Day 25
I packed four shirts for this trip. What psychological insights could be gleaned from this? Maybe I wanted a bundle that could be easily carried and watched over. Maybe I am too cheap to pay a baggage fee. Maybe I only wanted to ruin a small portion of my wardrobe. Maybe I simply didn’t think I would be here that long. Well, all of those are true, really, and for better or worse, four shirts is what I brought. I am thankful that the ones I chose were already shades of gray, brown, and green to begin with, because they certainly are those colors now, and forever.
Lest one get the wrong impression, I also brought pants, and underwear. One of the last things I packed was my pair of Birkenstocks. For a moment, I had hovered over my boots, wondering if I should bring those, too…but if I was going to be in the jungle, wasn’t encasing my feet in boots the last thing I should do? And so I left them there.
We all quickly learned that if we were going to be clean, it was going to be by slapdash efforts in the nearby river. There was, of course, a very scenic waterfall which some of us tried to use as a shower, and further downstream we all took our part in beating our clothes against rocks, trying to get the worst of the stink out. It never fully leaves, of course. By now, we all carry an aroma that I can only describe as ‘mossy’: humid and organic on the top notes, with a crusty layer of detritus as a base, with occasional whiffs of woodsmoke.
As our reward in the Week Five challenge, Vincent and I were both granted showers. It was a blessing and a curse: on the one hand, the warm, all-encompassing sensation of becoming fully and thoroughly CLEAN in every pore was an almost spiritual experience. But coming back and realizing that I was to spend who knew how many more days simply getting filthy again was difficult to deal with. For the first several days I shunned the other contestants out of new-found distaste. It was only after a particularly-windy night, when the smoke from the campfire seemed to follow me everywhere, that I felt properly acclimated again, odor-wise. The one thing I am thankful for, though, was the opportunity to shave my legs. The rest of my companions, by comparison, look as if they have contracted lycanthropy.
In my hut (which is more of a lean-to, haphazardly constructed out of omnipresent palm leaves and bamboo), I do have a mirror, surrounded by pictures of my husband and my cat. I have grown to avoid looking in it very often, but today, I felt like checking up on myself. The creature that stares back at me does not look quite as oily as I feel. Early on, I had learned to braid my hair tightly; it didn’t make it get dirtier any more slowly, but at least I am much less likely to fuss with it. When I finally do come off the island, I am certain that I will look as if I’d spent a lot of quality time in the ‘80s, romancing a crimping iron. A few wispy strands do fight for independence to frame my face from underneath the ever-popular handkerchief that we all wear atop our heads, in what is left of our respective team colors (mine is Grinch-green, of course). The tan that I’d hoped to achieve is there, having evolved from a painful sunburn in its early stages to a healthy tan that is highlighted with red atop my arms and cheekbones. My teeth are arguably the cleanest thing on me – I’m not about to forego that bit of hygeine.
Today, I had resolved to do some exploring, and see if I could forage anything novel to supplement our diet of bananas and mush. I grabbed my trusty walking stick (which just happens to be sharpened at one end, rendering it dual-purpose), and struck out eastward.
By afternoon, I had managed to pick up a few things: some acai berries, guavas, papayas, and the strange fruit called temare, that looks like a fat apple but has jelly-like insides that taste like pineapples. They are repulsive, yet tasty. After those initial few hours, the landscape became swampy, and I found myself having to pick my way carefully among clumps of grass and pools of water that made our own primitive laundromat look pristine. I stopped to peer ahead and see if it was worth trying to continue onward. I remember putting my foot out to brace against a log floating in the water.
Suddenly, the log gave way. I can’t say that I saw much in the next few seconds, but what I did see was a dark, leathery surface stamped in a scaly diamond pattern that was, I realized, nothing like a log; large gouts of brown water whipped to a froth; and teeth. Lots and lots of teeth. Fortunately for me, I managed to step back instead of forward. I fought valiantly against the reptile, with much flailing and screaming, and running. Lots and lots of running. When I finally felt safe enough to stop and count my toes, I realized that there had, indeed, been a casualty. One of my Birkenstocks was missing. I limped the rest of the way back to camp, keenly reminded of why novices in the wilderness are called ‘tenderfeet’.
I can boast that I have survived an alligator attack (or was it a crocodile? I can never keep them straight), and the fruit salad is a nice compliment to the bananas and mush, and I can even say that I managed to make myself a new pair of shoes to replace my now useless lone sandal. But I still can’t help but think of my boots, with their sturdy soles and waterproof leather and arch support, and the laces that go all the way up past the ankle, to hold them securely on no matter what happens…all just sitting there in my bedroom at home. Banana leaf shoes sound exciting, but they’re just not as comfortable. But hopefully I will still have a couple of weeks to properly break them in…