Jarid Arraes
Mopeds Are for Ladies
Translated from the Portuguese by Bruna Dantas Lobato and Julia Sanches
I bought a red Honda that was on sale and rode it out of the lot. I felt like a bird mounted on that bike, I was so happy. The wind blew against my face, even burned my eyes, but the feeling of almost flying was nice. Especially in the middle of the afternoon, headed to Barbalha, the road completely empty. Though I only went down that path later.
First I put on the mototaxi vest I’d been holding on to for three months while I waited for the chance to get the bike. I rode it around the neighborhood, and I hadn’t even gone three blocks when a woman waved at me to stop.
Hey, mototaxi.
I stopped, and she looked startled as she came closer.
Dang, you’re a woman?
I smiled, with just the corner of my mouth. That’s right, I told her. She hopped on the bike and said that at least she’d feel more comfortable holding on to my waist. She never touched a male biker’s waist, in case he got the wrong idea. That’s right, I said again.
I took this woman so far out of town I didn’t even know where I was. She directed me. It felt like we’d never make it there. The sun was scorching.
When we got there, to a mud house that was falling to pieces, she asked how much I wanted for the ride. She looked at me impatiently as I tried to work up the nerve to tell her it was ten reais. I thought she’d kick up a fuss, especially seeing how run-down the destination was. So I said it’d be eight bucks and wondered why I’d said “bucks,” but she just handed me the money without a word and disappeared into the house.
I stuck around for a bit, working up the courage to head back.
I didn’t actually know how to get home. We’d gone down so many narrow streets and alleys, taken so many corners lined with barbed wire. None of them had signs that said what they were called. I looked everywhere, barely any signal on my phone. Too far away from anything, the kind of far not even ten reais could cover.
I waited some twenty minutes as I worked up the courage to leave. By the time I did I was pissed at myself. I’d always figured I was dumb, but this was too much, even for me. I should’ve told her I’d only take her as far as the church, especially on my very first day.
I know how to get to Crato and to Sé Square. I know how to get to Batalha and to Estação Square. I know my way around Juazeiro, the Verde Vale Hotel, past Tempo Radio. But in the other direction, I can only go as far as the church. I wasn’t familiar with the smaller cross streets. I usually only took the main drags. The avenues. I never paid much attention when I was taken places, when I wasn’t doing the taking.
Long story short, I was dumb. Thick as two planks. Only eight reais, Jesus! Riding around willy-nilly, scared of any man on the sidewalk. I thought they’d mug me. What if they took my brand-new bike, when I’d barely had the time to get it dirty.
I was stressed, two hours gone down the drain. That’s when I saw the road back to the church. Ten minutes later and things were looking familiar again, the little houses, the fences, the signs. I rolled back into the city delirious with joy. Happier than when I rode my bike for the first time. I decided to stay downtown.
I stopped at the line of mototaxis near the bakery, but a guy came over to tell me I couldn’t stay there unless I signed up. I asked how, and he said I’d have to take it up with Zé, who’d been the first one to park on that corner. Who’d gone to the mayor’s office and fought for the right to park at the traffic light, next to the crosswalk. Besides, he’d never seen a woman driving a mototaxi. That wouldn’t do at all. Being a mototaxi driver was dangerous work. Even more so as a woman. And my bike looked heavy to boot. At least, a moped . . . I said that a moped isn’t a motorcycle and that I’d go find Zé later.
I rode up the street all the way to the Salesiano school chapel. I had this funny taste in my mouth, like I hadn’t said what I should’ve and the words were stuck there now. I’d listened and stayed quiet. What kind of answer was “a moped isn’t a motorcycle?” Unless his mama was a moped, he’d never get some sense knocked into him and really listen.
I was just about on my way back, when an older woman hailed me. Hey, mototaxi! I stopped, but this time I didn’t check to see if she was surprised.
The woman went on about how she had to deliver a bag to a sandal factory. Not the one around the corner but the one on the way to Barbalha. Not the one right next to the city but the one on the way.
How much for you to take this bag there?
Six reais will do, I said, as I rubbed my eyes. It was clear I didn’t know how to charge people yet, that six reais might have been too much or too little, but she just took out her cell and asked for my number. My phone rang, she hung up after the second ring and then called someone else.
Hey, it’ll be six reais. You give it to the woman who’s bringing the package. It’s a mototaxi, not a favor. You better pay her.
She hung up and handed me the bag. It was heavy.
Careful, it’s fragile.
At the traffic light near the mall, I peeked inside the bag. But the thing was inside a sealed box. Maybe it was drinking glasses, a candy jar, a vase. Whatever it was, it was no bigger than a shoebox. Later, I got distracted by traffic and forgot all about it.
I slowed down on the road to Barbalha, so I wouldn’t miss the factory. I’d never seen one around there. But then a wall with a giant pair of sandals painted on it came into view, and I decided that’s where it was. Except the building was on the other side of the road, and I was going to have to make a U-turn.
I passed a gas station and a barbecue place, went a little bit further, then turned left. I took the exact same road. The same woods, empty lot, a lone house, then another. I saw the factory ahead, but couldn’t figure out where the entrance was, and missed it again.
Fucking hell.
I was getting worked up, thinking I’d have to ride down that highway all over again, but then I spotted a little sideroad and turned into it.
I thought I could go the back way, but there was a row of houses on one side and a big cornfield on the other. I saw a builder mixing cement and rolled to a stop so I could talk to him.
I missed the entrance to the factory over there, you know which one?
Yeah.
Is there another way, maybe through here?
There’s a dirt path over there that cuts through the field.
You think I can get through on this motorcycle?
Sure, I’ve seen smaller bikes manage.
So I went. If smaller bikes could do it, then I had no doubt mine would too. The dirt path was narrow, with rows of corn on either side. The ground was soft, my bike kept wobbling, I was terrified I’d fall. I kept going and going and going, until the path came to an end. The stupid path just came to an end.
But the man had said that even smaller bikes had made it through.
I headed into the field, bike and all, even though there wasn’t a path for me to follow. Just tall corn stalks. The motorcycle got stuck, unsurprisingly. Stranded.
It wouldn’t move for anything in the world. I was so desperate I started to cry. I looked around at the corn, the dirt, at the path in the distance. I’d have to turn the bike around and push. A bike heavy as a boulder, the sun scorching, the bag hanging from my arm.
It took strength I didn’t even know I had. I spent more than half an hour just turning the bike around, then ten minutes pushing it all the way back to the path. The whole time I kept hearing dudes say, Should’ve gone for a moped. Mopeds are for ladies, not motorcycles.
When I finally did it, I wiped the tears off my face and started making my way back.
That’s when I fell.
I tried to hold onto the bike with my left leg, to keep it from falling, but my knee cracked, and it hurt like hell.
The bike’s engine was still on, the horn blared, the wheels spun. I’d tripped over the bag with the box and everything else in it. I cried a bit more. Because of the pain and the anger, because I didn’t have a clue how I was going to get up from under there. I’m not even sure how long I was down. But at some point the builder came running over and asked, What happened, did you fall?
He helped get the motorcycle off me and push it back onto the street. As I limped out of there, I texted the woman who’d hired me to deliver the package. I broke whatever was in the box, send me your address, and I’ll come pay for it.
The builder hit the kickstand and smirked at me.
So you do this professionally?