Wanderlove

by Kirsten Hubbard

  I shrug. I’m not sure why I said it; it’s not like this is Douglas fir country. “Maybe it’s the rain.” It continues to float down in gauzy sheets, making me feel lethargic. If it wasn’t so oppressively muggy out, I’d long for a cup of coffee and a fireplace.

  “California girl,” Rowan says, grinning at me.

  “You said you lived in San Francisco. Aren’t you a California boy?”

  “Sure. And a Montana boy, an Oregon boy, a Mexico boy … Want me to go on?”

  “Yes,” I say, but he doesn’t.

  He steps over a puddle. “This is the right weather for a seaweed.”

  “A what?”

  “A seaweed. It’s a classic Belizean drink. I’ll make sure to find you one.”

  Even though Punta Gorda is on the water, there aren’t really any beaches here. Just a strip of weedy grass lined with rocks, and then the foamy sea. Coconut palms lean into the wind. Their coconuts aren’t tan or green, but macaroni-and-cheese orange. The village itself kind of resembles Livingston, minus the jungle and hilly landscape. And the Spanish. The same pastel paint on the concrete houses. The same muddy streets. The same muddy dogs. But there’s a definite difference in the level of prosperity; the homes are larger, the public spaces better kept. The dogs all look like they belong to someone, even if they’re not well bathed.

  We pause in front of a woman selling coconut bread. Toffee-colored hair frames her face in immaculate hot-curler coils. One Belize dollar—locked at fifty U.S. cents—per wedge, about twice what we’d have paid in Guatemala.

  “Belize is doing a lot better than Guatemala,” Rowan says when I comment. “They don’t have the same history of violence. Guatemalans have had a rough time of it.”

  Rowan’s fifth travel rule:

  Prices are relative. So is poverty. So is happiness.

  Unfortunately, Belize’s good luck means my money is going to run out more quickly here. When we stop by an ATM to withdraw Belizean currency, I’m glad the machine can’t show me my balance.

  In the café, I open a browser window on an ancient PC. I haven’t been online since Panajachel, which is probably the longest I’ve ever been off the grid. I log in to my mailbox and am greeted with twenty-seven new messages. Both my parents’ names, over and over. A thicket of exclamation points.

  Great. I know I should read them. I should write back. But sifting through the messages sounds excruciating. My parents are probably angry—justifiably, since I haven’t contacted them, not even to let them know I got here okay. But I know I’m fine. And a part of me wants to let them worry a little longer. In a messed-up way, it feels validating.

  They’re not bad parents. When I compare them to Rowan’s dad, losing his kid at the parade, I know I should be grateful. Anyway, I’m the one who quit confiding in my mom, mostly because she hates unpleasant things. Volunteering the truth about Toby, about how I felt when I stopped drawing and she didn’t comment, about the real reason I’m not going to SCAA—it would have been like closing the blinds on a sunbathing kitten. It’s much easier to keep my mouth shut.

  I’ve always felt closer to my dad. He’s a numbers guy, sort of endearingly awkward. Very much a man of few words—often no more than a couple. Like when I found that old sketchbook of his in the bottom drawer of his desk. It was just after fast-track admissions came in, when Toby was acting like a jerk and I was flailing, and it could have led to a heartening dialogue, a fresh link in a connection that had grown fragile over the years.

  But all he said was “It’s nothing.”

  He probably thought he was being encouraging—like, my art’s nothing compared to yours—but it instantly cauterized the conversation. Soon after, when I told him attending a nearby state school made more sense than SCAA, he asked if I was sure, and that was it. So that was that.

  I skim the emails from my friends. Reese’s are short, sweet, and concerned, while Olivia’s are stream-of-consciousness, paragraph-free text bricks describing her latest promo modeling gig and her fights with Jessa Hanny, topped with not-so-subtle no strings!!! reminders.

  I decide to write them back first.

  To: “Olivia Luster”

  olivia.luster@gmail.com

  Subject: The Caribbean!

  Hey,

  Sorry I haven’t written. So you know that tour group I was talking about? I ditched them. I’ve met some amazing people, and we’re having a crazy awesome time. One of them’s a guy. Calm down! It’s not like that. But he’s not my only chance. We’re heading to this crazy party island, and I still plan to keep my promise. You know the one.

  You’re totally missing out.

  Love, B

  To: “Reese Kinjo”

  reesekpiece@gmail.com

  Subject: The Caribbean!

  Hey,

  Sorry I haven’t written. Remember when we used to sit by your pond and skip all kinds of crap in the water? I’ve gotten really good at it here. Even when there are waves.

  I’m not thinking about He Who Shall Not Be Named at all, except when I typed that. It’s hard for me to say you’re missing out without sounding like a jerk, but … you are. I guess that just means we’ll have to come back someday, together.

  Love, B

  I can’t bring myself to email my parents.

  I wait outside, leaning against my backpack, while Rowan finishes his call. Across the road, muddy-legged kids push each other on a dilapidated swing set that resembles a crumpled paper clip. Through the open door, I can hear the rise and fall of Rowan’s voice.

  “To dive,” he’s saying. “And that’s it.”

  I try to imagine Starling and Rowan as children. Starling would have chaotic blond hair and skinned knees. Rowan’s dark hair would flop in his face, his eyes unnervingly large. He’d be reserved, thoughtful, while Starling would be domineering, brash, the kind of little girl who elbowed her way up the monkey bars ladder and spit from the top. She’s protected Rowan ever since the beginning. From schoolyard bullies. Bellowing cousins. Imaginary yeti. They spoke in a secret language that would impress Tolkien. They called each other Ro and Star.

  I’m so enchanted by this history, I almost forget I’m making it up.

  Rain starts falling again, and the kids scatter. I grab my backpack and drag it inside, where Rowan’s still sitting in a wooden phone booth on the far side of the room. Impulsively, I buy a map of Belize from a stack beside the register. I didn’t think of Googling the island, but at the very least, I can have some idea where we’re headed.

  I glance over as the tone of Rowan’s voice changes.

  “I told you, the money’s not the issue. Of course I need the money. But if I finish my Divemaster cert, that won’t be a problem.” He pauses. “There’s no arguing with you when you’re like this!”

  I thought he was talking to Starling, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t know whether to approach him or act like I haven’t heard anything. As I’m hovering there, indecisive, Rowan notices me. We lock eyes for a split second. “I’ve got to go,” he says quickly, and hangs up.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. When he nods, I can’t help adding, “Who was that?”

  He heaves his backpack onto his shoulders. “Never mind. We’d better catch our bus.”

  14

  Day 9, Afternoon

  Rainbows

  “Do you know what highway we’re on?” I ask Rowan, who’s sitting beside me on the bus.

  “Southern,” he replies without glancing up from his book.

  I stare at him a moment before turning back to my map. I’m still not sure who was on the other end of his phone call in the Internet café. But if I ask again, I’ll sound like I’m pestering him. And when I go over what I heard, I decide there’s not enough to go on—at least, not enough to risk breaking our hours-long argument-free stretch, which, for us, is a marathon.

  With my little finger, I trace the Southern Highway northward from Punta Gorda on my map. Near a city called Dangriga, it turns into the Hummingbird Hi
ghway, which has got to be the best name for a highway I’ve ever heard—not that there’s much competition. We’ll probably be taking the Coastal Highway, which branches off of the Hummingbird Highway heading north. Both join the Western Highway, which leads from Belize City back to the border of Guatemala. I feel like a child enthralled by a sandbox universe. Hours and miles conquered by my eyes in an instant. I mouth the names of Belizean places, bouncing them on my tongue. Cockscomb, Caracol, Orange Walk, Nim Li Punit, Crooked Tree, Gallon Jug.

  “ ‘Community Baboon Sanctuary,’ ” I read out loud. “Baboons? I thought baboons were African.”

  “They’re actually howler monkeys.” Rowan sticks his thumb in his book. “Black howlers. The locals call them baboons.”

  “You know everything, don’t you?” I glance again at my map. “It’s not so far from Belize City.”

  “No, maybe an hour away.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Sure. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s worth a trip. The guide goes with you in the forest and calls the monkeys down. If you’re lucky, he’ll have a howling contest with one of the males. I’ll take you there sometime.”

  Rowan says the last part so matter-of-factly, it takes me a second to catch it. Despite how sketchy and secretive he was acting while on the phone, I break into a grin. “Is that right?”

  “Fairy-child, if only you should take my hand, I would show you things beyond your wildest dreams.”

  My expression makes him laugh. “What’s that from?”

  “Some book I read.”

  “I should have known.” I pause. “Did she follow?”

  “How could she resist? Of course, she ended up devoured. But at least she saw some far-out sights beforehand.” Rowan returns to his book.

  Still feeling sort of fluttery, I locate Laughingbird Caye on my map. It’s part of a constellation of islands off Belize’s northern coast, shaped like a half-moon. I fold the map and trade it for my sketchbook. I flip to a blank page, consider drawing a baboon, and draw the Global Vagabonds hysterical giraffe logo instead. Rowan doesn’t glance at me once.

  I want to keep going, but I can’t concentrate. Because of the rain, all the windows are shut. The bus is an oven of exhaled breath. I wedge my knees against the seat in front of me, like Starling does. The vinyl makes a ripping noise. I drop my feet.

  “How do people do this?”

  Rowan closes his book again. “Do what?”

  “Get around.”

  “Belizeans? The same way we do. They drive or take the bus.”

  “I meant other travelers. Not travelers like us—I mean travelers with money. Somehow, I doubt they take chicken buses.”

  “They rent cars. Or they fly.”

  “There’s a plane?”

  “Sure. Belize has a couple local airlines.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “From Punta Gorda to Belize City? Maybe half an hour. If the plane stops in Placencia or Dangriga, an hour. Flights are expensive, though.”

  I look out the window. Spindly, wind-bent trees dot the countryside, broken occasionally by rivers or canals. Gashes of red mud streak the roadside. A mountain range looms hazily in the distance. As I watch, we pass a solitary concrete house on stilts, with a black dog panting on the porch. “In a plane,” I say, “you’d miss the scenery up close. The way we see it.”

  “Travelers like us?” he says with a grin.

  I recall what I said and elbow him in the side. Still smiling, Rowan tips his head against the window and closes his eyes.

  I try to sleep, but can’t. So I make a list instead.

  Annoying things about backpacking

  Sleep deprivation.

  Backpackers who stink like old wet laundry.

  Putting on your backpack. (It’s fine once it’s on, but slinging it onto your back is like using a single arm to lift an extremely fat seven-year-old, or maybe even a nine-year-old in my case.)

  A constantly gurgling stomach, even if you just ate.

  That permanently soggy place between your back and your backpack.

  Something always aches. (Like your calves, or your shoulders, or the place where your shoe rubs your heel or your flip-flops gash the wedge between your toes.)

  Something always itches.

  Below I draw an archetypal backpacker pair. I’m careful to make them anonymous, but the girl still looks a little too much like Starling.

  At a bus stop in the middle of nowhere—seriously, I haven’t seen a house for like half an hour—a mustached man in a suit and tie climbs aboard. He sets a briefcase on the front seat and stands in the aisle. His pants are too short, and I catch a flash of scrunchy white socks, the Hooters Girls kind from the eighties.

  “Greetings, friends!”

  He launches into a monologue so heartfelt I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped to one knee and started reciting Shakespeare. I assume he’s some sort of salesman, though I can’t understand 90 percent of what he’s saying. I thought Belizeans spoke English. Finally, he opens his case and whips out his extolled merchandise: a stick of Halls cough drops.

  Magic pills to cure all your ills! I stifle a giggle and glance at Rowan. He’s sleeping. It reminds me of Glenna’s incorrigible napping when I first saw the lake.

  Glenna. I haven’t thought of her in a while. I hope she’s found some quality beads.

  The monologue continues as the salesman brandishes product after product, distributing them through the rows of passengers. A portable sewing kit. A pack of neon orange circle stickers, the sort people use at garage sales. Notebooks with fake leather covers. Glitter body spray. A pair of those narrow wraparound glasses with prisms in the lenses, so everything you look at turns to rainbows.

  On impulse, I wave him over.

  “What would you like?” he asks in perfect English.

  “The glasses.” I dig through the pocket of my shorts for my easy-access cash. I haven’t been wearing my money belt. I pull out a wad of paper, but it’s not money—it’s our list of off-limits topics. Soaked. Nothing left but a gummy wad of wood pulp.

  “What language were you just speaking?” I ask the salesman as I search my other pocket.

  “Kriol. The national language of Belize.”

  “The national language isn’t English?”

  “English is our official language. But it isn’t Belizean.”

  “Oh.” I finally find some cash, and we swap.

  I put on my glasses and look at Rowan. He transforms into an expressionist painting. Rainbows bounce off his eyebrows. His hair shines in a halo of color.

  I count back the days we’ve traveled together. Tomorrow is Sunday. If I include Chichicastenango—I’d never count the airport; let’s erase that from the universe—it’s been eight days. A little over a week. According to Olivia’s older sister, college relationships count as double in dorm-time. That is, when both parties are living together in the dorms, a three-month relationship is really six months. If that’s true, how accelerated are travel relationships? Or in this case, travel friendships? They have to be similar—people colliding at warp speed, sharing breakfasts and bedrooms and secrets. So what’s a week, then? Three weeks? A month?

  No matter how I multiply, it’s no time at all.

  I stick my map in my sketchbook and shut it. Maybe when I get home, I’ll put maps up all over my bedroom walls like the guy in the Panajachel café—I’m sure my dad would approve. Actually, make that my dorm room walls. My boring dorm room, at my boring fallback college, where I major in something boring and make boring friends.

  The walls of art school dorms probably resemble Jackson Pollock paintings.

  I think back to what Rowan said about the monkey sanctuary: he’d take me sometime. He was joking, I’m sure. He knows I’m here only another ten days, and we’ll be on the island for most of them. He knows I’m supposed to attend college in the fall.

  We’ve never talked about that, though.

  I’ve definitely
never told him how uncertain I’m feeling. How I gave up on attending SCAA, even after I knew Toby wouldn’t be there. How I never mailed in my housing forms for state, so I might have screwed up my chances of attending any school at all. How I have no idea what’s waiting for me on the other end of this trip—a thought that terrifies me but, in a strange way, exhilarates me too. I haven’t told him much at all.

  I wonder how that affects my calculations.

  Outside, the storm is beginning to break. As the sun shifts in the clouds, the light coming through the windows makes Rowan shimmer. He’s almost unreal. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can hardly picture him. And yet when I open my eyes, here he is—sleeping beside me, with his forehead against the bus window. So close I can hear him breathe.

  The bus strikes a pothole. People curse, but Rowan doesn’t wake up.

  It reminds me of the time my dad forgot to take his insulin. You’d think he’d get one of those automated contraptions, but he’s too stubborn. He passed out with his eyes open. After giving him his insulin, with remarkable composure, my mom pressed his eyes shut with her palm, as if he were a corpse in the movies. While she called an ambulance, I just stared at his eyelids, waiting for them to spring open again. He was fine. And it was one of the most tender moments I’d ever seen between my parents. But for a second …

  My stomach knots up. It’s enough for me to tap Rowan’s shoulder. He jolts, like I’ve pulled him from a bad dream. “What? What is it?”

  “I just … I thought we were here.”

  He glances out the window. Nothing but miles of empty beach forest. “Here?”

  I shrug helplessly.

  “I know what you look like!” he announces, as if he were contemplating it the entire time he was napping. “You look like the blind guy from Star Trek.”

  “You’re just jealous,” I tell him, adjusting my glasses. “I now see the world in Technicolor.”

  15

  Day 10

  Belize City

  Rowan sits beside the taxi driver, a fat man who chomps jalapeño-flavored Pringles as he drives, periodically wiping his fingers on his seat. I sit in back with my head sticking out the window, until I nearly get decapitated by a stop sign.