6 hours ago
9
It was the summer of 2001 and I was on the brink of adolescence, embarking on my first journey outside the United States to the tropically convenient American territory of Puerto Rico. I was 11, and already the goofball in my group of friends – but, away from those with whom I was familiar, I was painfully shy. Until a family vacation from hell rid me of all my inhibitions.
The chaos began when my well-intentioned parents decided to take my brother and me to see the beautiful rainforest. My mom had her heart set on going to the El Portal de El Yunque National Forest visitor centre; a friend had told her it was “perfect for kids”, with guided, paved pathways, a cafe, and even a gift shop. But when my flustered, monolingual father got lost on the Puerto Rican freeway, he panicked, as my mother flipped through the map trying to direct him. “What’s a salida?!” he cried, sailing past the “exit” signs.
Fed up and frustrated, he pulled over to ask a man who was selling fruit on the roadside. “The rainforest?” the man responded. “Si, si!” said my father, enthusiastically. The fruit seller proceeded to give us directions, and my father, finally confident in where he was going, made his merry way.
“I don’t know, Dale … I don’t think he was talking about the National Forest,” my mum warned. “Becky, he’s from here,” my father insisted, “he knows what he’s talking about.” We eventually landed on a bumpy dirt road, parking next to the tiniest distressed wooden sign that read “RAINFOREST” with an itty bitty arrow pointing into the vast tropical wilderness. “This is not it – Carol said there’s a gift shop!” my mom implored. “The rainforest is the rainforest,” my dad insisted.
And so we set off on a six-hour trek, dressed in shorts and sandals, and without any snacks or water, following a narrow uphill path more suited to someone with survivalist skills than a family of four. Eventually, my mom got so overheated she took her top off. “Mom!” I exclaimed, embarrassed at her indecent exposure, but she insisted it was simply too warm for clothes – and besides, who would see her?
When my mom and I got too tired to continue, we waited on the path while my dad and brother went further, wanting to reach the peak. About 10 minutes later, I heard people coming down the mountain. “Mom! Put on your top!” I hissed. “Absolutely not, I’m roasting,” she said. “The only one crazy enough to climb up here in this heat is your father.”
“They’re speaking Spanish, Mom!” I pleaded, desperate to convince her that the people coming down the mountain were not members of our family. Seconds later, a Puerto Rican family of six rounded the corner. My mom covered up just in time, but my face turned bright red at the mere thought of what might have been. After we greeted them in our best broken Spanish, my mom remarked on how they were dressed head to toe, in long sleeves, trousers and hats – in July! As it turned out, they were probably wondering why we were not wearing any sort of protective clothing in the middle of the tropical wilderness. Moments later, my dad and brother came barrelling down the mountain; my brother had been attacked by a colony of fire ants.
Driving fast back to the hotel to help my brother, my dad ran over a flock of birds. We pulled into a parking lot and saw the grill of the car was chock-full of feathers. “What the hell?!” my mom exclaimed. “I thought if I sped up they would fly out of the way!” Dad fretted. But we didn’t let going to a remote part of the rainforest totally unprepared, a few hundred fire ants, and a dead flock of birds ruin our evening. It was my brother’s birthday, so we made our way to an upscale, local branch of our favourite steakhouse – because sometimes we Americans travel thousands of miles to get a little taste of home.
It was at this dinner that my ankle started itching incessantly. “Just stop touching it,” said my mom. For dessert, my brother ordered a piece of dark chocolate cake that he devoured in seconds. I was furious I didn’t get to try any of it, but felt altogether less envious a few hours later, when he was throwing up black, dark chocolate bile all over our stark, white hotel room.
Who knows if it was the fire ants or just straight-up food poisoning; I didn’t really have time to think about it, because I had awoken to my own nightmare: my entire body felt like it was on fire. I was inflamed from my ankles up to my face with what appeared to be a poison ivy rash. I spent the rest of the trip writhing in pain, looking like an engorged, blistered tomato.
Once my brother had stopped vomiting, and we had cleaned all the feathers off the car, we tried again. This time we managed to locate the beautifully paved trails at the El Portal de El Yunque National Forest visitor centre. I got a lollipop with a cricket in it at the gift shop and my mom kept her top on. For the remainder of the trip, my mom would stop and strip me down to my bathing suit (often in public locations, most memorably bent over the drive-thru sign at a McDonald’s ) to cover me in aloe vera.
Somehow, the ill-fated journey into the rainforest, combined with my brother’s dark chocolate cake vomit and my whole body rash, helped me to reach an unlikely zen. We still reminisce about that disastrous trip which proved mortifying on so many levels – and after which, it was rare for me to ever feel shy or embarrassed again.
