Wanderlove (3 page)

The beautiful, beautiful backpacker girls, dressed in clothes that fit exactly wrong: baggy drawstring pants with muddy threads around the ankles, skirts with patches and stripes, droopy shirts displaying wing bones and the ribs on top of their chests. Careless hair and faces so tanned the whites of their eyes looked shocking.

And the backpacker boys. They wore tattered shorts beneath embroidered shirts open at the neck or plaid button-down work shirts, so perfect out of context. Shadowy chins and shaved heads, or hair gone feral. Hiking shoes, crusty Chuck Taylors, or leather sandals flaunting unabashedly manly toes.

My fingers ached to sketch them. Their straps and patterns. Their creases and tatters, beards and bra straps. The way they stood, posed,
leaned
. Sometimes with galaxy-sized backpacks and smaller daypacks, multiple Mayan totes slung over their shoulders. Everything they needed fastened to their bodies while they explored remarkable places.

Unlike me, they’ve learned the
right
way to travel. But where? How?

Who are these people?

Even though I attended a liberal Southern California high school, I’ve never seen anyone like the backpackers. Closest were the surf kids who slouched into class late with salt-crusted hair. But the surfers I know care only for waves. These backpackers strolled down Antigua’s streets with Pulitzer prize–winning novels and Spanish textbooks under their arms. At cafés, I overheard them discussing foreign film and politics while sipping espressos—or, considering what we’d been served at breakfast, Nescafé served in espresso cups.

They danced among the crowds of tiny Guatemalans, giving coins to children, buying fruit from carts and using pocket knives to peel it.

But when they passed my tour group, they didn’t glance our way.

Not at Marcy, not at Dan, not at my personal barnacle, Glenna Heron, who loves beads a little
too
much, and definitely not at me. I’ve never been the most gorgeous girl, and certainly not the most captivating. But until yesterday, I’d never felt completely overlooked.

It was probably a good thing, though. Because even if the backpackers could forgive my quick-dry khaki capris (oh God, they were
pink
this time) and clompy horseshoes, I don’t doubt they could see right inside my brain.

Which still resents my parents.

Which is still filled with thoughts of Toby Kelsey.

And, in all likelihood, is still shaped like a square.

Dan swivels in front of me, paging through a guidebook.

“Let me tell you about Chichicastenango.” Marcy hushes us, even though no one’s talking.

“The native market takes place twice a week. It’s one of the largest outdoor bazaars in the Americas. The town’s name means ‘Place of Nettles’—”

“Why nettles?” I ask.

He glances at his guidebook, looking befuddled. “I don’t see . . .”

“Never mind.”

“Among the popular sights in Chichicastenango is the Church of Santo Tomás, built atop the remains of a Mayan ruin. The church reflects a spiritual marriage of Catholic and Mayan religions . . .”

I tune him out. He’s like every history teacher I’ve ever had—reducing the colors of the past to a series of bullet points.

At long last, Marcy and Dan slide open the door to the van. I slip my straw bag over my shoulder, wedge my sketchbook into the back pocket of my shorts, and climb out. As soon as I round the corner, the market comes into view.

And—
wow.

From the hill where we stand, it unfolds like a Mayan blanket: a chaos of market stalls stretching as far as I can see.

People flow along the tilted streets, dressed in indigenous clothing of clashing prints and patterns. An old man in a cowboy hat staggers past, bent double, carrying a pile of quilts.

Cooking smoke distorts the air. Stray dogs bark; babies squall.

I smell incense, hot grease, the smoke of firecrackers.

It’s claustrophobic. Overwhelming.

And I want nothing more in the entire universe than to dive head first into the kaleidoscope of colors, to let them whirl around me until I become a fractal of light.
This
will be an experience worth writing home about. Worth my biggest canvas, if I was still painting. I pull my camera from my bag and take a picture, then a second, a third.

“Seems kind of crowded,” Glenna remarks.

She looks traumatized. In fact, the entire Tourist Brigade looks traumatized, and they haven’t even entered the market yet. To my left, Dan’s violating a map with his index finger.

Poke, poke.
Marcy’s talking about the dangers of pickpockets, stray cats and leprosy. Forget being a fractal of light—I’m already part of a gaggle of ducklings. This is going to be worse than our tour of Antigua. How can I touch the ice-blue lakes if Marcy’s dragging me along by the hand?

“I’m going off on my own!”

The other Vagabonds stare at me, as shocked by my declaration as I am. I didn’t mean to yell, but there you go. Marcy peers at me with her reptilian eyes. “That’s not safe, and you know it.”

I turn to Dan. “What time did you say we’re leaving?

Three?”

Scandalized, he nods.

“I’ll see you back at the bus at three, then.” And I’m off.

I feel like a fugitive as I dart through the aisles of the marketplace, clutching my bag against my chest, hopping, reeling, gritting my teeth to protect my brain from the noise. The market’s filled with angles, which means I’m probably running in hexagons, but I don’t slow until both my sides feel speared. Finally, I stop and glance around, panting.

I’ve done it. I’m beautifully lost.

In that exact moment, my eyes lock on a retreating back.

It’s undeniably familiar—the bouncy gait, the rough white shirt. The black ponytail.

I stand on my toes, attempting to peer over the crowd.

But it’s too massive. The vendors surge around me, shouting, parading their wares, which include everything imaginable: splintery barrels of beans, live birds in handmade cages, lacy panties and bras, creepy animal masks, handcrafted Mayan souvenirs made of jade, yarn, mahogany. I spy disorientated tourists, Central American sightseers, and the ever-present twentysomething backpackers, though the Mayans outnumber the visitors ten or twenty to one.

I’m so drunk with the pandemonium I forget about the ponytail guy. My face begins to ache. I realize I’m grinning.

How long has it been? I can’t remember.

I hold out my camera at arm’s length, aim it at myself, and snap a photo.

When I turn around, I see Dan’s church. It rises above the marketplace like a hulking angel, perched on a set of ancient steps covered in flowers. Incense smoke billows from smoldering sticks. I intend to approach it, but every few steps I’m distracted.

Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to browse without buying. Anything I touch—or even glance at too long—is seized by the shopkeeper and shaken out, displayed.

“You like?”

Even when I say no,
lo siento,
the vendors override me with a price. Sensing my reluctance, they drop it by half, two-thirds. When I finally pull myself away, they keep calling to me, plaintively, shaving the prices until I feel so besieged and guilty I go back and make some silly purchase, and we both feel swindled.

Crap I Am Shamed Into Buying

Terra-cotta bird whistle

Orange apron

Sticky tamarind candy I can’t get off my
fingers

Wooden flute

Chicken-shaped pot holder with pinto bean
for eye

At one point, I come across a row of butcher stalls, where raw chickens, hams, and unidentifiable hunks of meat dangle from hooks. The air dances with flies. A few vendors unenthusiastically wave newspapers at them. I pass what looks like a pile of pink masks and step closer. They’re faces.

Deflated pig faces.

I snap a photo.

When I emerge from the meat market, I nearly bump into Dan. He’s haggling with a shopkeeper, who looks about ten years old. “No, I said
less
grand
,” I hear him bark, as if it’s the volume of his words that prevents understanding.

I hurry around the corner, where I notice a tiny old man standing apart from the fray. His table is stacked with paintings.

I drift over and pick up the first one I see: a lake, surrounded by volcanoes. It looks amateur, like a child painted it. The volcanoes are flat blue cones. Hairline waves upset the surface of the water, probably scratched in with a toothpick.

A bright white boat hovers in the very center. Bad composition. Plus, the perspective is way off. I flip through the other paintings, but I keep coming back to the lake. Finally, I hold it up to the old man, who’s missing all his teeth.

“Where is this?
Donde?
”

“Atitlán.”

I run my finger along the frayed canvas.
“Cuánto cuesta?”
Pathetically, it’s one of the few Spanish phrases I remember. Even though my grandfather on my dad’s side is from Spain, I thought being twice removed from my heritage released me from linguistic obligations. Already I’ve forgotten most of what I learned during my two required years of high school Spanish.

“Five dollar U.S.,” the old man says.

All I have left is quetzales, the Guatemalan currency, which is something like six or eight to a dollar. I try to calculate the exchange rate as I reach for my straw bag.

It’s gone.

I clap my hands to my face. “Oh,
shit,
” I say, my voice muffled by my fingers. I turn to the old man. “My bag! It was right here. Did you see anyone take it?” The old man shrugs. Does he not understand? I point at my shoulder, miming the strap of a bag. He shakes his head.

Thank God my sketchbook’s in my back pocket—I pat it just to check. What do I do now? Call the police? Damn these people! I was actually starting to like this country.

“It’s gone.”

I whirl around.

It’s the ponytailed backpacker boy. He’s wearing a white work shirt with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, revealing an elaborate dragon tattoo on his super-tanned right forearm. His pants are cut off below the knee, and he’s got forty or fifty string bracelets stacked partway up his left calf. His eyes are dark blue. He’s not smiling, but the threat is there. In fact, he looks almost amused.

I try not to feel offended by his expression, because I need his help. “I set it down just thirty seconds ago. Whoever took it has got to be nearby. If we hurry, we can—” I shut up as he grabs my shoulder. Is he trying to abduct me? He leads me around the corner, where the jumble of stalls opens into a courtyard teeming with people. “So who was it?” My shoulders sag. “What . . . What about the police?”

“Was your passport in your bag?”

“Of course not—I have a money belt.”

“What about your credit cards? Anything like that?”

“Money belt.”

“Then what’s in your bag that’s so important?”

“My camera! And some snacks and things.” I know better than to mention the terra-cotta bird whistle. “But it was a really nice camera. . . .”

He shakes his head. “The police won’t be interested. They might file a report, if you beg. But come on. They’ve got more important things to deal with than a tourist who lost her
camera
.”

I gape at him for a second. Then I turn and walk away.

“Hey, wait up.” He falls into step beside me.

“That was mean,” I say.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“How do you know I’m not a photographer? Or an artist?”

“Are you an artist?”

“
No
,” I reply a little too loudly.

He looks taken aback.

“I mean no, I’m not an artist,” I continue, tugging my shirt over the sketchbook in my pocket. “But you didn’t know that.

And just because I’m part of a stuffy tour group doesn’t mean I’m really a
part
of them, okay? It was a mistake—I thought I was signing up for something else. And now I’m stuck with them for three weeks, seeing only what they want me to see, and there’s nothing I can do. Today’s the first time I’ve gotten a moment to myself.”

“I see.”

“You see,” I repeat.

“Well, I believe you, so now I see it. Believing is seeing, right?”

Before I can correct him, he catches my arm. “Hey, do you smell that?”

“Huh?”

“Come with me.”

He leads me to a booth where five barefoot women are making tortillas. First they reach their floured hands into a plastic tub filled with dough, pinch off a hunk, and roll it into a ball. Next they slap the ball from hand to hand, beating it flat. Then they toss it onto a griddle suspended over an open flame.

A tortilla dangles in front of my face. “Be careful,” he says.

“It’s hot.”

I hesitate, remembering what happened yesterday in Antigua. While the rest of my tour group browsed market stalls, I bought a chicken tamale from a street vendor. Before I could unwrap it from its banana leaf, Marcy velociraptored up behind me and snatched it from my hand.

“Rule number one,” she said, mashing the tamale into a blob of corn flour. “Unless you want to be hunched in the bathroom for three hours, exploding from both ends, don’t buy anything from street vendors. Or from pushcarts. Or from roadside markets. You can’t afford to be naïve—this isn’t the first world, you know. Standards of cleanliness are much different here.”

Global Vagabonds Rules for Third-World Travel

Don’t shake hands with the locals.

Don’t drink the water.

Don’t touch your face after touching the
water.

Don’t eat street cart tamales, or buy street
cart tamales, or approach street carts,
or even make eye contact with street
cart vendors.

If any water gets in your mouth while you
shower, gargle with hand sanitizer.