So this is what it’s like to plod through the jungle. I’m trapped on a featureless treadmill of rainforest, putting one Nike in front of the other, again and again and again, never going anywhere. Hours later I’m still plodding the same dirt road, still swatting aside the same thick undergrowth. The heat is stunning. My nostrils are filled with the gross smell of rotting vegetation. Mosquitoes swarm around me in a bloodthirsty humming fog. During cloudbursts I try to catch rain to drink, since I don’t have any water. It works when I use a big leaf as a funnel. If only the cloudbursts lasted long enough to wash me clean of mud and grime. I haven’t showered since Guanajuato, and I’ve been wearing the same clothes for a week.

My facial muscles are sore from frowning. It hurts to remember those wonderful day hikes and camping trips with Nick, back in San Diego. I always thought his careful prepwork and safety precautions were kind of anal. Bringing a couple day’s worth of food and water on an afternoon jaunt into Canyon Sin Nombre? Treating a weekend camping trip in the Laguna Mountains like a Victorian expedition to the darkest corner of the globe? Like I said, kind of anal — right?

Now I know better.

Note to my stupid self — never again plunge into the Mexican rainforest with no map and no water and no food and no mosquito repellent and almost no money, only the clothes on my back, carrying a backpack full of dead useless weight, like a laptop computer that can’t possibly survive this heat and humidity. Because being cotton-mouthed and starving and bone-tired and stinky and coated in mosquito bites like this, it just plain sucks.

And still I plod on my jungle treadmill, wondering when it’s going to stop. I just want it to stop, please god, just let me get somewhere already. “Argh!” I groan in miserable frustration, then scream it — “ARRRRRRGH!!!” My voice is smothered by the thick foliage. I struggle into an awkward sprint, rushing down the dirt road, my backpack jouncing on my shoulder…

…but I only have the strength to run a couple dozen strides. Then I collapse into a panting ball, blinking away sweat. I stare at the jungle. The jungle stares back. There’s probably a veritable supermarket out there, pitcher plants of water to drink, fruits and berries to eat. I just don’t know how to identify them. Only banana trees and coconut palms, and I haven’t seen any of those.

A big juicy-looking grub is wriggling in the dead leaves nearby. At first I think ewww! Then I think hmmm…

But when I reach for it, I notice my bare arm is hairy with mosquitoes. Time to get on the jungle treadmill again. Standing up is a tiring process, like dragging myself into the air, and when I finally get there I’m lightheaded for a few moments. Meanwhile my lower body is moving all by itself. Panic flares in my chest. Did I get turned around when I stopped? Am I going the right way? The treadmill looks the same in both directions. Through the canopy I can only catch glimpses of the sunlight filtering down, not enough sky with the sun in it to orient myself. Finally I realize I’m leaving footprints behind me, not walking into them. This must be east still.

After a while I fixate despairingly on Nick, a dizzying out-of-control spiral of scenes in my head that suddenly and jarringly stops, freezing into focus before starting again. The handsome icy-eyed stranger on Avenida Revolucion who invites himself into my life. Waking up next to Nick in the rippling fabric of a tent in the Laguna Mountains. Following him to a dusty heat-wracked house in a country where I don’t know the language or the customs or the money. The slick heaven between us as he finally — finally — plunders my desire. His awkward joy when I show him the pregnancy test.

I need to cry until I’m absolutely finished. But I won’t. I refuse. Because crying until I’m absolutely finished means we’re absolutely finished. A finality that will break my heart.

Instead I keep plodding on my jungle treadmill.

And just like that, the road dumps me into a clearing. I find myself wandering into a village of good omens. The streets are lined with whitewashed buildings instead of wooden shacks. Wires are strung overhead, maybe for electricity, maybe for telephones. Animals live in fenced corrals instead of roaming free. The faces staring at me are still Indian, but I can overhear conversations in Spanish, not just the impenetrable strains of Nahuatl.

Then I lurch to a halt, staring.

At a Hummer. The monstrous SUV is parked at a jaunty angle in front of a rustic stucco-walled store, shining brilliantly in the hot sun. It has an opalescent paintjob and Texas license plates and two kayaks, neon-red and neon-blue, strapped to the roof. The staging is so perfect I feel like I’ve stumbled into a commercial.

The Hummer is the first vehicle I’ve encountered since the converted schoolbus washed off the road. No one can afford cars or trucks here. The Indians don’t have two pesos to rub together. Besides, what happens when you run out of gas? I haven’t seen a Pemex station all week.

“It’s nice, huh?” a cheerful voice calls in English. A curly-haired man showing a lot of sunburned skin emerges from the store. His arms are filled with several lumpy bags. Looks like he stocked up on handwoven blankets or throw-rugs. “I bought it a couple months ago. Got a great deal.”

“Yeah. It’s…nice.” I can think of a million other words for the SUV — otherworldly, jarring, escapist — but nice works too.

His approach falters. He looks me up and down, scrunching his lean face into an expression of distaste. “Is everything okay? You look like you got lost in the jungle.” At least he’s kind enough not to say I smell like I got lost in the jungle.

The story gets jumbled up in my throat. “The bus, it went off the road during that huge thunderstorm a couple days ago, and I had to walk the rest of the way…”

The man’s wariness is beginning to melt into concern. “Where’s the rest of your tour group? Are they still out there? Do they need help? Did anybody get, uh…hurt?” He blanches meaningfully.

“No no no, it wasn’t that kind of bus. It was just a local, for the Indians. I’m not with a tour — ”

A woman’s voice cuts me off. “Adrian! Help me with this!” Her drawl is coming from behind a tall bulky statue wrapped in two arms.

Adrian explodes into solicitous motion, dropping his bags and hustling over to help her. Together they muscle the statue — a weird polychromed Christ — into the back of the Hummer. I hover uselessly, hoping I’m downwind.

When they’re done loading everything into the SUV, Adrian gingerly reaches out a hand toward me — then thinks better of it. “I’m Adrian, and this is my girlfriend Wendy.”

“Hi,” Wendy says from a distance, looking up at me with wideset hazel eyes beneath a shag cut that’s supposed to be bouncy, but just flattens in this humidity. She’s a fireplug of a girl, wearing a tube dress that shows off her broad shoulders and thick muscular body. Her diamond earrings and matching diamond pendant necklace are grotesque amidst this poverty.

“I’m Nooshin,” I say, and turn to Adrian. “Are you a paleontologist?”

He stares quizzically at me. “What?”

“She’s talking about your tanktop, dude,” Wendy snaps.

Adrian glances down at his tanktop — emblazoned with a stylized fossil dig and the slogan GET DOWN AND DIRTY FOR A LIVING - BECOME A PALEONTOLOGIST. “Oh. This! My brother teaches paleontology at Montana State.” He preens a little. “Me, I’m a lawyer. A junior partner already.” When I don’t react, he adds, “At Meyer Schlusskind Farrell.” When I still don’t react, he shrugs in disgust and mutters, “They’re a very prestigious national firm.”

Wendy is back to scrutinizing me. “What happened to you? You look — ”

“I know, I know,” I interrupt tiredly. “I look like crap. I’ve been walking through the jungle for a couple days.”

“I don’t know why anybody would hike the rainforest when you can kayak it instead,” she says disapprovingly.

“Her tour bus got swept off the road during the storm,” Adrian explains, with a sympathetic glance in my direction.

“I wasn’t on a tour — !” I start to say, then just give up. This conversation is making me feel even more exhausted than I already am. Several Indians in white peasant garb stroll by, chickens slung over their shoulders. “Hay un banco?” — is there a bank here? — I call out to them, already guessing the answer. They wag their heads no.

“Banco is bank, right?” Adrian asks.

“Duh!” Wendy is rolling her eyes.

He glares at her, then turns back to me. “There are lots of banks in Pujal, just down the road. Some ATMs too, if you’ve got a cash card.”

Lots of banks out here in the jungle? Even some ATMs? It’s almost incomprehensible to me. “Is Pujal a big city?”

“Uh, not really. It’s pretty small, actually. But it’s the tourist mecca around here.” Adrian jerks a thumb at the neon-colored kayaks on the Hummer’s roof. “You know, for all the kayaking and rockclimbing and eco-tours.”

“How far is it to Pujal?” I ask.

“Only 50, 60 minutes,” he says brightly.

“We’d offer you a ride, but we’re going in the opposite direction. Up to Conechilco for the Easter festival there.” Wendy checks her diver’s watch. “We should probably get going. The guidebook said the festival starts at one o’clock.”

“Today is…Easter?” God, I’ve lost all track of time. I even forgot about Norouz, the Persian New Year. I wonder if my sister or parents tried to call me. Probably not.

“Enjoy the rest of your tour. I hope you get back with your group soon.” Wendy speaks in a tone of voice like washing her hands. She climbs into the Hummer, taking the driver’s side. I’m reminded that Nick has still never let me drive his truck.

“It was cool to meet you, Nooshin!” Adrian is calling out, in retreat around the SUV’s opalescent flank. Soon I can only hear his voice. “Good luck with everything!”

I watch the Hummer lurch into a cacophony of motion — engine roaring, kayaks rattling on the roof rack, hip-hop booming out the open windows. A chorus of village dogs bark in response. The calm seems utterly and irreparably shattered…but it isn’t, of course. Silence returns after the Hummer disappears into the jungle, heading north on a slightly wider version of my dirt road. It occurs to me to wave goodbye about the same time it occurs to me that Adrian probably meant 50-60 minutes of driving time to Pujal, not walking time.