Avoiding Prison & Other Noble Vacation Goals (13 page)

“Citrus fruit?” Dr. Guzmán asked after I had explained the nature of my visit.

“No, thank you. I'm not up to eating anything right now.”

“No, no—I mean what has been your contact with citrus fruit?”

My contact with citrus fruit? I had always thought oranges and lemons were the right kind of fruits to be hanging out with, but he was making them sound so dubious.

“I . . . eat them?” I said, hoping it was an acceptable response.

“Yes, yes, but do you peel them first?”

Apples, pears, peaches—those were the kinds of fruit you sometimes didn't peel. But citrus fruit? Who ate oranges without peeling them first?

“I haven't eaten any citrus peel, not that I'm aware of.”

“That's not my question. Have you been peeling citrus fruit?”

Of course I had—how did you eat an orange without peeling it? On second thought, come to think of it, in Costa Rica, the bags of oranges came with the fruit already peeled. Actually, I hadn't been peeling any oranges in Costa Rica.

“No lemons or grapefruit either?”

I thought back. There hadn't been any citrus fruit—unless you counted the innocuous-looking limes in Tegucigalpa whose peel I had used as a garnish for one of my mother's Christmas cakes.

Dr. Guzmán nodded accusingly and pointed to my left hand. “This is what happens when you peel citrus fruit in Central America.”

Oranges, grapefruits, and lemons had always seemed so benign to me before. I could only imagine the consequences of peeling something exotic like pomegranate.

“What is going to happen to me?” I needed to know.

“The rash will clear up on its own, though it may take a month or so. As for the diarrhea, it's merely a case of tourist's disease.”

A disease just for tourists? This sounded a bit xenophobic to me.

“It means you're not used to the bacteria in the food. Drink lots of water and control your food intake a little bit. You'll feel better in a few days.”

That was it. I was going to be just fine. My extremities weren't going to grow to mammoth proportions, no tapeworm inhabited my intestines, no parasite was going to start sucking the life out of my heart.

I paid the doctor his fee, the full price of six dollars since I didn't have Costa Rican medical insurance, and walked out to greet my waiting entourage, all fingernails and major appendages still in place.

The next few days, as my body slowly recovered, Michel's situation steadily worsened. He had gone to the bank every day in hopes of good news, but there was simply no information. In typical Latin American fashion, no one had any idea when the transfer would arrive or what the holdup was. Worse yet, I was going to have to be leaving in a few days if I wanted to make it back to my folks' in time for Christmas, which meant that when the transfer arrived, since it was in my name, it would be impossible for Michel to claim it. Torn between letting down my new lover or my family, I settled on a compromise.

“I want you to take this money,” I said to Michel, handing him a stack of twenties, the day before I was scheduled to leave.

“Oh my God, no, I can't.”

“Look, I have to get to my parents'. But with this, you can pick up your ID and have your mother send the money in your own name. You'll be fine.”

“Sure. Fine but without you.”

I didn't know what to say. I was going to miss him too, but he didn't understand that travel was just a game to me. It was the only place where I would never be faced with tough decisions. It was another reality that I mucked about in for a while, where I got to take rash (no pun intended) and juvenile actions—and then left without ever having to face the consequences.

As if sensing my thoughts, Michel gave me a halfhearted hug good-bye and that morning went off to Limón to claim his ID. It wasn't the last time I would see him—he'd be back that afternoon and I wouldn't leave until the next day, but it still felt so final.

I spent a grim morning with Jessica and company. She and Martiza showed up unexpectedly at the hotel, and discovering that I was alone (a state they regarded with the same suspicion as heroin), they swooped me up and dragged me off to their work. Their job consisted of getting corporate sponsorship for the Costa Rican Foundation for the Blind, something they did on a contract basis out of their own office, not too shabby for two girls who hadn't yet reached the American drinking age.

The last words I'd had with Michel had left me glum and not much in the mood for talk, but my companions were occupied in other things anyway. Jessica's boyfriend Olman had shown up and the two of them were absorbed in the task of making out in the room upstairs while Martiza read through a stack of papers on her desk, lighting one cigarette after another and occasionally passing one along to me.

I stared out the window of a rainy Costa Rican day, feeling guilty and missing Michel. Why did he have to complicate the lightheartedness I had worked so long to cultivate?

Unlike in my own country, where we defined the relationships between people on something logical—on a tangible real-life person named Kevin Bacon, in Latin America, lines were drawn on the basis of relatives who had been visited by the Virgin Mary. Just as I had never met Kevin Bacon personally, no one I came across in Costa Rica had actually seen the Mother of God, but everyone's cousin or cousin's cousin or Aunt Beatriz had definitely been privy to the experience.

This wasn't too peculiar, considering that this was a land of mystery and magic, where churches offering the word of God were much more ubiquitous than cable lines offering HBO to the people. This was a place where wishes were granted as a result of faith, and when Michel arrived at the hotel later and informed me of what had happened to him that day, I suddenly began to understand why Latin Americans were so obsessed with religion. Praying to a statue of a virgin to recover a lost passport was a lot more likely to bring results than relying on government organizations.

As usual, nothing had gone right for Michel. The Costa Rican officials had taken the money, but they'd given him a hard time for being an Arab and insisted on running an additional check before they'd give him his ID. Michel had no idea how long it would take. And this was the last night I was going to be able to spend with him.

“There's always the possibility that the transfer has arrived at the bank,” I wagered optimistically.

“You must be a religious woman,” Michel said sarcastically. “Because what you're speaking of would be a miracle.”

Nevertheless, I convinced him to at least give it a shot and both of us squeezed through the doors at the last minute just as the guard was closing up for the evening. From the lobby of the enormous Bank of Costa Rica, we ran up the escalators to the third floor, and raced through the halls in the direction of the international transfer department.

A grumpy woman anxious to go home entered the number of the transfer into the computer.

“What is the country of origin?” she requested.

“Kuwait.”

“Hmmm. No, I don't see anything from Kuwait.”

“Don't you have
any
information?” I pleaded.

“The computer only shows me what transfers have arrived. I can only tell you whether or not your money is here. It isn't.”

“How much longer should it take? It's already been a week.”

“Ten days is the usual time. Though we're closing tomorrow for the holidays. We'll reopen the day after New Year.”

January 2 was more than a week away. I couldn't believe it. The bank was closing for nearly ten days.

Both of us silent on the walk back to the hotel, I was reminded of what had happened to me in Cuba, how I had nearly run out of cash with no access to any of the funds I had in the United States. If it hadn't been for Alberto and Mercedes, who knew what would have happened to me there? Alberto had found me a cheap place to stay and Mercedes had offered me cash. Of course, I didn't accept the money, but the mere idea that she suggested it had deeply touched me—it had taken her twenty years to save seventy lousy dollars, yet she had been willing to relinquish a quarter of it to an American tourist she'd known for just a week.

Here I was, on the other side of the fence, completely able to help someone out of a bad situation. If nothing else, I owed it to Mercedes.

“I'll call my parents and tell them I can't make it.”

“You're kidding!”

“Merry Christmas, Michel.”

It was a grim December 25. This was the first time in six years that I had missed Christmas at my parents', and the brief phone call I'd made to my dad in Honduras hadn't gone very well. Our short chat hadn't been long enough to explain everything; there had just been enough time for me to note the disappointment in his voice.

Frankly, I wasn't any happier about the situation. I was as devastated as a girl being deprived of something like—well, like Christmas. Granted, in Honduras, it wouldn't have been a traditional holiday with cranberries and turkeys and a tree (this year, instead of fighting with pine branches, my parents had given up and just decorated the ficus plant), but it was still the only time of year everyone in my nomadic family got together. I was going to completely miss seeing my sisters this year.

Now I was in a nearly deserted city, eating lunch in the only place open, an overpriced tourist restaurant famous for its extra-large quantities, which meant an even bigger serving of tasteless black beans and rice.

Sensing my misery, Michel came up with a suggestion. “Look, we'll head out of here tomorrow. If you're committed to sticking around for another week, we might as well have some fun. Let's get out of this city and go to the beach.”

It was a wonderful idea. I hadn't yet seen anything of Costa Rica and the thought of whiling away a week on the sands of the Caribbean was a lot more appealing than hanging around the smoggy, thief-infested pandemonium of San José. Finally, I'd make it to the ocean.

Manzanillo was a quaint seaside location filled with seagulls, tropical breezes, and tranquil villagers, where the most stressful moment of the day was watching the sun rise through the languid fronds of beachside palms. The afternoons were lazy, the nights loud with Afro-Caribbean music, and the food a savory blend of seafood, coconut milk, and exotic spices. It was the kind of place that we were nowhere near at the moment.

To get to Manzanillo, you first had to pass through Limón, a grimy and rambunctious Caribbean port town, where the occasional roaming sailor was the most reputable person you were likely to run into. Those native to this rundown hellhole were usually drunk and disheveled, on drugs, or simply up to no good. It was the place Michel had initially been robbed of his twenty-five-thousand-dollar check and hoping that thieves were like lightning (not in terms of speed, but rather that they wouldn't strike the same place twice), I had surreptitiously slipped Michel the bulk of my money for safe-keeping.

On the nerve-racking walk to the bus station where we planned to purchase our tickets to Manzanillo, I repressed the urge to look behind me, but I couldn't help but play out the worst in my mind: some unsavory character holding us up at gunpoint, demanding our money, and tossing us into his vehicle. Of course, this was just a fantasy. Reality was, it would take
five
men to grab Michel at gunpoint and toss him into their vehicle.

It all happened so fast that I didn't have time to comprehend what was occurring. One minute we were just steps away from the bus station and the next we were surrounded by five bulky guys who encircled Michel, told him not to make a scene, and forced him into the back of their pickup. I simply stood there dumbfounded, not understanding, until one of the men grabbed my arm and reassured me, “Don't worry. We're from the police.”

This did not make me feel especially better. But before I had time to ask any questions, they were gone—and they had taken Michel along with them.

I found myself suddenly alone in Limón, a place whose name in Spanish means “lemon,” and I'd already learned how much damage that particular fruit could cause. I was completely lost, far away from home, and in a treacherous town where men disappeared faster than one-night stands. What the hell was I supposed to do?

Suspecting that this sort of problem was a little beyond the scope of either of my travel guides, I entered the nearest café, ordered a papaya smoothie, and sat down for a smoke and a long think.

What were my options? First of all, I could always return to Honduras. I'd hop on a bus to San José and head back to Tegucigalpa. A good plan—but Michel had most of my money. Not only that, because he was such a damn gentleman, he'd been holding my suitcase, and the cops had taken it along with them. This was definitely the last time I was going to let a man carry my bag for me! I needed my cash and my clothes—and frankly, I needed to figure out what was going on. Unable to come up with a better alternative, I realized there was only one thing I could do: I was going to have to find him.

I walked up to the counter to pay for my drink and asked the woman at the cash register how to get to the police station. I could tell by her expression that this was not the question she was expecting.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

I did my best to force a smile and nod. Realizing she wasn't going to get an explanation out of me, the cashier reluctantly wrote down the directions.

I wandered out of the restaurant nervous and disoriented. I wanted to take a cab, but I knew the tiny quantity of money that still remained in my pocket wouldn't stretch that far. I was going to have to walk, something that had been bad enough at Michel's side and was worse now that I was a woman facing the streets alone.

The town was like the bad parts of San José only much smaller and rowdier. I tried to avoid a passing child determined to sell me a pack of gum when a man stumbled out of a bar and bumped into me, shouting something unintelligible to me in pigeon English. I ignored the proposition or the insult—I wasn't sure which—and kept moving, guided by my crude directions. I turned the corner and the next street was nearly identical: one-room concrete buildings converted into bars, restaurants, or tiny markets.