From Thailand with Love

by Camilla Isley

  We all sit around the table—I’m across from Logan with Archie to my right, while Tucker is standing at the head of the table on my left.

  “All right, people,” Tucker says. “Before we finish setting up camp, I want to stress some basic camping-in-the-jungle safety tips.” He sets one foot on the folding chair and leans forward on his bent knee. “First off: undesirable jungle buddies. You can bet the undergrowth around here is teeming with bugs, insects, scorpions, snakes, and spiders. Some venomous, other with bites so painful they’ll make you wish to cut a limb off instead of enduring the pain…”

  Tucker takes a long pause to ensure everyone’s paying attention. “We’re equipped with the most common antivenoms and state-of-the-art medical supplies, but we don’t know every species that crawls this jungle, and a helicopter would take hours to reach us. So our best bet to stay alive and unhurt is not to get bitten.”

  That seems a little dramatic. I mean, even when I visited the Borneo rainforest, our guide at the time wasn’t half as worried as Tucker. I look around the table to check if everyone else is taking this speech seriously. The soldiers seem mostly unconcerned. Dr. Boonjan, though, has visibly paled. Somchai is sporting his signature cheeky grin. And Logan… is staring “pay attention, woman,” daggers at me.

  My heart jolts in my chest at being caught absent-minded. So I concentrate back on Tucker and vow not to let my attention wander again. Maybe he’s being overcautious, but this is still important stuff to know.

  “So, how do we avoid bites?” Tucker continues. “I’ve provided each of you with a powerful insect repellent; you must apply it all over on a regular basis. Spray your clothes with it, even. And cover up as much as you can, especially after dusk.” He fans the air near his face. “Looks like we’ve gotten lucky, as there aren’t too many flies around during the day. But you can bet as soon as the sun goes down, bloodsuckers of all sizes will want to join the buffet, so don’t leave any skin unprotected. Use the repellent.”

  I wrinkle my nose; the spray he provided us stung my nostrils when I smelled it. I’m not letting that chemicals-ridden concoction touch my skin. Don’t need a rash, thank you very much. I’m sure my lemongrass spray will—

  “Even you, Winter,” Tucker’s words cut directly into my thoughts. “That natural spray of yours is not nearly powerful enough, and you don’t want a case of Dengue fever to prove me right. Understood?”

  Morosely, I nod, and stare back daggers at Logan as if to dare him to show even the slightest sign of amusement. His face is composed in a too-neutral expression, and he’s not looking at me. But I can tell Satan is dearly enjoying me being told off.

  “For the same reason,” Tucker continues, “I’ll spray the perimeters of your tents twice daily. But you must keep the flaps closed at all times—both the internal mosquito netting, and the external rainfly when you sleep. If during the day you want to leave the rainfly open to avoid the tent turning into a sauna, the mosquito netting must still be sealed, always.

  “At night, before you go to bed, you must carefully inspect your sleeping bags before getting in. And don’t even think of leaving your boots scattered outside your tent. Find a couple of wooden stakes, plant them in the ground, and use them to store your shoes upside down to avoid any unwanted guests crawling in during the night. Each morning, always give your footwear a good shake before you put your boots on, just in case.”

  I shiver at the thought of putting my foot in a boot, only for my toes to find something crawly and pinchy inside. Eww.

  “If bugs’ bites sting and can transmit diseases,” Tucker says, relentlessly carrying on with his terror speech. “A snake bite can turn you into a dead man—or woman—walking right away. So wear your snake gaiters at all times, no matter the hour or where you’re going or for however short a journey. Better safe than sorry. Also, if you find an obstacle in your path, don’t you ever just walk past it. Go on top first, check what’s on the other side, and only then move ahead. Snake fangs can cut through your boots’ leather like a knife slicing through butter. Same goes for where you put your hands, be it a branch, stem, or tree trunk—always look before you touch anything. And when you’re moving into the jungle, please wear gloves.

  “And last but not least.” Tucker seems to be finally ready to wrap up the talk of doom. “We have drinking water reserves to last a few days. After that, we’ll need to resupply or use the river’s water if a journey to the village is not possible. But never drink river water without boiling or sanitizing it with purification tablets first.” He eyes everyone around the table with an “understood?” scowl before he goes on. “The river will also be our shower, of sorts; we have biodegradable soap that you can use to clean yourselves. But under no circumstances should any of us leave the camp alone. Always pair up, and ask for an armed escort.” Tucker points at our three military men. “Wild beasts could attack at any time, and I don’t care if you have a black belt in karate, you’re still not taking on a three-hundred-pound tiger with your bare fists and living to tell the tale.”

  “Hey, pssst,” Archie whispers in my ear. “Wanna be my shower partner?”

  “Sure.”

  I agree mostly to enjoy the consequent strained pulsing of Satan’s jaw. Logan is so pointedly not looking at us that if he tries any harder, his eyes will roll to the back of his head.

  “Ah, yes, one last thing,” Tucker concludes. “The local monkeys seem to belong to a crew of petty thieves. Please leave nothing lying around you don’t want to be stolen, and always seal the supply tent on your way in and out.”

  Aha.

  Gloating quietly, I turn to Logan once again. Satan’s face has turned even stonier, although a faint blush is creeping up his cheeks.

  Ha, ha, ha.

  I got mine, but you get yours.

  ***

  When we’re finally dismissed, I ask if I can help with anything, but Logan seems to have had enough of me and tells me a flat no.

  Somchai, who, to the contrary, is nice and unprejudiced, comes next to me and asks, “Want to help me with the horses, Miss Knowles? You have good hand with animals.”

  “Sure,” I tell him, happy to have something to do besides hating Satan. “Show me what I have to do.”

  He brings me to where he has herded the beasts—far enough from the main camp the smell of their droppings won’t reach us—and explains to me what to do. We water and feed the animals, and then Somchai demonstrates how to tether them to each other so they’ll be forced to walk one in front of the other, single file. The technique is pretty straightforward, and we make a quick job of tying all the beasts together. Tomorrow, he’ll escort the horses and mules, except for one, back to the village. It wouldn’t make sense for us to keep the animals on the premises and have to feed and water them every day. But we’ll keep a mule in case equipment needs to be moved between here and Area X once we reach it.

  I retrace my steps to the main camp… and stop dead in my tracks at the scene before my eyes. Logan, Archie, and Tucker have all removed their shirts—so much for staying as covered as possible—and are pulling one tent up after the other. I get why they’d want to risk bug bites and work bare-chested. In the late afternoon, the atmosphere is sweltering and, even shirtless, a thin layer of perspiration covers their backs, making them all shiny.

  I try to resist, but quickly give in. Grabbing the ever-present camera dangling from my neck, I stealthily snap a few shots of my sweaty, muscular colleagues. Then I check the results on the small screen on the back of the device, and chuckle to myself. These pictures would look great on an erotica novel, probably one called something like: “Taken in the Jungle by the Three Archeologists.”

  Bad me. I shouldn’t have these thoughts about my colleagues. But it’s impossible to remain impassive in front of such a display of manliness. Even quiet, shy Tucker has a body to be reckoned with. He’s less buff than the other two, but still ripped. Where Logan and Archie have Gerard Butler in 300
body types, Tucker is all Spartan Michael Fassbender—he starred in 300, I swear, only Fassbender wasn’t that famous at the time and nobody recognized.

  Still, my gaze can’t help but linger on one back in particular. Maybe because I already know what hides beneath the pants, or maybe because the devil must always disguise as attractive—to convince people to sell him their souls and stuff. But I can’t tear my eyes off Logan. That is, until Archie turns, catches me ogling them, and winks.

  Blushing tomato red, I scurry away and claim one of the already-raised tents as my own. Settling myself in and moving all my gear should keep me busy enough, and hopefully keep my mind off half-naked, evil archeologists.

  ***

  Unfortunately, with only a foldable cot, a sleeping bag, and my camera equipment to bring in, it doesn’t take me long to furnish the tent. Also, Tucker wasn’t kidding about the inside turning into a sauna. Even if it’s past five p.m., and with the umbrella of leaves above our heads preventing most of the sunrays from filtering through, the heat is still strong enough to turn these four nylon walls into a sweat trap. So, I fold back the rainproof layer and leave only the mosquito netting to allow as much air recycle as possible.

  Outside, I string up a clothesline. If we can bathe in the river, I expect the stream can be used to do laundry as well. I choose two trees at the right distance and hang a nylon wire between them. Then, I’m pretty much done setting up, and am already bored. No matter the tiring journey, I’m bursting with all this extra energy. No doubt due to the excitement of being in an unfamiliar place in the middle of a brand-new adventure. I’ve been on archeological trips before, but never one that involved a discovery of the unknown.

  I peek around the camp to check what everyone else is doing. Satan, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen, and neither is his sidekick, Archie. But Tucker—his shirt on once again—is working just across from my tent, setting up the camp’s kitchen.

  Oh so innocently, I stroll over to him. “What’s for dinner?” I ask.

  “Tonight, I’m cooking from scratch. Vegetarian Pad Thai,” Tucker says, screwing in place the legs of the portable stove he’s assembling. “But don’t get used to such a Michelin star treatment.”

  “Why not?”

  “We could buy fresh veggies at the village, but from tomorrow on it’ll be mostly ‘boil in a bag’ food and lots of rice.”

  “What’s ‘boil in a bag’ food?”

  “Freeze-dried, pre-made meals that you boil to rehydrate.”

  I make a pretend-gag face. “That sounds awful.”

  “It isn’t, trust me. If I hadn’t told you, you would’ve never guessed.” Tucker fixes in place a three-sided windscreen to shield the burners. “Plus, with packaged food, we can have as much variety as we want.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  Tucker scratches his forehead. “Off the top of my head, we ordered coconut curry beef, pasta primavera, beef stroganoff, chili, chicken lasagna, peanut curry shrimps, stew, spaghetti bolognese, mac and cheese, fettuccini Alfredo, chicken piccata, corn chowder… You name it, we have it.” He sighs regretfully. “Except for blueberry pancakes.”

  “Why don’t we get pancakes?”

  “Logan thought they’d be excessive.”

  “What’s for breakfast, then?”

  “Protein bars, but I stocked all the most delicious flavors—and coffee, of course.”

  I sulk. Blueberry pancakes sound a thousand times better than all-flavor protein bars. No surprise Satan doesn’t love pancakes; he probably doesn’t care for marshmallows in his hot cocoa either, and—oh, gosh, is he one of those black coffee drinker types?

  I grimace. “Please tell me we have creamer.”

  Tucker winks at me. “Regular and vanilla.”

  I let out a relieved breath. “Thank you! And you’re right, this is the most variety I’ve had compared to any other jungle trip.”

  “Told yah. Plus”—he wiggles his fingers at me—“I add magical finishing touches to every dish. And if not restaurant quality, freeze-dried food is still better than consuming only cold meals, like we did on our first expedition together.”

  “Okay, Gordon Ramsay, you have the benefit of the doubt.” I smile. “So, besides being a ‘boil in a bag’ chef extraordinaire, what else do you do when you’re not on a field trip?”

  “I’m an accredited guide at Yosemite, so there’s a little of that, then I organize camping trips for kids, and I teach rock climbing on the side.”

  Ah. The mountain climbing explains the lean, ripped physique.

  “How many expeditions have you been on with Logan and Archie?”

  “This is our fourth.”

  “How long have you known them?”

  “Three years.”

  “How did you guys meet?”

  “They came to one of my climbing lessons.”

  “Who’s Tara?”

  “Logan’s ex—No, wait! You tricked me into revealing that info.”

  I bat my lashes and make an angelic face. “I asked a question, you answered.”

  Tucker scowls. “You got me comfortable, then fired a million questions at me, and when I was on a roll answering, you asked the one question you knew I wouldn’t answer otherwise.”

  I put my hand to my chest. “Okay, guilty as charged. But you brought her up in the first place, and I had no choice, no one tells me anything, I feel left out.”

  “Listen, Logan is my friend, besides being my boss, and he wouldn’t want me to gossip about Tara—”

  “Why not? She dumped him?”

  “Yes, but that’s not—” I can’t hide a little smug smile, and Tucker catches me and gasps. “You did it again! You tricked me into saying more than I should have. What are you, some secret CIA interrogator in disguise?”

  “Relax. If you’re not going to spill the beans about Tara, I’ll go ask Logan directly.”

  I backtrack a few steps, but Tucker gently grabs my arm. “Please don’t, he’s just about getting over her.”

  “Why? Was it an awful breakup?” I ask sweetly.

  Tucker flares his nostrils and shakes his head. “You’re like a hound that’s picked up the scent of the fox.” He sighs. “Is there any chance you’ll let the topic drop if I don’t tell you?”

  “Not one,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “For starters, you’re making such a big deal out of it, now I definitely need to know.”

  “But why? What difference does it make to you?”

  “I’d like to learn a little more about the people I have to spend weeks alone in the jungle with.”

  “You’re not asking me about Archie’s past relationships.”

  I scoff. “Oh, please, the guy has ‘never been in a serious relationship and not interested in one’ written all over his face. Am I wrong?”

  Tucker seems about to retort something, but then deflates. “No, you’re right.”

  “And anyway,” I continue. “I’m asking about Tara only because you implied she’s part of the reason Logan is so fastidious about this expedition.”

  Tucker looks to the sky. “When will I learn to bite my tongue?” He’s still holding my arm, and now drags me close conspiratorially. “If I tell you, you promise you won’t tell anyone, and that you won’t taunt Logan about it?”

  I feel like we’re in the sixth grade. Should we pinky swear? I’m tempted to ask Tucker, but sense it’d be pushing my luck. So, with a solemn face, I say, “I promise.”

  “Okay.” Tucker lets me go and goes back to assembling the camping stove. “If I have to be drilled, you might as well help me. Hold this.” He hands me a brackety component while he screws in place more bolts. “So, Tara. She and Logan were this archeology power couple, going on joint expeditions, working in all the best excavation locations, giving cutting edge seminars, all the shebang. They were the darlings of the community. Everyone thought it was just a matter of time before they got marri
ed—”

  “How long were they together?”

  “They met in college and broke up three years ago.”

  “You mean, she broke it off. Why?”

  “Her career took precedence.” Tucker gestures for me to hand him the bracket and gives me the screwdriver to hold in its place. “The year Logan was awarded tenure at Berkeley, she secured enough funding for a project she’d been researching forever… in Egypt.”

  “Aha. A classic long-distance screw-up scenario?”

  “Well, not exactly. Logan wanted to make the relationship work. He has only one teaching semester at UCB, so they agreed she’d go to Egypt and he’d join her for the second part of the year when he was free to do his job from anywhere.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “When his classes were over, Logan went to Egypt as planned, only to return to the States two weeks later, single.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “As you can imagine, he’s not super chatty about it.” Tucker pushes a towing handle into the bracket on the grill stand, then pulls on it to make sure it’s locked in place. “But the gist is Tara told him she didn’t have time for love.”

  “Ouch,” I say, and scrunch my face. “But what’s the connection between the breakup and Logan being so obsessed with a lost city in the jungle?”

  “Ah.” Tucker sighs. “Four months after she broke up with him, Tara unearthed the untouched tomb of Ramses VIII in the Valley of the Kings—I’m talking Tutankhamun level shit. Three years later, and they still haven’t finished cataloging everything they found. There are talks about building a whole new dedicated museum in Cairo…”

  “Oh, wait, you’re right. I saw it on the news a few years ago.”

  I try hard to remember if a woman was mentioned, but it was too long ago… Even if I’d seen a picture of her, there’s no way I could recall Tara’s looks. And I can’t google her from here. Stupid no-service jungle.

  “No kidding.” Tucker scoffs. “That stupid tomb was everything everyone could talk about for months… It still is.”