And then there was the issue of moving from sleep to waking, selecting the appropriate attire without parading around as God and all of nature had intended. Paul managed to pull on a pair of shorts and wriggle a T-shirt over his head before emerging to introduce himself to the German couple who had farted unself-consciously as the morning light crept in, and the group of cheery Spaniards sitting on the steps smoking cigarettes. Beth put on her quick-dry pants in a supine position but had to stand to do up the zipper. She ran her hands over her abdomen as had become habit. As if rubbing Aladdin’s lamp, she caressed the pouch of flesh above her belly button. She looked up because she thought she could feel Miguel watching her across the expanse of swamp that separated the sleeping shelter and the dining area, peering out toward her, silhouetted against the mosquito netting like a shadow puppet. Perhaps they all appeared this way, funny outlines backlit by their particular cultures trampling their way through the jungle, laughing and drinking around the slab of a wooden table, starting comically at all the same sights — the tarantulas waving their chubby arms, the sloths hanging like overstuffed handbags from the branches of ancient trees. Watching Miguel watch her, she was overcome by modesty; she had not yet thought to put on a shirt, and she could feel sweat beginning to accrue underneath her breasts. She reached for her bra.
It had been concluded that there was nothing technically wrong with either of them. At first Paul had scoffed, said something about natural selection, overpopulation, all for the best, and she had felt an odd pull in her gut, as if one of her arteries had gone spelunking in the region of her uterus. They had walked for two hours in High Park after the third specialist gave his verdict. It was February, the temperature was sub-zero, and they had to dodge Canada geese strutting like cops along the path. They did not speak; although the words were there, their footsteps over the snow and ice told a more complete, forlorn story. They wore parkas and Thinsulate accessories, but the wind blew straight through them. Once they had circled the park four times, Paul said, “Chicken breasts for dinner?” and Beth nodded, veering toward Bloor Street.
Beth made her way closer still to the water’s edge and began creeping along, stepping over boulders and small eddies of water. If she squinted she could almost envision it, and it took a whole concerted face scrunch to make it real. But the greenery here, for the most part, belonged along the edges of a golf course. And although the humidity approximated the freighted air of the jungle, it also brought with it an oppression unique to the lands that bordered Lake Ontario. She could hear Paul in the brush behind her and was flung back to Cuyabeno — that noisiness of humans pushing their way through chummy, crowded plants.
On the second Wednesday of the trip, the group had traveled in tiny, tippy, handmade canoes to the opposite shore, 300 meters downstream. On the way they witnessed pink river wraiths — dolphins cresting in the calm, fresh waters.
“We will visit one of my friends,” Miguel announced cryptically.
They disembarked on a small beach where sandbugs chomped at their exposed flesh. Through it all, Miguel remained serene in his orange flip-flops, smiling as they slapped at their skin, scrambling for repellent. When they looked up, sweating, he was already waving a walking stick up ahead.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Beth said to Paul. “I wonder where his friend lives. I wonder what he does in here.”
“I imagine he lives his life, Beth. Just with different dining room furniture.” Paul did not react well to bug bites; his legs were covered in loonie-sized pink welts. “Besides,” he said, pointing up ahead, “I’m not sure Miguel knows where he’s going. Perhaps he is not as canny with a compass as your coureur de bois, eh?”
Beth searched for Miguel and found him wandering over a small patch of land, stopping to make peculiar bird calls, his hands cupped up near his lips. “He’s signalling,” she told Paul. “We don’t always have to resort to cell phones.”
And sure enough, within minutes, a three-tiered whistle call came sailing back. Miguel began running over the log- and mulch-strewn ground, bounding over obstacles and jumping to high-five low-hanging palm leaves.
“He expects us to follow when he’s carrying on like that?” Paul said.
But they did follow him; they had no choice. There were times when they lost sight of Miguel altogether and the two of them paused, turned to each other, fully grown Hansel and Gretel searching for signs of their own selves, the crumbs that signal a trail of existence. If not for the other members of their band, who came stumbling through the ground cover with their digital cameras outstretched, they might have believed themselves to be truly abandoned and alone.
“C’mon,” Miguel finally called to them. “We’re almost there.”
And he was right. A small settlement presented itself in a long narrow clearing amidst a profusion of what must have been corn stalks.
“Meet my friend,” said Miguel, and waved his hand toward a woman tending fire in a large pit circumscribed by stones. The woman straightened for an instant to pull her long black hair back from her face and over one shoulder. She wore grimy white shorts and a baggy red tank top over a pink camisole. No bra, Beth noticed. How wonderful not to have to worry.
Miguel sat them down on a log and told them that his friend would now demonstrate a traditional recipe. The woman bent to retrieve what looked like a turnip from a large pot near her feet and shred it into a wooden bowl. A kitten sprung from behind the log with an angry oversized rooster in hot pursuit. Then a mongrel dog roused itself from behind a post and began to chase the rooster. The assembled group watched the kitten, rooster, and dog as they circled the woman’s cooking shelter. Then they sat and observed the woman shred her root vegetable. After about fifteen minutes, a fourteen-year-old girl with an infant straddling one hip came striding, barefoot, from between the corn stalks. She smiled at Beth, who smiled back. When the girl began walking away, toward the river, Beth rose to follow.
“Beth,” said Paul. “No.”
Beth patted Paul on the shoulder. “I’m all right,” she said. “I’d just like to know her name.”
Beth followed the girl into another small clearing. “Hello,” she called out. “I’m Beth.” She patted both hands against her chest and stepped closer to the girl, who was still smiling, her head cocked to one side coquettishly.
“Juana,” said the girl. “Me llamo Juana.”
“Encantada,” said Beth, and for a moment the two simply stood staring. It was a moment that opened up like a hard coconut cleft in half to reveal its white tender meat.
Then Beth pointed to the baby, whose round brown eyes had pivoted toward her. “And what is the baby’s name?” she said.
“No.” The young girl shook her head.
She had misunderstood, or not heard correctly. Beth tried again. “El nombre del niño?”
“No,” the girl said again.
Perhaps it was a girl? “El nombre de la niña?”
Again, the girl shook her head and shifted the baby to her other hip impatiently. She was bored with this. Beth was not showing her anything new. “Nombre,” she said again. She pointed to herself and said, “Beth.” Then she pointed to the girl and said, “Juana.” Finally, she pointed to the baby and shrugged emphatically.
The girl stomped her foot. “She no have name,” she said. “No name.”
“What do you mean?” Beth cried. “She is so beautiful and new. She must have a name!”
Juana smirked. “No name.”