My eyes shoot open as the crackling of plastic bags tears me
out of my doze. I stare into the darkness. I can feel the grime of dried sweat
and dirt on my legs and back. I’m wearing only a thin pair of underwear that
I’ve reserved for sleeping. I resist the urge to reach down and dig my nails
into the red dots covering my ankles. The bag rustles again.
I gently pry my arm from my sticky side and reach across my
body to feel for a light. I find it next to my head, and the thin sheet
protecting my sleeping bag slips off my left shoulder as I sit and pull the
strap of the light around my head.
With a click I turn it on, blinking into the 6x6 tent that
is supposed to be my home for the next month. From southern Argentina, I’ve
flown on four planes, taken three buses and many taxis, stayed several
sleepless nights in noisy hostels, and hiked up a long, muddy trail in the dark
with two large packs to arrive at this small jungle camp outside of Santo
Domingo, Ecuador. Following the cloud-nine feeling of our successful Mocho
jump, Chad received word of a work contract. He left abruptly from
Argentina, leaving me at the airport in El Calafate leaning against a trolley
of gear and minimal clothing essentials, holding back tears. I enjoy being on my own, but our time in Patagonia has deepened our connection, and I know I'll miss laying in bed at night next to the man I love. It took me
three days of internet research in Calafate to decide on the camp, which
advertized a very idealistic Spanish-speaking volunteer experience including
aid with the upcoming cacao harvest and expansion of the bamboo cabana. I
communicated briefly with the owner over email before finalizing last-minute
plane tickets.
I peer around the tent, the light on my head illuminating all of my current
possessions, strewn in an unrecognizably organized fashion about the tent. The
jungle hums and whistles with life. A tiny yip from one of the 3-week-old
puppies sleeping in the dirt beneath the lofted tent platform joins in the chorus.
My arm shoots out, snatching the bag of toiletries, and a
cockroach bolts for cover beneath my thermarest. I’m on him and I strike out
but he’s moving fast. I corner him beneath the useless rain jacket that’s been
shoved into the tent’s crevasses. I’ve
got you now. I ready my striking hand and tear away the jacket with the
other. I reveal dark tarp and nothing more. Impossible.
I shake the jacket, lifting all my possessions from the tent floor one by one
in desperation. I rake my nails over my ankles. I focus the light on my left
forearm and inspect the almost heart-shaped opening from a 5-day-old dog bite. The
exposed fat layer is fleshy and fresh from covering it during the day to keep
the bugs out, and it’s just begun to crust over around the edges.
I situate the sheet over my sleeping bag and toss it
around my legs like a taco. I pull it up over one shoulder as I lay back down.
Reluctantly I click the headlamp off and return it to its place beside my head.
The girl from Holland stirs in her sleeping back in the tent nearby, and I
wonder if she has accepted the cockroaches like she has accepted her volcanic
skin – sides, butt, and even her eyelids coated with bites despite her constant
head-to-toe garments. As I gaze into black, a gentle sound of water droplets spattering
off the bamboo roof chimes into the jungle hymn.
