(This is a very short story I wrote when traveling in Nicaragua a couple years ago--TT)
“Why’d you come here?” she asks flatly. She’s bored with my answer before I even open my mouth. I have to try something different this time. I go with the weirdest version of the truth.
“This is my, let’s see, I think eighth trip back, my eighth try. I thought this is as good a place as any to start, get right into it.”
I continue, “I want you to remember me fondly, that’s all. I want to be a pleasant standout among your travels, an occasional memory that makes you smile every once in a while whenever you remember something I said. But I know it won’t happen. You’ve met three dozen people in six countries over four months, all more memorable than me.”
She nods. “Yeah, my parents think that way about Central America, this entire part of the world. Running rampant with drug smugglers, revolutionaries, and kidnappers.”
Watching her laugh is still as enchanting as I originally remembered. Even more so this time, when I can fill in the gaps of imperfect memory with the details of wistful desire. Her lips tremble, her cheeks rise, her eyes brighten and she allows me to hear the sounds of forced amusement cascade from her mouth—the gift of allowing me to believe I’m keeping her entertained.
The truck bumps along the jungle road. The eleven of us are jostled roughly every few seconds. The wooden benches smack unsympathetically against our backsides, the steel bars behind us cold to our touch as we try to hold ourselves in place. The moon is nowhere to be seen, but the sky is so clear and bright with stars we can see the Milky Way even through the canopy drooping over the road. When the road widens and the trees retreat enough and she turns to me at just the right angle, her face is actually illuminated by starlight.
She wears a light gray sweater over a black tank top, black leggings, and tennis shoes. Her long curly brown hair drapes majestically over her shoulders. Her face is familiar and comforting, even if I can’t quite make out its details in this low light.
We’re on our way to see sea turtles lay eggs and hatch on a deserted beach under a new moon. That’s all that matters, really.
“How long are you here for?” she asks.
“Until I can see your face clearly enough to memorize its outlines, so I can look for you tomorrow, and remember it for years.”
“Nine days?” she asks, aghast. “That’s barely enough time to realize you’re gone.”
I laugh and shake my head. “How long are you here for? Wait, let me guess. You’re from Britain, so that must mean you’re here at least three months.”
“Four,” she says. “One more to go.”
“You’ve been all over the continent?”
“Yeah. Started off in Buenos Aires. I was there for two weeks to take a Spanish refresher. Such a beautiful city. Did the Gringo Trail basically. Chile, Bolivia, Brazil, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, then up here. I fly out of Cuzco next month.”
“Needless to say, I’m jealous,” I say. “Of all of you, actually.” I gestured at her temporary traveling companions on the other side of the truck—a redheaded Irish girl, a skinny London guy, and another girl from the north of England like her—but I meant it even more generally than that.
“We don’t even have it as good as the Aussies,” she says. She points to the other truck in front of us, whose dust we’re currently breathing, where her Australian friends are. “Not only do they get paid leaves, they get paid 118% of their salary, because traveling’s expensive.”
I stare out at the jungle for a few seconds while I try to think of the next thing to say. I catch snippets of my friends’ conversation on the other side of me.
“But seriously,” Warren says to the Londoner across from him, “what are the economic drivers of conservation? They must be there. It can’t just be altruism.”
Embarrassed, I turn diagonally towards her, trying to physically block their conversation.
“I want new friends,” I say. “Or I want my old friends back. Or no friends. I just want to take off, like you, all the way to the southern tip of South America and work my way up on my own time. I want to see the world again with forced fresh eyes, like you.”
She shrugs and cocks her head. “That’s a tough question of course,” she says. “But if I had to pick a favorite, I guess I’d say Peru.”
“That’s where I want to go most.”
“Did you see any of the Amazon?”
“Mmm, a little. Not as much as I’d like. Some people I were traveling with went on a trek, but I hate flying and to really get into it, you have to get on a little plane. I couldn’t do that.”
That’s adorable, I think. I don’t say it out loud. Two trips back ago I did, and that’s when it got weird that time. I understand why.
“Are you managing to stay under budget?” is what I come up with instead. Goddamnit.
“Not really,” she says, laughing. “But I’m not too worried about it. I sold my house before I left. So I’m okay.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s a bold move. What are you going to do when you get back?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably get another job in insurance. I need to start sending out some emails to people I know. Maybe I’ll go back to school.”
“I don’t know that yet either.”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be thinking about down here?”
“I’d rather not,” she says.
My turn to shrug and sit in silence for a while.
After a couple minutes, she turns to me, initiating this time. I smile before she even opens her mouth.
“Where in the States are you from? Where were you born?”
“I live in Colorado, by the mountains. I’m from the Midwest originally. When my mom’s water broke, she and my dad were watching Casablanca. I never actually saw the movie until a few months ago. Warren and Steve and I are staying in a hotel in town across from the beach called “Casa Blanca”. I’d really like to show it to you. I want to be lying next to you in my bed there when the sun comes up. Doesn’t that sound like something that should happen, I mean, if the events of my life are something more than random? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to feel ashamed of anything. I’d be happy if we do nothing but lie there and talk...” Jesus. There’s gonna have to be a ninth trip. That was worse than a cliché…
“York” she answers mercifully.
“If my phone hadn’t been stolen in the last time I’m pretty sure I’d surreptitiously look up York on Wikipedia and ask you some question about York that would make me sound like I’m worldlier than I am. Probably something about the Romans.”
“I spent a summer in London.” Shit. Why do I say that every time?
“Really?” she says, humoring me as always. “Did you like it?”
“Loved it,” I say again. “Went to Scotland a couple times. Loved that even more. The further north the better.”
I would slap myself if I could.
The truck brakes, and everyone in the back pitches to our right. We splash across a stream pouring over the road. Someone leans through the bars and takes a picture.
“I’m sorry I felt it necessary to tell you I fancy myself a writer and that I’m in a band. I crowbarred that into the conversation to try to impress you. The London thing too, obviously.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “Sometimes we all get carried away.”
Wait, is she actually answering me? Did she actually hear what I actually said this time? What’s she saying? I get over-excited and start spilling my guts a mile a minute.
“I’m lonely a lot,” I say. “but I’d never admit that to anyone but you, here in the jungle at night. I hate my job, but I’m too afraid and too lazy to quit. Well maybe I just hate it some days. I’m afraid of failing and I’m afraid of succeeding, so I watch too much TV. I use the distractions of this century as an excuse… You’re the most beautiful insurance analyst from the north of Britain I could have possibly dreamt…”
“Looks like we’re here….”
The truck in front of us comes to a stop in front of a small building. A couple uniformed rangers stand on the porch.
We all pile out of the truck.
Ana, our local guide addresses us. “Remember,” she says, “no camera flashes, no flashlights. Pedro and I have the red lights which won’t bother the turtles. The beach is this way.”
Ana points her light down a path through the jungle. I can hear the pounding surf.
I get frantic. I know I’m about to lose her for a while. The beach is long, the sky is wide, and the turtles will be out in full force. She’ll have much better things to do than listen to me babble. I need to try one last time to impress her, to make this time last.
“The turtles will be amazing of course,” I say as fast as I possible can. “We’ll see a few mothers laying eggs, and we’ll see a bunch of babies being hatched. The stars will be even more unbelievable. When we get back here, you’ll be the last one to squeeze back on this truck. Your Aussie friends won’t make it again. We’ll get the driver to take off fast, so we don’t eat the dust of the other truck on the way back. It’s a good thing we do, because bandits will throw a log down in front of the road to stop the other truck. They’ll come out of the woods with masks and guns and knives and they’ll rob everyone of everything. I won’t find out about it till tomorrow afternoon when I’m on a sailboat off the coast. I’ll run into you tomorrow night at The Iguana. We’ll both be drunk. We’ll talk a bit more, go to another bar together, and you’ll hug me tonight and kiss me quick on the lips but I’ll stay frozen in the road not knowing if that’s a sign or a custom, and then your friends will whisk you away and that’s the end.”
I stop to catch my breath, and look at her expectantly.
“Yeah, I know,” she sighs. She looks at me directly for the first time. “I’ve been through this as many times as you.”
“You’re not really getting any closer, especially not by spoiling surprises,” she says. She pats my shoulder. “But by all means keep trying if you want.”
She steps away and heads over towards her friends. I look down at the ground for a moment, ashamed. Then I glance over at her again. She glances over her shoulder at me. It’s dark, but I’m pretty sure she’s smiling.
“They’re green,” she says.
“Of course they are,” I say quietly.
“Of course what is?” Warren says, sidling up to me. “Christ, are you talking to yourself?”
We head off to the beach, but before we get there I slip away to try again.
The truck rumbles down the jungle road.
“… Where were you born?” she’s asking me.
“I was born with my two-dozen brothers and sisters, huddled in damp, grainy darkness. We clawed our way to the surface where terrifying giants with red lights and alien eyes ushered us onward towards the thundering unknown… towards the dark sea, full of sharp teeth and strong currents and darkness, where we’d have to learn to swim and hold our breath…”
I see her smiling. It feels different. This is neither clouded nor colored by wishful memories. It feels almost like new. I lean in a bit closer.
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