Wanderlove (13 page)

Rowan’s grinning at me.
“Mar dulce.”

“Sweet sea.” Our arms are pressed together, but neither of us moves until the boat driver revs the engine. It snaps us out of the moment, and Rowan takes his seat on the other side.

For forty-five minutes, we roar down the river with the wind in our faces, along with our motley crew: the birders frowning at the folly of speeding through such bio-wealth, the preteen girl gripping a pink hat over her eyes, the backpacker boys verbally abusing each other at the top of their lungs. When the driver cuts the engine again, the return of normal sound is a shock. And somehow, so gradually I didn’t notice, we’ve entered the rain forest.

Both riverbanks ascend into canyon walls of impenetrable green: piles and piles of trees, dripping with vines, ivy, lacy sheaths of moss. All around us swells a tangible orchestra of jungle noise that rises and recedes, rises and recedes. Even the Spring Breakpacker boys shut their mouths. Something neon green streaks though the water. I gasp, breaking our collective silence.

“Iguana,” the boat driver says, grinning at me through an impressive mustache.
“Joven.”

“They swim?”

The preteen girl is craning her neck to see. “There,” I say, pointing. She blushes ferociously and turns away. I forgive her, since I remember how mortifying life was at that age.

Even without the compounded shame of parent-daughter travel. Not that I’ve ever experienced it. My dad always talked about taking the family to Barcelona to visit his cousins, but it hasn’t happened yet.

“Oh, eek, it’s a lizard!” I hear Pete shout. “Quick, let’s run over it.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s making fun of me. Now I’m the one blushing. Rowan glances at me, then says something in rapid-fire Spanish to the boat driver, who nods.

As we round the next river bend, we’re greeted by a small dock. Next a rooftop, blanketed with banana leaves, emerges among the trees. “This is it,” Rowan says as we pull up. “Get your stuff.”

“This is Livingston?”

He brings a finger to his lips.

“What?” I say. “I don’t—”

He shakes his head.

“I think we need a code word,” he says once we’ve hoisted ourselves onto the dock and the boat has sputtered away.

“A code word?”

“How about
geckos
? As in ‘Did you hear those barking geckos last night?’ Or maybe it should be some kind of hand signal.” He wiggles his fingers in my face. I grab his hands to make him quit.

“Rowan, why’d we stop if this isn’t Livingston?”

“It’s just for the night.”

“But why? How far is the coast?”

“It’s just around the bend.”

I stare at him.

“It’s best to greet the Caribbean in the full light of day,” he says. “Also, this place is cheaper. And really, it’s a life experience. You’ll see. But mainly, I wanted to ditch those guys.”

I follow him onto the muddy bank. Tiny flies glance off my ankles.

“So about this code word thing,” he continues over his shoulder. “I know you haven’t really traveled before, but we might get into some
situations.
. . . We’ll need an easy way to remove ourselves from them. That’s what the code word’s for.

Signaling the other person to pay extra-close attention. Or to get up and follow, no matter what.”

“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 of 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.

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.