outside, watching me.”
She frowned, glancing at the door. “Watching you? Did they follow you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling. “I ran inside.”
“Stay here,” she said, grabbing a phone. “I’m calling security to check outside. You’re safe now.”
I sank into a chair in the lobby, clutching my bag like a lifeline. The receptionist spoke quickly into the phone, her voice firm. A security guard appeared, a burly man with a flashlight, and headed outside. I watched through the glass, my heart still racing, but the street looked empty now. The guard returned, shaking his head. “No one out there,” he said.
The receptionist sat beside me, her hand gentle on my arm. “It happens sometimes,” she said softly. “Some drivers prey on tourists. Always use official cabs or call our trusted service next time, okay?”
I nodded, feeling foolish and small. “I didn’t know. It was my first day here.”
“You couldn’t have known,” she said kindly. “You did the right thing getting out. Try to rest now. Tomorrow will be better.”
I thanked her and dragged myself to my room, a small space with a creaky bunk bed and a single window. I locked the door, checked it twice, and collapsed onto the bed, my bag still in my arms. Sleep wouldn’t come. Every creak of the building made me jump, and I kept seeing the driver’s cold eyes, hearing those footsteps in the alley. I checked my bag again, counting every item, terrified I’d missed something. Everything was there, but the fear wouldn’t leave.
The next morning, I sat in the hostel’s courtyard, sipping coffee, trying to shake the night before. The city looked different now—less vibrant, more menacing. I called my mom, my voice shaking as I told her what happened. “Come home,” she urged, but I refused. I’d come to Costa Rica to prove I could do this, and I wouldn’t let one terrifying night stop me.
For the rest of the trip, I was changed. I memorized the look of official cabs, avoided traveling alone after dark, and kept my bag slung across my body at all times. Every stranger’s glance made my heart race, and I scanned every street for hidden figures. But I didn’t stop exploring. I hiked through misty rainforests, swam in turquoise waters, and laughed with kind locals who shared their stories over homemade meals. The beauty of the country slowly healed the fear, though it never fully left.
"Room 312: The Night They Tried to Get In":
After a messy breakup in Georgia, I decided it was now or never. I packed my beat-up hatchback with clothes, a cooler full of snacks, a dog-eared road atlas, and a playlist of old rock and indie tunes. The plan was simple: drive from Georgia to California, stopping at small towns and quirky roadside attractions along the way. It felt like a fresh start, a chance to rediscover myself. By the time I hit San Diego, though, I was exhausted. Days of driving through endless highways, fueled by gas station coffee and granola bars, had left me drained. My eyes stung, my back ached, and all I wanted was a shower and a bed.
I’d booked a hotel room through Expedia for one night in San Diego, near Mission Valley off I-15 on Murphy Canyon Road. The hotel wasn’t fancy, but the price was right—$89 for a single room—and the reviews described it as “decent” and “clean enough.” Good enough for a quick stopover before heading north to Los Angeles. When I pulled into the parking lot around 9 pm, the hotel looked shabbier than the glossy photos online. The sign’s neon letters flickered, spelling out “VAC NCY” instead of “VACANCY.” The building’s stucco walls were cracked, and a few windows had duct tape holding up plastic sheets. I told myself it was just one night.
The lobby didn’t inspire confidence. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the worn linoleum floor. Behind the front desk sat a man in his fifties, his gray hair thinning, his eyes fixed on a computer screen. He wore a faded polo shirt with the hotel logo—a palm tree that looked like it was wilting.
“Checking in?” he asked, barely looking up.
“Yes, I have a reservation,” I said, giving my name and sliding my ID across the counter.
He tapped at the keyboard, his fingers moving sluggishly. After a moment, he handed me a key card in a paper sleeve. “Room 312, third floor. Elevator’s down the hall.” He gestured vaguely to the left, his eyes already back on the screen.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the key card and heading toward the elevator. It was one of those old ones, with scratched metal doors and buttons that barely lit up. It creaked and groaned as it climbed to the third floor, making me wonder when it was last inspected. The hallway was long and narrow, the carpet a faded red with dark patches that looked like old spills. The wallpaper, a beige floral pattern, peeled at the corners, revealing yellowed plaster underneath. My room was at the far end, and I had to swipe the key card twice before the lock buzzed and clicked open.
Inside, the room was as tired as the rest of the hotel. The bed had a thin mattress with a lumpy comforter, and the pillows felt like they were stuffed with cotton balls. A single lamp on the nightstand cast a weak yellow glow, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. The carpet had more of those unsettling stains, and the curtains—heavy, dusty things—hung unevenly over a window that overlooked the parking lot. I peeked into the bathroom: a chipped sink, a shower with rust stains, and a single towel that looked like it had been washed a thousand times. I sighed. It wasn’t the Hilton, but it would do.
I locked the door, noticing the handle felt loose, like it might come off with a good tug. For extra peace of mind, I slid the lock bar into place—a sturdy metal arm that hooked into the doorframe. Traveling alone as a woman, I’d learned to take every precaution. You hear too many stories. I dropped my backpack on the floor, took a quick shower under a weak stream of lukewarm water, and changed into my pajamas—a soft T-shirt and sweatpants. My phone was at 20%, so I plugged it into the outlet by the bed, set an alarm for 7 am, and crawled under the covers. The mattress springs squeaked, but I was so tired I didn’t care. Sleep came fast.
A loud thud jolted me awake. My eyes flew open, my heart hammering in my chest. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it, my mind still foggy from sleep. Then it came again—a sharp, deliberate bang against the door, followed by a rattling sound, like someone was trying to force the handle. I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand: 4:03 am. The room was dark, save for the faint orange glow of streetlights sneaking through the curtains. My mouth went dry as I lay there, frozen, straining to listen.
Then I heard voices. Male voices, low and muffled, just outside the door. “Come on, open up, sweetheart,” one said, his tone smooth but laced with something sinister. “We know you’re in there.”
My stomach twisted into a knot. My breath caught in my throat as another voice, rougher and deeper, chimed in. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone. Let’s have some fun.”
The door handle jiggled again, more violently this time. The door itself pushed inward, straining against the lock bar with a creak that made my skin crawl. Thank God for that lock bar—it held firm, the only thing keeping them out. I could hear them muttering to each other, their words too low to make out, but the tone was enough to make my blood run cold. My mind raced with questions: Who were these men? How did they know I was here? Did they follow me from the lobby? The parking lot?
I grabbed my phone, my hands shaking so badly I fumbled and nearly dropped it. I crouched on the bed, pulling the blanket around me like a shield, and dialed the front desk. The phone rang once, twice, three times—each ring felt like an eternity. Finally, the same bored clerk from earlier answered.
“Front desk, how can I help you?” he said, his voice flat, like I was interrupting his nap.
“There are two men trying to get into my room!” I whispered, my voice trembling. “They’re outside my door, shaking the handle. Please, send security or call the police!”
A long pause. I could hear him breathing, slow and heavy, on the other end. “What room are you in, ma’am?”
“Room 312,” I said, my eyes locked on the door. The handle had stopped moving, but I could still hear their voices, low and indistinct.
Another pause, longer this time. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but our system shows no reservation for room 312. Are you sure you’re at the right hotel?”
My heart sank. “What are you talking about? I checked in with you tonight! I gave you my ID! I have the booking confirmation on my phone—it’s through Expedia!”
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm, “our records show room 312 was re-rented to another guest earlier this evening. We don’t have any reservation under your name.”
“That’s impossible!” I hissed, trying to keep my voice low so the men outside wouldn’t hear. “I’m in room 312 right now! I checked in a few hours ago. You gave me the key card yourself!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “We don’t partner with Expedia. Maybe you booked at the hotel across the street. It happens sometimes.”
I wanted to scream. “I’m not across the street! I’m in your hotel, in your room! There are men trying to break in—do something!”
Just then, I heard a muffled curse outside, followed by the sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway. The men were leaving, their voices fading into the distance. My shoulders sagged with relief, but my heart was still pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
“They’re gone,” I told the clerk, my voice shaky. “But what’s going on with my reservation? You’re telling me I’m not supposed to be here?”
“Ma’am, I suggest you come to the front desk in the morning,” he said, his tone still maddeningly detached. “The manager will be in at 9 am. We can sort it out then.”
“Sort it out then?” I repeated, my fear giving way to anger. “Someone just tried to break into my room, and you’re saying I’m not even registered here? I don’t feel safe staying here!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said again, like a broken record. “There’s nothing I can do right now. Try to get some rest.”
Rest? After that? I hung up, my hands still trembling. I checked the door again, pressing my ear against it to listen for any sound. Silence, except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. I double-checked the lock bar, then dragged the desk chair across the room and wedged it under the door handle, tilting it so the backrest braced against the door. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I grabbed the lamp from the nightstand, a heavy brass thing, and placed it on the bed next to me. If anyone got in, I’d swing it like a bat.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, clutching my phone, too scared to lie down. Every creak of the building, every distant thud, made me jump. I opened the Expedia app to check my booking confirmation. There it was: my name, the hotel’s address, room 312, paid in full. I even had the email receipt with the booking number. How could the clerk say I wasn’t in their system? Was it a glitch? A scam? Or something worse? My mind spiraled, imagining the clerk was in on it, maybe even the men outside. I thought about calling the police, but what would I tell them? The men were gone, and I had no proof except my word and a booking confirmation the hotel claimed didn’t exist.
I tried calling Expedia’s customer service, but a recorded message said their lines were open from 8 am to 8 pm. Useless. I sat there, staring at the door, my phone at 15% now despite being plugged in—the outlet must’ve been faulty. The room felt smaller, the shadows darker. I kept replaying the men’s voices in my head: “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone.” My skin crawled. Had they seen me in the lobby? Followed me from the parking lot? Or was it random, some sick game they played with whoever was in room 312?
The rest of the night was torture. I didn’t sleep, didn’t even close my eyes. I kept the lamp on, its dim light barely pushing back the darkness. Around 5 am, I heard footsteps in the hallway again, slow and heavy. I held my breath, gripping the lamp, but no one touched the door. The footsteps faded, and I let out a shaky sigh. By 6:30 am, the first hints of daylight crept through the curtains, and I felt safe enough to pack my things. I threw my clothes into my backpack, checked the hallway through the peephole—empty—and made my way to the elevator.
In the lobby, a different clerk was at the desk, a young woman with neatly braided hair and a polite smile. The night clerk was gone, thank goodness. I approached the desk, my hands still shaky from adrenaline and lack of sleep.
“Good morning,” she said brightly. “Checking out?”
“Yes, but I need to talk about what happened last night,” I said, pulling out my phone to show her the Expedia confirmation. I told her everything—the men trying to get in, the night clerk’s bizarre claim that I wasn’t in their system, the fear that kept me up all night.
Her smile faded as she listened. She typed something into the computer, her brow furrowing. “I’m really sorry, ma’am, but I don’t see any reservation under your name for room 312. Our system shows that room was assigned to another guest last night.”
I stared at her, my frustration boiling over. “That’s what the other guy said, but I was in that room! I checked in last night! You can see my booking right here.” I shoved my phone toward her, the confirmation email open.
She glanced at it, then back at the computer. “This is strange. Let me get the manager.”
A few minutes later, a man in a wrinkled suit appeared, his name tag reading “Manager.” He was in his forties, with thinning hair and a forced smile. I repeated my story, my voice shaking with a mix of anger and exhaustion. I showed him the confirmation email, the key card, everything.
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “I’m very sorry for the confusion, ma’am. It sounds like there was a glitch in our booking system, or maybe an issue with Expedia. These third-party sites can be unreliable. We’ll process a full refund immediately, and I’ll speak to the night staff about what happened.”
A refund was better than nothing, but it didn’t explain the men at my door or the clerk’s refusal to help. “What about the men trying to get into my room?” I pressed. “That wasn’t a glitch. I could’ve been hurt.”
“We take security very seriously,” he said, his tone practiced. “I’ll review our camera footage and look into it. Can you describe the men?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t see them, just heard their voices. They were trying to open the door, saying things like… like they knew I was in there.”
His face didn’t change. “We’ll investigate, I promise. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay another night, on us.”
“No, thank you,” I said quickly. The thought of spending another minute in that hotel made my stomach churn. “I’m leaving now.”
As I walked to my car, the morning air felt heavy, oppressive. My legs wobbled, and I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone following me. I threw my backpack into the passenger seat and locked the doors as soon as I got in. My hands were still shaking as I started the engine.
I drove away, my heart still racing. Later that day, I wrote reviews on Google and Yelp, warning other travelers about the hotel’s shoddy security and bizarre booking issues. I called Expedia again, and they promised to investigate, but weeks later, I got a generic email saying they’d “resolved the issue” with no details. The experience left a mark on me, a lingering fear that made me question every hotel I stayed in after that. I kept traveling, but I was more cautious—checking locks twice, reading reviews obsessively, and always, always using the lock bar.
"Trust and Tuktuks":
Sri Lanka had been on my list for years, its ancient ruins, vibrant culture, and green landscapes pulling me in. After months of saving and planning, I landed in Colombo, my backpack stuffed with essentials and a guidebook I’d read cover to cover. I spent a few days wandering the city’s crowded markets and temples, but I craved something quieter, more authentic. That’s when I decided to head to Ella, a small village nestled in the hills, famous for its tea plantations and hiking trails.
The train ride to Ella was breathtaking. I sat by the window, watching rice paddies and misty hills roll by, the carriage filled with the chatter of locals and the occasional tourist snapping photos. When I arrived, I checked into a small guesthouse run by a warm family. The mother, with a gentle smile, handed me a key to a room with a view of the hills. “Be careful if you go out alone,” she said, her tone light but with a hint of caution I didn’t fully register at the time.
The next morning, I woke up buzzing with excitement. I wanted to explore the village center, maybe find a local café or a guide for a hike. Dressed in a light shirt, cargo pants, and sturdy sneakers, I slung my small backpack over my shoulder, packed with my phone, a water bottle, and a folding umbrella I’d brought for unexpected rain. I stepped onto the dusty street outside the guesthouse, where the air was alive with the sounds of vendors calling out, scooters buzzing, and the rhythmic clatter of tuktuks.
I waved down the first tuktuk I saw. The driver, a young man with a thin mustache and a bright red shirt, leaned out and flashed a wide grin. “Hello! Where you want to go?” he asked, his English clipped but clear.
“Village center, please,” I said, climbing into the back. The seat was worn, and the tuktuk smelled faintly of petrol and incense.
“Okay, fifty rupees,” he said, starting the engine with a sputter.
I nodded, settling in as we pulled away. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You alone? First time in Sri Lanka?”
“Yes, first time. I love traveling alone,” I said, smiling. “Ella looks beautiful.”
“It is! I show you good places,” he said, his eyes flicking back to the road. We chatted as we drove, him asking about my home country and me sharing bits about my travels. He seemed friendly, and I relaxed, watching the scenery shift from village houses with colorful laundry hanging outside to open fields dotted with grazing cows.
But about fifteen minutes into the ride, I noticed we’d turned off the main road onto a narrow dirt path. The houses disappeared, replaced by thick trees and tangled vines. The path was rough, and the tuktuk jolted with every bump. A prickle of unease crept up my spine. “Is this the way to the village center?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“Yes, yes, shortcut. Save time,” he said, not turning around. His tone was too casual, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.
The path grew narrower, the trees closing in. My stomach tightened. “I don’t think this is right. Can we go back to the main road?” I said, louder this time.
He didn’t respond. The tuktuk sped up, the engine whining. My heart started pounding. I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the seat. “Please, stop. I want to go back.”
He turned his head slightly, his smile gone, his eyes cold. “Relax, miss. I take you to nice place. You like it,” he said, his voice low and sharp.
Panic clawed at my chest. This wasn’t a mistake. He was taking me somewhere deliberately. I glanced around, seeing nothing but dense jungle. My fingers fumbled for the door handle, but it was stuck, rusted shut. “Stop the tuktuk now!” I shouted, banging on the side.
He slammed on the brakes, and I lurched forward. Before I could react, he reached back and grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “You stay!” he snarled, his face twisted with anger.
“Let me go!” I screamed, yanking against him. My free hand found my umbrella, heavy and solid. I swung it hard, striking his forearm. He yelped, his grip loosening just enough for me to pull free. I shoved the door open with my shoulder and tumbled out, hitting the dirt hard. Scrambling to my feet, I ran into the jungle, branches snapping against my face.
I didn’t look back. My lungs burned as I crashed through the undergrowth, thorns snagging my clothes. My sneakers sank into the soft earth, slowing me down, but I kept running, driven by pure adrenaline. The jungle was a maze of green, the air thick with the buzz of insects and the distant cry of a bird. Finally, I ducked behind a massive banyan tree, my chest heaving. I pressed myself against the rough bark, listening. Was he chasing me? I heard nothing but my own ragged breathing.
I stayed there for what felt like hours, my heart hammering. My wrist throbbed where he’d grabbed me, and my arms were scratched and bleeding from the branches. My phone had no signal, and my water bottle was nearly empty. I tried to think. The sun had been on my left during the drive. If I kept it on my right, I might find my way back to civilization. It was a desperate plan, but it was something.
I started walking, my legs shaky, my eyes darting at every sound—a rustling leaf, a snapping twig. The jungle seemed alive, watching me. Once, I heard footsteps behind me, heavy and deliberate. I froze, my breath catching, but when I turned, there was nothing but shadows. My mind was spiraling, imagining him lurking just out of sight. I clutched my umbrella tighter, its weight my only comfort.
Hours dragged on. My throat was parched, my water long gone. I stumbled across a shallow stream, its water murky but tempting. I knelt, splashing my face, the coolness grounding me for a moment. I wanted to drink but knew the risk of getting sick. As I stood, I heard voices—faint, but human. Hope surged, but so did fear. What if they were his friends?
I crept toward the sound and saw two farmers in a clearing, tending to crops. One, an older man with weathered skin, noticed me. I stepped forward, my voice hoarse. “Can you help me get to Ella village?”
He frowned, pointing down a path and saying something in Sinhala. I didn’t understand, but I nodded gratefully and followed his direction. The path led to a wider dirt road, and after what felt like an eternity, I saw rooftops in the distance. Relief hit me like a wave, but I wasn’t safe yet.
As I entered Ella, I passed a small shop with a faded sign. An elderly woman stood outside, arranging fruit. I approached her, desperate for help. “Excuse me, do you know a safe way to the village center?” I asked.
She looked me up and down, her eyes narrowing. “You look scared. What happened?” she asked, her English slow but clear.
I hesitated, not wanting to sound paranoid. “I… got lost. A tuktuk driver took me the wrong way.”
Her face darkened. “Some drivers, they not good. You be careful. Go straight, then left at the temple.” She pointed down the street.
I thanked her and hurried on, her words echoing in my head. At the village center, I found a busy café and slipped inside, my hands trembling as I ordered a tea. Sitting by the window, I overheard two men at a nearby table. “That tuktuk gang’s at it again,” one said. “Taking tourists out to the jungle, scaring them for money.” My blood ran cold. A gang? Was that what I’d escaped?
I couldn’t stay in Ella. The guesthouse had been my haven, but now it felt exposed. I returned, avoiding the tuktuk stand where a group of men watched me pass, one calling out, “Need a ride, miss?” His voice was too familiar, too sharp. I kept my head down, my heart racing.
At the guesthouse, the mother looked concerned when I said I was leaving. “So soon? Is something wrong?” she asked, her brow furrowed.
“Just a change of plans,” I said, forcing a smile. “Can you call a taxi? A real one, from a company?”
She nodded, picking up the phone. As I packed, I kept glancing out the window, half-expecting to see the driver or his friends waiting outside. When the taxi arrived, I practically ran to it, throwing my backpack in the back. “Train station, please,” I told the driver, a middle-aged man who barely spoke.
At the station, I bought a ticket to Kandy, a bigger city where I hoped I’d feel safer. As the train pulled away, I watched Ella’s green hills fade, my body finally relaxing. My wrist was bruised, my arms scratched, but I was alive. I’d escaped by trusting my instincts, but the fear lingered. I kept replaying the driver’s cold stare, the shopkeeper’s warning, the men at the tuktuk stand. Solo travel had always been my freedom, but now I knew its risks. Still, as the train rattled on, I felt a spark of defiance. I wouldn’t let this stop me. The world was too big, too beautiful, to give up.