smooth mounds. Patches of leaves and grass and dark soil form a haphazard pattern, like scraps of velvet and suede and silk stitched together. White houses with tiled roofs spread in clusters across the hillsides. I spot a candy-pink house at the turnoff, which Gaby described as a landmark. She instructed us to walk up the hill for a kilometer or two, then turn left toward the houses.
“Let’s go,” I say to Wendell, slinging my pack over my shoulder. It’s heavy with fruit I picked up at the market to offer the locals as gifts. He follows me, bumping into people and saying
“perdón, perdón”
with his American accent. I’ll have to teach him to roll his R’s sometime.
We head uphill on the muddy road flecked with worn stones, bits of grass poking through here and there. The rain falls in tiny droplets, cold and silver, carrying the smell of wet earth. I whip out my hooded emerald cloak from Morocco and wrap it around my shoulders.
Through the mist, a woman in a black shawl passes, carrying a bundle of firewood on her back, followed by two men, water dripping from the edges of their hats. I say good morning in Quichua, as Gaby taught me.
“Alli punlla.”
“Alli punlla,”
they answer, surprised.
After they pass, Wendell makes a low whistle. “How many languages do you speak, Zeeta?”
“Over a dozen, but only well enough for pleasantries. Deep discussions about politics and the universe and long-lost fathers? Maybe seven.”
“You scare me,” he says.
He’s not the first guy to say that. I’ve given up on trying to figure out exactly what they’re scared of and how seriously they mean it. In every country we’ve lived in, boys my age—and girls, too, for that matter—have hung out with me because I’m exotic. Sometimes they confess their deep, dark secrets (which I promptly record in my notebook), but only because I’m an outsider and won’t judge them. And I’m always leaving again soon anyway. Most kids keep a friendly distance, as though I’m a fascinating yet unpredictable animal. Certain older people, like Gaby, seem to take it all in stride, and embrace me like a temporary granddaughter or niece.
We cross old, weed-filled train tracks, and Wendell whips out his camera and snaps a picture. “Perspective shots turn out great.” He turns to me, clicks, and carefully tucks the camera back inside his shirt. I wonder what his sort-of-ex-girlfriendwill say when she sees me in his pictures. I wonder what he’ll say about me.
Oh, she’s just this girl I’ll never see again. Just my translator
.
I’ve had my flings with tourist boys. The first one was when I was thirteen, in Brazil, and spent a blissful week body-boarding and holding hands with adorable French Olivier. Last year, on Phi Phi Island, I met an Australian, Patrick, with ice-blue eyes and freckles. For two weeks, we surfed and snorkeled and swam and kissed and went on long walks. Both times, for months afterward, I wrote them e-mails and listened to our music and mooned over their pictures and reread their notebook pages. Then their e-mails stopped. After the Australian, I finally faced the truth. For them, I was nothing more than a vacation-girl hookup, an exciting break from real life.
But this
is
my real life, this endless vacation.
I glance at Wendell. His lips are tender and curved like a Buddha’s lotus-flower mouth, and purplish-blue in the cold. I will not be his fling. Especially knowing he’s in love with a sort-of-ex-girlfriend.
Kids’ voices drift toward us, muffled through the damp air, squeals and laughter and shouts. Through the fog, I can just make out three girls running from a house to a pigpen and back again, playing chase. In their paths, chickens squawk as the kids barrel through.
I stride up to the girls. They look about four, six, and nine years old. The oldest one’s wearing a white embroideredblouse, gold beads, a cardigan, and an
anaco—
a straight, wraparound skirt—while the littler ones
“Let’s go,” I say to Wendell, slinging my pack over my shoulder. It’s heavy with fruit I picked up at the market to offer the locals as gifts. He follows me, bumping into people and saying
“perdón, perdón”
with his American accent. I’ll have to teach him to roll his R’s sometime.
We head uphill on the muddy road flecked with worn stones, bits of grass poking through here and there. The rain falls in tiny droplets, cold and silver, carrying the smell of wet earth. I whip out my hooded emerald cloak from Morocco and wrap it around my shoulders.
Through the mist, a woman in a black shawl passes, carrying a bundle of firewood on her back, followed by two men, water dripping from the edges of their hats. I say good morning in Quichua, as Gaby taught me.
“Alli punlla.”
“Alli punlla,”
they answer, surprised.
After they pass, Wendell makes a low whistle. “How many languages do you speak, Zeeta?”
“Over a dozen, but only well enough for pleasantries. Deep discussions about politics and the universe and long-lost fathers? Maybe seven.”
“You scare me,” he says.
He’s not the first guy to say that. I’ve given up on trying to figure out exactly what they’re scared of and how seriously they mean it. In every country we’ve lived in, boys my age—and girls, too, for that matter—have hung out with me because I’m exotic. Sometimes they confess their deep, dark secrets (which I promptly record in my notebook), but only because I’m an outsider and won’t judge them. And I’m always leaving again soon anyway. Most kids keep a friendly distance, as though I’m a fascinating yet unpredictable animal. Certain older people, like Gaby, seem to take it all in stride, and embrace me like a temporary granddaughter or niece.
We cross old, weed-filled train tracks, and Wendell whips out his camera and snaps a picture. “Perspective shots turn out great.” He turns to me, clicks, and carefully tucks the camera back inside his shirt. I wonder what his sort-of-ex-girlfriendwill say when she sees me in his pictures. I wonder what he’ll say about me.
Oh, she’s just this girl I’ll never see again. Just my translator
.
I’ve had my flings with tourist boys. The first one was when I was thirteen, in Brazil, and spent a blissful week body-boarding and holding hands with adorable French Olivier. Last year, on Phi Phi Island, I met an Australian, Patrick, with ice-blue eyes and freckles. For two weeks, we surfed and snorkeled and swam and kissed and went on long walks. Both times, for months afterward, I wrote them e-mails and listened to our music and mooned over their pictures and reread their notebook pages. Then their e-mails stopped. After the Australian, I finally faced the truth. For them, I was nothing more than a vacation-girl hookup, an exciting break from real life.
But this
is
my real life, this endless vacation.
I glance at Wendell. His lips are tender and curved like a Buddha’s lotus-flower mouth, and purplish-blue in the cold. I will not be his fling. Especially knowing he’s in love with a sort-of-ex-girlfriend.
Kids’ voices drift toward us, muffled through the damp air, squeals and laughter and shouts. Through the fog, I can just make out three girls running from a house to a pigpen and back again, playing chase. In their paths, chickens squawk as the kids barrel through.
I stride up to the girls. They look about four, six, and nine years old. The oldest one’s wearing a white embroideredblouse, gold beads, a cardigan, and an
anaco—
a straight, wraparound skirt—while the littler ones
Similar Books
