uno mas

We embarked on our greatest endeavor yet by venturing off the grid and beyond the roads to Punta Mona, an organic sustainable farm far from any town. We pilled our gear in the broad boat and set off, speeding over the small waves, past the sweeping shoreline of islands and inlets, cliffs, caves and crevices overflowing with garbled jungle vines.

We pulled up onto the sand and stepped uncertainly out, just before a small dilapidated shack belonging to Patty, the one remaining native, a shriveled grey haired man with an ardent love of baseball and cryptic psychic powers. We sauntered past his shed and up to the main house, a large open kitchen where we met the first members of our future jungle family. Molly was a jolly woman with huge dreads draped in fabric, who gave us a simple tour of the paradise called Punta Mona. She guided us through the dirt paths and plucked samples of cranberry hibiscus off of large maroon brush for us to taste. As we roamed the fertile grounds and swam in the warm waters, Punta Mona seemed a fantasy, a dream, a garden of eden with elves to tend it. The conch called us to dinner its low horn, and we held hands in a circle of appreciation for life. The food was simple but fantastic, the work of the sun, the earth and our new companions. We savored every bite, and scraped the scraps into a bucket for the chickens.

After dinner we headed to the beach, where we stripped off our dirty clothes and ran into the warm water. The waves glowed a light green as I spun slowly around, surveying the magic unfold. Each move created a surge of glowing glitter, fireflies circling us, mimicking our movements, transferring sound and swirl into liquid light. A local told us it was reflections of the stars, as though their bodies were bound by water while their souls soared freely through the sky. He said the full moon made them stronger, brighter, as if searching for her fallen children. We rinsed in the shower and returned to our nest, sending goodnight wishes to the nearest Golden Orb spider, who we named Nectar. We lay down under our mosquito nests, listening to the rat run by and the howler monkeys battle the roosters for control of the night.

The next day the fantasy became infused with reality. After a sleepless night, I rose to humid rain, and found my way to the bathroom, a muddy hole that fed the compost pile, where you shit standing up and cover your droppings with dried leaves. After a breakfast of porage we began to work, sweeping the screen windows from the inside for fear of the large but docile spiders that guarded each corner, mending mosquito nests with stitches that joined the gaping wounds of these mangled ghosts, pumping water as the UV filter failed in the low light. My body ached and I aided it after lunch, slipping into a clay pit of pond scum and covering my skin with rich grey blue scoops from the depths of the stagnant cesspool. We covered our brown surfaces completely and baked in the returning sun, blending into the black beach.

As the days passed by I became comfortable in the wilderness, a mudluscious puddle wonderful womyn, caked in earth and at harmony with the spiders and bats. I appreciated each meal that we prepared. One night a local caught a red snapper with nothing but a hook and a spool of line. I watched it take its last gallant breath, and we fried it fresh, the most flavorful morsel my taste buds have known. We painted a mural of the tree next to the mud pit, using our handprints as leaves and hoping that others would follow our footsteps. That next night we had a pipa party— an expedition to find, capture, and consume the freshest virgin coconuts. I used my machete to crack the thick crust and sipped the sweet juices that poured down my neck. We walked back along the beach, watching the lightning explode over clouds on the horizon.

We rose early, just after the peach rays had escaped the calm the waters, and began to warm the green land. We paddled out while it was still cool, our oars dipping quietly into the shallow waters, as our kayaks glided out across the shallow reef. I watched the translucent jellyfish flow by, nearing the island before me. The crabs scuttle across the rocks, and the pelicans watch from above me. The inlets invite further exploration but the promise of porridge drives me on. I circled the island, watching the open ocean beyond, and almost hoping for a stray wave to carry me out, but returned to shore and dragged my craft into the shed by Patty´s shack, hoping to avoid any ominous interaction.

My soul wants to stay but my body needs to leave. Over four hundred bites cover every patch of skin, and drive me to behave as a crack addict, scratching constantly while my jungle momma reprimands me. The jungle fever has left me unscathed but jungle rot hardens my skin and spreads in strange conditions. I can still taste the last shot of guaro, and the cranberry hibiscus that chased it as we pull away on Paco´s boat. My mouth is dry but my eyes sting with seawater and I blow one last kiss. I feel truly blessed to have found a home with so many beautiful souls, but I am still searching for something intangible that eludes me constantly. Still, every interaction awakens a part of me, as if fate desires that I be influenced by each connection. It seems the possibility for change is inherent within my heart, awaiting the catalyst.