“Oh … I didn’t get that.”
Rowan hops onto the wooden walkway leading to the guesthouse. “That’s my point.”
The lobby of the Rainforest Retreat is basic, to say the least. Overhead, a vast palapa roof seems like a haven for fauna of the way-too-many-legged variety. I keep my eyes on the desk. “El matrimonial?” asks the woman behind it.
I glance at Rowan. “Did she just say what I thought she did?”
“There aren’t any cabins with two beds?” he asks the woman. “Hay cuartos con dos camas?”
She shakes her head. “No más. Is booked.”
Rowan and I glance at each other again. I swear he’s blushing beneath his tan. “It’s okay,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll pay for my own room.”
I can tell he’s relieved. “You sure?” he asks.
“I’ll just drink a couple fewer licuados. Dos cuartos,” I tell the woman. “Por favor.”
A network of wooden walkways and plank bridges connects the cabins to the open-air common area, suspended over several inches of water. When I look over the edge, I see tiny crabs scampering over a submerged landscape of tree roots and slime. After a lengthy trek, Rowan leaves me at my cabin and heads to his, only twenty feet from mine, but obscured by trees. At least he’s close enough to come save me if I scream. I unlock the tiny padlock on my cabin door. Crookedly, it swings open.
The room is almost bare, except for a mattress topped by a gray sheet. A canopy of mosquito netting floats over it. There’s a row of grimy shelves. No bathroom. When I turn on the bare lightbulb, a zebra-striped cockroach as long as my thumb skitters across the floor and through a crack in the wall.
I stand there for a long time—hugging my daypack, staring at the crack, and trying to imagine all the diabolical creatures that could find their way in.
Crabs.
Snakes.
Spiders with chopstick legs.
Flies with pea-sized eyes.
Those Jesus Christ lizards that run on top of water on two legs with their mouths open and really freak me out.
Ebola.
Ebola is sufficiently ridiculous to get me going. I make sure all the zippers are shut tight on both my daypack and backpack and tuck them inside the mosquito netting. Then I hurry out.
Back in the common area—surprise!—Rowan has already made friends. He sits in a striped hammock beneath a sign that reads KEEP OUT AT NIGHT: BATS! (Bats. I didn’t think of bats.) In front of him stand a girl in a beige linen skirt with wild black hair and a stout, shirtless guy with a hairy chest.
“That’s not it,” the girl says, her English heavily accented.
Rowan shook his head. “It’s also known as Cochino Grande. I promise.”
“But our book says Cayo Mayor.”
I watch them argue good-naturedly until the girl spots me. “Is that Bree-yah?” she crows, rushing toward me. Startled, I let her grab my hand and drag me over, feeling kind of amazed Rowan’s already told these strangers about me.
It’s just … nice. That’s all.
Rowan’s new friends are Tom and Liat. Tom’s British, Liat Israeli. They met last year at a hostel in La Paz, Bolivia, Liat tells us, along with about nineteen hundred other factoids; clearly, she loves to talk. During dinner, Tom lets Liat do most of the storytelling, breaking in occasionally to comment on the jungle sound track.
“Grackles,” he observes stoically. And later, “Tree frogs.”
Rowan’s pretty quiet all through the meal. But when Liat suggests a round of Scrabble, he finally speaks up. “Now that,” he says, “that’s a barking gecko.”
“Really?” I listen. Finally, the sound comes again: a high-pitched chirping, five times in succession. It doesn’t really sound like barking, though—more like laughter. I catch Rowan staring at me meaningfully. What? I mouth.
He shakes his head, as if I’ve disappointed him. “Some other time, maybe. It’s getting late, and I need a shower. Bria, you ready to go?”
We leave a pocketful of change for our server and say good night. There are no lights on the trails, but Rowan whips out a tiny flashlight to guide us through the dark. Once we’re far enough along to be out of earshot, he sighs. “Bria, you failed my test.”
“What test?”
“Barking geckos. Remember?”
“Wait a second—geckos? No fair! We didn’t decide on that.”
“You’re right. From now on, though, it stands.” He pauses. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason. Just trying to be democratic.”
“Oh.” A stick cracks beneath my sandal, and I jump. “Well. So why’d you want to get away?”
“I really do want a shower. Also, too much tension.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on. It was like ice water.… I give them three weeks.”
“Tom and Liat?” I’m astounded. “You’re crazy! They’re completely in love.”
“You’re an optimist.”
“I am not—you’re just jaded.”
Rowan doesn’t reply, and as we walk, I start to wonder whether I’ve offended him. I clear my throat but can’t think of anything to say. We arrive at the crossroads between our cabins. He hands me his flashlight.
“Take it,” he says. “I’ve got eyes like a cat.”
I take way too long meeting him, because I can’t locate a single thing in my backpack. When I pull out my arms, clothes explode all over the mattress. “Damn,” I say, raking everything into a pile. It feels damp, as if the jungle air has already saturated it. I locate my gym shorts and a white tank top, then refold the items, piece by piece, before stuffing them back into my bag. Best to be safe—just in case any chopstick-legged spiders seek a warm nest while I’m gone.
The outdoor shower stalls resemble stone cells: stone floor, stone walls inlaid with mosaic tiles in shapes like cave paintings. Wooden doors latch shut with metal hooks. There’s no ceiling, just a web of black branches against the sky.
“Rowan?” I call. “Are you here?”
“In the next stall. Don’t come in, I’m not wearing anything.”
I have the foolish urge to peek over the wall, but I hold back. “Where’s the spigot?”
“There isn’t one. Just the bucket. It’s lukewarm, but at least it’s not freezing.”
“Bucket?” I stare at it. It’s hot pink, with balloon stickers all over the outside.
“There’s no running water here, only well water.”
“Well water?” The bucket’s only partially full. I suspect others have used it before me, and I’m unsure what level of disgusted I should be by this. “You’re lying,” I said hopefully.
Rowan steps around the corner, a striped towel wrapped around his narrow hips. Pectoralis, my art brain thinks. Iliac crest. At least, I think it’s my art brain. Disastrously, I feel myself blush. After so many months of nothing but Toby, I’ve turned into a prude.
“I wish I were,” Rowan says, oblivious. “You’d better hurry, before the water cools completely.”
“But I don’t even know what to do. Do I splash water on myself? Dump it on my head?”
“Whatever works.” He grins wickedly. “I can help, if you like.”
I blink at him. It’s the closest he’s come to hitting on me, the closest to implying anything slightly sexual.
“But then that boyfriend of yours might hop on a plane and kick my ass.”
Before I can reply, he disappears into the jungle.
Shaking my head, I lock my door. Then I strip to my underwear and stand with my arms crossed over my chest, staring at the plastic bucket and trying not to think about hot showers back home. Something howls in the treetops—bird or monkey, I don’t know which. Or maybe it’s a ghost. Like La Llorona. A crab dances across the floor, narrowly missing my bare toes.
Enough stalling. I kick off my underwear and plunge my hands into the water. I splash my face, my hair, my body, using a fragment o
f yellow soap to wash as best I can. When the water’s almost gone, I upturn the bucket over my head.
I stand there just a second longer, eyes closed, water streaming down my face. If I cover my ears to keep out the jungle sounds, I could be anywhere.
9
Day 7, Way Too Early
Swingers
I have to pee.
I roll onto my back, trying to give my bladder as much room as possible. I have only a vague idea where the outhouse is in relation to my cabin. Why, why, why did I drink that second orange Fanta at dinner? To make matters worse, I gave Rowan back his flashlight before bed. Although I’m pretty sure I can find his cabin in the dark, I don’t want to knock on his door. What if he thinks I’m trying to … you know.… Yeah, no way. I’ll just have to hold it until dawn.
I last about five more minutes before an imaginary red light starts flashing in the darkness.
Emergency. Emergency.
Then I remember my phone. I fumble through my daypack until I find it, and turn it on. It glows weakly, a blue specter in the dark room. At least I’m getting some use out of the thing; the international roaming charges are something like nine hundred bucks a minute. I uncrumple my crispy gray Windbreaker from my backpack and slip it on. Then I wedge a rock in my door and step onto the trail.
“Left, left, right,” I whisper to myself, following the hazy map in my brain. The night forest screams back at me.
When I round the third turn, I see a dim bulk against the trees: the bathroom? I sprint forward, then halt. It’s just another cabin. That can’t be correct—I’d gone left, left, right. Right?
I backtrack, counting my turns. Once, I accidentally step off a walkway and splash into the black water. Jungle slime oozes between my toes. Leave it to me to attempt to navigate the rain forest barefoot. I follow one trail until it dead-ends against a mossy tree. Another leads back to the river, inky and sinister-looking. When I hear something yowl in the forest on the opposite bank, I want to cry. I have no idea how to get back to my room, let alone a bathroom, and now I’ll probably be devoured with my bladder still bursting. Finally, I squat beside a cabin wall.
A pterodactyl-sized insect flies up in my face, and I almost fall ass-first into my own puddle. Maybe it would be funny if I wasn’t feeling so miserable. And if stupid Toby’s stupid face didn’t keep appearing in my stupid head, laughing like a maniac.
You’re not the traveling type.
When I called Toby a few weeks ago to brag that I was traveling, I was certain he’d be impressed. Especially since I knew his summer plans consisted of the usual: art, more art, and putting in hours at his uncle’s paint shop to support his art. Maybe he was envious. I remember the time my father explained the difference between envy and jealousy. Envy is when you want what someone else has. Jealousy’s when you also don’t want them to have it.
Jealous. Toby was jealous.
“Well, I’m here now,” I say out loud.
It’d be more empowering if I wasn’t squatting with my shorts around my ankles. I yank them up. Time to embark on the journey back, which I hope is less eventful. I follow the wall around the corner and discover it doesn’t belong to a cabin: I’ve found the guesthouse’s common area. Empty, except … there’s a shadowy form in the hammock across the room.
“Rowan?” The hammock jerks, and I giggle, my misery forgotten.
“Bria? What are you doing here?”
Like I’d ever tell him I was too inept to locate the bathroom. “I was … taking a walk.”
“In the dark? Why?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither. I thought maybe I could sleep better in here, with more air coming through, but … here I am. Still sleepless.”
I’m feeling spine-meltingly shy, but I make myself go and stand beside his hammock. He has a new book on his lap: The Omnivore’s Dilemma.
“Aren’t you scared of the bats?”
He flicks on his flashlight and aims it at the ceiling. “I’m telling myself they’ve all gone for the night. Doing whatever bats do. Echolocation—I think that’s the word. Nice jacket, by the way.”
Oh damn. The dreaded crispy Windbreaker has been exposed. I make a face.
“No, I’m serious. It’s such an … attractive color.”
“I call it gutter water.”
“I was thinking more like … baby possum.”
“Or oatmeal gone rancid.”
“Or stormy sky. After the apocalypse.”
“You know what it’s really like? It’s the exact shade you get when you’re painting with watercolors, and you’re too lazy to change your cup of water, and all the colors blend together into a great big glass of ugly.”
Rowan looks at me with interest. “You paint, too?”
I stuff my hands into my crispy pockets. “When I was younger.”
“How much younger?”
“Younger.”
For a moment, we seem to run out of things to say. The jungle is so loud I can almost sift the sound waves through my fingers, but it’s better than the gracelessness of total silence.
“Well,” I begin. “I guess I should—”
“Climb in?”
“The hammock?”
“If you sit facing the other way, we should be okay.”
He sticks out his hand. I stare at it just long enough to crank up the awkward-meter to eleven. Finally, I crawl in beside him, clumsily, my Windbreaker crisping and crackling until I tear off the damned thing and hurl it over the side. The wood columns anchoring the hammock creak angrily at our combined weight.
“Don’t worry,” Rowan says. “I’ve got an emergency plan. If the hammock breaks, I’ll just roll on top of you so you can break my fall.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Rowan flicks off his flashlight, and our conversation fizzles out again. Now Rowan and I are folded together, in the dark, and the silence is awkward enough to peel paint.
“I’m sure Starling would approve of this,” I joke. Curse my mouth.
Fortunately, Rowan just laughs. “She is awfully protective of me.”
“Why?”
He coils his fingers through the hammock’s multicolored webbing. “She thinks of me as her little brother. And technically, I am. She’s seen me at my worst. She’s seen me at my best, and that’s what she wants for me.”
“I guess.”
“She really does. I know she can be … overbearing, but she’s always trying to do right. Compared to her, I’m a selfish jerk. You’ve heard some of her stories. She does these immense, philanthropic things, volunteers for months, works for pennies in tiny villages, and honestly? I’m just not that good.”
“What about …” I tap the bracelets on his leg. Then I fold my hands on my stomach, just in case they feel like getting grabby again.
Rowan nudges a chair with two fingers, making the hammock sway. “I guess I work in small ways. It’s kind of like this story someone told me, about a guy on the beach in Mexico throwing starfish in the sea. Thousands had washed ashore. Someone asked him why—‘Why are you wasting your time, when there are so many? You can’t possibly make a difference.’ ”
“I know that story! The man threw another one back, and said—”
“ ‘Made a difference to that one!’ ” Rowan finishes. “Where’d you hear it?”
“I read it, actually.”
“Where?”
“I think it was my mom’s old copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul.”
He laughs. “Oh great! I thought it was some ancient Zen proverb. Something respectable.”
“Are you saying my mom’s not respectable?” I tease him.
“Not if she reads Chicken Soup for the Soul.”
“Apparently you do too.”
He grins. “Touché.”
It’s all I can do to seal my lips around my own grin. We seem to have no trouble talking in the dark. It’s during the day when things get uncomfortable.
“Anyway,” he says, “I
started buying the bracelets a couple months ago. And just kept buying them. Starling calls them my ring of guilt. I’ll probably take them off soon.”
“When?”
“When I’m not feeling guilty anymore, I guess.”
I nudge the side of a table, making us swing again. “Can I ask you something?”
Rowan seems a little wary but nods. He probably thinks I’m going to ask about his guilt, but I’m not. Here’s what I want to ask: Don’t you ever get homesick? It’s the question that has come to me every time I’ve considered the scope of Rowan’s travels. But my actual wording is less sappy. “Is there anything you miss about … home?”
“Sure. Lots of things.”
“Like what?”
Rowan looks thoughtful. “Well, clothes that fit, for starters.”
“Your clothes do fit.”
“That’s because Starling brings them for me from the States.” He pushes off the chair. “Also, I really miss knowing the hot water’s going to work when I get in the shower. And certain foods. Like fresh berries—especially blueberries. And raspberries. Real cheddar cheese. Fortunately, once you’ve been traveling long enough, your appetite makes compensations.” He thinks a little more. “Also, I haven’t driven a car in ages. I used to really like that … going for a drive.”
“I do too. Long drives.”
“Yeah?”
“Like sometimes I take the 2 up through La Cañada, into the mountains. Or the 14 into the desert. Not too far—just far enough to be someplace different.”
“By yourself?”
He looks surprised. I guess it is strange, coming from me: the undertraveled. Driving was something I did after Toby and I fought—which was often, especially just before we broke up. I’d fill my tank with my savings. Get in the car. And go, and go, and go. I never drove longer than an hour or two, so my parents wouldn’t notice I’d been away. Just enough for the scenery to change into something unexpected, to remind me there was another world outside my bubble. Unfortunately, the feeling never lingered. As soon as I reentered the Los Angeles city limits, I was back to my usual antics. Calling Toby. Telling him I was sorry. Compacting myself into the backseat of his Honda before our next fight drove me to the road.
Wanderlove Page 10
