The door’s creaky hinge is the first sound to break the silence. Next is the whisper of my name on Jaque’s lips. She is lying on her uncle’s bed, eyes closed, her baby on her chest, the other two children at her feet. She grins as I curl my body into the tiny spot beside her.
“They were tired,” she says, brushing a long braid off her face. “It’s so peaceful when they sleep.”
Jocelyn Edelstein has spent extensive time in Brazil, dancing and working on her upcoming documentary, Believe The Beat, which follows a group of hip hop dancers from Rio de Janeiro. Her documentary work has also led her to Europe where she has enjoyed the honey cake in Prague and the gelato in Florence. She currently resides on the Oregon Coast where she teaches dance to all ages, writes, and plays in the ocean. To learn more about Jocelyn, visit her website at www.danceharvest.com or to preview her upcoming documentary, visit www.urbanbodyproject.com.
CARRIE VISINTAINER
Sidecar Sally
In the Mexican jungle, her alter ego came along for the ride.
It’s first light on my second day in Yelapa, Mexico, and I’m in a panga boat skimming the peaked ripples of the Banderas Bay. A dozen huddled passengers surround me on wooden benches—local Mexicans of all ages, smiling and chatting, traveling to Puerto Vallarta for the day.
“Amigo!” one guy yells to another, over the roar of the motor. He slaps him on the back.
I squint into the wind and chew on my thumbnail, jittery with excitement. I’m not going to Puerto Vallarta. At a tiny beach, a stop on the way to the city, I’m jumping out of the boat and meeting two to three strange men.
Tom, my landlord, called my casita yesterday. “We’re touring the jungle back roads tomorrow,” he said. “Join us?”
I paused. I thought he was calling to make sure I had hot water and a cold refrigerator. “I thought there were no roads,” I said.
“There aren’t.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We can probably make it, with the Jeep.”
“Who’s going?”
“Not sure. Possibly an American photographer and a crazy Australian dude who’s been traveling for eight years.”
I took a long, slow sip of my Pacifico. With a rare week away from my husband and two tiny kids in Colorado, I’d planned to be anti-social: write and walk and sleep. No agenda. But I love adventure, and I also tend to like photographers, and crazy people.
“In,” I said.
“Great. Meet us at Boca. Wear your bikini.”
In the boat, I reach behind my neck and tighten the straps of my swimsuit, under my dress. I brought two bikinis on this trip, and I’m wearing the one that’s far more conservative—neutral tones, full coverage, visually boring. I know from Tom’s website that in addition to renting casas in the village of Yelapa, he’s a bikini photographer.
I am not a bikini model. I’m winter white, I have short hair, and I’ve birthed two children in the last four years. I love wearing bikinis—soft strings grazing skin—but the thought of being captured on film while frolicking in a jungle waterfall makes me feel self-conscious, some unflattering pose trapped forever and posted who-knows-where. If Tom photographs me, I’m hoping my suit will blend into earth, making me invisible.
I gaze out at the waves and search for the humpback whales that breed in these warm waters each winter. There’s only a jagged, hazy cliff in the distance. It feels symbolic. I am a mother, bypassing typical tourist destinations for a trip into wild places with strange men, in a country that’s notorious for its warring drug cartels. My father would say, “Didn’t I teach you better?”
Water splashes up around the boat and grazes my eye. It feels like a tear. I wipe it away.
At the beach, Tom waves. He looks harmless enough: early forties, sandals, genuine smile. “Morning, Carrie,” he says.
I babble. “Hi. I almost missed the boat. I couldn’t hear my alarm clock over the sound of the waves. My neighbor knocked on my door. Ha!” I glance back toward the boat. It’s gone.
He laughs. “Glad you made it.” He adjusts the strap of his camera bag and leads me up a cobblestone path through a maze of haphazardly parked cars. With the discreet eye of a seasoned solo traveler, I scan Tom for anything that seems sketchy: knives, drugs, guns. Nothing. My instinct says he’s trustworthy, but sometimes it’s tricky to tell.
I buy a Coke Light from an open-air tienda. A beautiful black-eyed boy, about the age of my son, stares at me from behind the counter. “Buenos dias,” I say, sweetly. He buries his face in his mother’s skirt. Guilt stabs my belly. My own son is getting dressed for preschool right now. My daughter, age one, is probably wandering the house saying, “Mama?”
Last night, I sent my husband an email that said, “I’m touring the jungle tomorrow with Tom, my landlord. If you don’t hear from me within twenty-four hours, send out a search party. XO”
Ten minutes later, he replied, “Have fun! Love you.” He is eternally supportive. But I could see the concern in his eyes, even through the make-believe jungle of Cyberspace. I knew I should share his feelings.
As I exit the tienda, I see Tom talking to two white guys. They’re near a well-worn Toyota 4-Runner and a badass motorcycle with a sidecar—flat black with a pile of spare tires, and a helmet, strapped to the back rack.
The guy with the cigarette reaches his hand out to shake mine. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Joe.” Three words and I know he’s the Aussie. I take in his wild black hair and boots and faded jeans. Crazy, maybe. But he averts his eyes when he looks at me, which seems sweet and shy, respectful. He reminds me of a famous poster of James Dean.
The other guy is an ebullient American. “I’m Brian,” he says. He has short clipped brown hair and a point-and-shoot camera in his hand, yet he must be the photographer. He says he’s a vagabond.
Tom gives me a mischievous smile. “We’ve decided you’re going to ride in the sidecar. We voted before you got here.”
It feels like a test. What else did they discuss before I arrived?
“Great,” I say, feigning confidence. “I love motorcycles. I used to ride a Harley.”
They all look surprised. When I look down, I can see why. I look nothing like a biker chick. I’m dressed like I didn’t know what to expect today, like maybe I’m going to the beach, or on a hike: brown sundress, flip flops, black fleece. I’m carrying a blue mesh bag that contains a towel, water, protein bar, and camera.
Joe looks at my painted blue toenails and half-smiles. “Do you have boots?” he asks.
“No. But I have running shoes.” Really they’re little Simple sneakers.
He snuffs out his cigarette with his toe. “Good. Because you might need to push, if the roads are bad.”
I love riding in the sidecar. The air is brisk, blowing my hair into wild tangles. I pull the leather seat cover up to my chest, snuggle back into the cushion, and watch the palm trees of the jungle canopy morph into pines and shrubs as we climb. Not unlike the landscape of Colorado. As I peer through the trees, I look for dead bodies or surly Mexican men wielding machetes or machine guns. It’s wild out there, but no blood.
Joe navigates the curves of the road. There’s an instant ease between us that strikes me. He hands me his hat. I hold it. I point to an interesting sign. He nods. We don’t talk, and we know almost nothing about each other, but it feels like we’ve been traveling together for months. I sense something awakening in me—what is it? I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels important.
When we stop for a rest, I don’t want to. Except that we’re in the driveway of a breathtaking botanical garden, a display of color and texture and sound. There are hot pink azaleas, manicured fruit trees, frolicking dogs, a beautiful open-air restaurant containing wooden tables and benches. Birds chirp. Dishes clank in a nearby kitchen. The air smells like sunshine.
Brian saunters over. “How was the sidecar?”
“Awesome.”
“You weren’t cold?”
“Not really.”
<
br /> Tom kneels down. He snaps a photo of me stepping out of the sidecar. I giggle. He keeps shooting. I wave my hand in the air. “Take some photos of Joe,” I say.
We tour the botanical gardens, which has dozens of varieties of orchids, water lilies, and tropical plants. Tom knows interesting details about the flora, like that vanilla is part of the orchid family. I snap a few photos, so I will remember.
As I climb back into the sidecar, Joe says, “You like it in there, huh?”
I smile. “I do.”
He gives me a long, amused look.
Brian pipes in. “I guess we should call you Sidecar Sally.”
Everyone laughs. It’s not until we’re rumbling out of the driveway that I realize Brian is right on. It’s Sidecar Sally awakening inside of me, the part of my identity that exists opposite my role as wife and mother. She’s fearless and free-spirited, a woman who takes road trips through Wyoming and Montana, or backpacks alone into the mountains with barely a plan. I’d never given her a name.
We order margaritas at a hacienda in the middle of nowhere. I choose passion fruit with raicilla, the local moonshine. The place is a palace, with high ceilings, dark mahogany woodwork and windows overlooking hillsides of trees and vines. Even the women’s bathroom is beautiful, with ornate sinks and elegant artwork.
We wander around individually, checking things out. Joe and I end up at the same window.
“How long are you in Yelapa, Sidecar Sally?” he asks.
I smile. “A while.”
“And then where are you going?”
I pause. “Home?”
He laughs.
I give him a brotherly push. “And you?”
“Next? Copper Canyon.”
I’ve heard of this region in Chihuahua. Some of the canyons are as deep as the Grand.
“Have you been there?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
Joe tells me he’s traveling from Argentina to Alaska by motorcycle, and before that he bicycled across the continent of Africa.
“Wow,” I say, rapt. I can imagine myself doing all of those things.
He lifts his camera and takes a photo.
“So, do you like traveling solo?” I ask. I expect him to say hell yeah, I love it.
“Not really,” he says. “I’d like to share this experience with someone.” He pauses. “But it would have to be the right woman.”
My breath catches. I lean down to scratch my leg and create a subtle change in subject. I gasp. There are pinpricks of blood covering my calves, ankles, and feet. Tiny wings flutter. I spring up. “My legs!” I exclaim.
Tom looks over from the table. “Carrie! Those are No-see-um bites,” he says. “Quick. Get some bug spray.”
I run over to a table at the edge of the patio where I saw a tube of white cream. I slather it over my legs. But the damage is already done. Swollen welts cover my calves, ankles, and feet. I didn’t even know it was happening. From the knees down, I look like I’ve been living in a cave in the jungle for months, like I am physically morphing into my alter ego.
The wife and mother in me would’ve put on insect repellent as a preventive measure. But Sidecar Sally doesn’t give a shit. What’s a few bug bites?
When the road becomes dirt, we go fast. It’s fun and dusty and carefree, and we skid around in the sand, but I’m not scared. I can’t stop smiling. In a way, this feels like a glimpse into a life I might’ve chosen, one without marriage and children. I’m happy with my choices—I wouldn’t change them. And I think I could have been happy this way, too. World travel punctuated by longer stays in special places, a string of lovers, or sidecars, or endless dance partners.
I know there would be disadvantages: feelings of loneliness and displacement. Joe admits he wants companionship. But as much as I try to be content inside my white picket fence in Colorado, changing diapers and cooking macaroni and cheese, Sidecar Sally whispers, and sometimes screams, her need for freedom. Domesticity versus Wanderlust. It’s an ongoing match.
When we reach the waterfall, I spring out of the sidecar. I trudge through the river ahead of the guys, toss my flip-flops onto the shore, and peel off my dress on a pale boulder. Tom’s carrying his camera bag, but I don’t even care. I don’t care that my body isn’t perfect, or that I’m in the jungle with three men, or that I’m not a typical mother. I hope we get stuck and that I have to push the motorcycle. I hope we’re forced to park the bike above Yelapa so we can hike down at dusk into the village.
I wade into the thigh-deep cold water and stoop down to submerge my whole body. The tender skin on my chest, covering my heart, prickles. “Ooh,” I say. “Yes.” I walk on my hands through the pool, the sand rough under my palms, kicking my legs behind me.
Under the rush of the waterfall, I stand up. Water pummels my back and my head and my neck. It feels like a fist, or a passionate heartbeat. I squeeze my eyes shut. I breathe hard. Everything else disappears.
When I step out of the cascade and rub open my eyes, they’re all there. Tom is kneeling on a rock, snapping photos of me. Joe and Brian stand on the edge of the pool in their swim trunks. They look so innocent.
“Am I the only one who’s swimming?” I tease.
They stare at me like I’m crazy.
“Isn’t it cold?” says Brian.
“Yeah,” says Joe.
I shrug. “It’s great!”
Tom looks up from his camera. His whole face lights up. “Sidecar Sally,” he says, “I have never seen anyone enjoy a waterfall like that.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Thank you.”
We stumble upon a ranch owned by Tom’s friends. The landscape is dust and brush and scattered trees. A lone azalea catches my eye, and I take in the burst of color. I feel like that right now: a bright bloom. I brush my hair from my face and do a little salsa step in the dirt.
“This town has forty people,” Tom says.
I look around at the smattering of small structures. “Town?”
“Yep.”
“Whoa.”
We wander up onto the sweeping ranch porch. An elderly Mexican man with leathery skin hugs Tom and pours us each a shot of raicilla.
“Cheers!” I exclaim, clinking each glass. I shoot mine; they sip.
Tom leads us to an adjacent house with a dirt floor, where a teenaged girl is making tortillas. The air smells like smoke and earth. The girl looks up shyly when she sees all of us staring. “Hola,” I say, trying to make eye contact. She blushes.
I watch as she mixes cornmeal with water and places a ball of dough into a ceramic hand press. She pulls down the handle—thump—and nods, satisfied. With a graceful flick of her wrist, she tosses the tortilla onto a skillet over a wood stove. It sizzles. I am amazed by so many things: her ability to keep the fire at the right temperature, the perfection of her circles, the fact that she makes tortillas twice every day.
“Bueno,” I say, clapping my hands.
The guys goad me, so I agree to give it a try. It’s way harder than it looks. I fumble around with the dough, which sticks to my fingers, creating a gooey mess in my palms. Every one of my tortillas is torn or misshapen or stuck to the press. I laugh, but it comes out sounding more uncomfortable than carefree. I look at the girl, and then the men, and something shifts deep in my gut. I have an urge to tell them: I am a good cook. I make delicious lasagna. I take my kids to the playground and read them books.
Instead, I wipe my hands on a towel and walk away. I wander past the painted white church, scattered wooden houses, free-range cattle. Children dart past. I smile and wave.
At the one-room schoolhouse, I stop and peer in the windows. Joe appears behind me.
“Check out those desks,” I say. “They’re wooden, like old times.”
He laughs and points to the wall, which is covered in hand-painted pictures. I wonder if my son is painting a picture right now at his school, or practicing his letters.
Joe turns to face me. “Hey Carrie?” he as
ks.
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering. Do you want to see Copper Canyon?”
In my head, Sidecar Sally screams, Yes! You do! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!
“Do you?” asks Joe.
I itch my leg, and then look back at the children’s pictures. “I would love to,” I say. “But I can’t.”
He seems unfazed. “O.K.”
I smile and try to act normal. But inside I feel raw, like fingernails are scratching my flesh. I look back toward the house where the girl is making tortillas. I imagine her holding up a ball of dough the shape of Sidecar Sally’s heart. She places it on the press. The handle descends and smashes it flat. On the fire, it burns.
Carrie Visintainer is a Colorado-based freelance writer. Her essays have appeared in Matter, Cahoots, Mamazina, and The Best Women’s Travel Writing 2008. Her travel blog, Carrie Go Wandering, can be found at carriegowandering.blogspot.com.
BRIDGET CROCKER
Taking the Oars
Sometimes a woman has to paddle against the current.
The caustic incense of mosquito coils and floor polish caught in my throat as I dropped my duffel in the foyer. Within these peeling yellow walls and barred windows, my boyfriend Greg had lived for the last several months, running a whitewater rafting company in Zambia. Although I’d just arrived for my second season, I wasn’t planning to stay. I’d only flown halfway around the world to tell Greg to his face. After five years together, I owed him that much.
As I waited in the empty house, Doreen and Angela, my two best friends from the previous season, burst through the warped wooden door. Their easy smiles were almost as big as the enormous hand-woven basket they’d made for me as a returning gift.
“But, sister, why are you crying?” Angela asked. She set down the basket and touched my cheek as tears forged down my dust-coated face.
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