Rrrrr-knock, rrrr-knock, rrrr-knock…

The hood is up and I’m bent over a hot shuddering engine, trying to diagnose the loss of power that’s suddenly afflicting the Explorer. It’s sluggish and unresponsive when I step on the gas — even when I flatten the pedal to the metal. Not good. Last thing I need is a truck that dies on a dirt track in the Mexican rainforest.

Next to me there’s an alcoholic gust. “The timing is off. It’s missing on a cylinder. Maybe two,” the bus driver slurs. The latest tequila bottle wrapped in his fist isn’t empty yet, but it’s getting there fast. He points with the neck. “I don’t like the looks of that belt, either.”

I hadn’t noticed the belt, actually. It’s stretching like black licorice in the heat. “I’ll just adjust the tension pulley. No biggie.”

He grunts in approval, a minor problem solved. Then he takes another swig of tequila, contemplating the misfiring engine. “You ever think about replacing this thing? Getting a used engine and dropping it in?”

“I think about it more all the time.”

“Yeah, well. That’s good. Just baby it until then, you know?”

Don’t ask me how you’re supposed to baby anything on these treacherous jungle roads. I’d rather fix the timing. Now. I back out from underneath the hood and glance around at the whitewashed buildings, boiling in heatwaves. “I suppose there’s no garage in this village.”

“There’s no cars in this village!” the bus driver guffaws.

No shit. The streets are empty — except for parked burros, and dogs loping with tongues hanging out, and women sweeping in front of their homes with straw brooms. And like a scene from a spaghetti Western, a small figure approaching at a trot, materializing out of the heatwaves.

The little Indian kid’s huaraches skid to a halt in the dirt. “Senores!” he announces respectfully, not even breathless — not even sweating — in the pulverizing heat. Then he emits a stream of babble, staring up at me with earnest almond eyes.

The bus driver has to do the talking, since he knows Nahuatl and that’s all the kid speaks. There’s a couple minutes of back-and-forth — punctuated with slugs from the tequila bottle, surprise surprise. Eventually the bus driver wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Your girlfriend went south by herself.”

All that conversation in Nahuatl for six words in Spanish. I don’t know whether to be grateful or suspicious. “What’s south of here?”

“Pujal. It’s a tourist trap.” He condemns the place blearily, as if the tequila and triple-digit heat and inevitable dehydration are finally getting to him.

“What kind of tourist trap?”

“Oh, you know. The usual crap in the Huasteca. Supposedly Pujal has the very best whitewater, and the very best cliff walls for rockclimbing, and the very best everything else.” The bus driver guffaws again. “Whatever keeps the gringos coming.”

Meanwhile the kid is rubbernecking between us, tracking an exchange that’s as incomprehensible to him as Nahuatl is to me. His humble face pools with expectation when we fall silent. He says something I can’t interpret, but can still understand. Greed is a universal language.

When we arrived in this pueblo, I handed out dollar bills to all the kids, promising a follow-up tenspot to the first one who could tell me where Nooshin went. Talk about incentivization — the American greenbacks are nothing to me, but a small fortune to an impoverished Indian family eking out a life in the rainforest. Now I’ve got my compass heading. It’s time to pay out.

The kid stares at the $10 bill as if it might scald his fingers. Then he raises his almond gaze in an almost plaintive look of disbelief. I nod reassuringly. Yes, this miraculous amount of money is truly yours. He gives a shriek of relieved delight and sprints into the heatwaves, dwindling into a blurry silhouette, then nothing at all.