Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Rachel
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “That’s a stunner of a headline.” The NY Times story headline reads, “After Outlawing Public Zoos, Costa Rica Relocates Hundreds of Animals.” The country is well-known for its stewardship of biodiversity.
The middle-aged woman reading in the Costa Rican eco-lodge lobby-lounge is dressed for invisibility—baggy cargo pants, laced boots, long-sleeve rough cotton blouse, hair tucked under a baseball cap. She is camouflaged and cloaked, avoiding conversation, pleasantries and my interruption. I am an unwelcome, invasive species.
We shared a jitney from the airport, silently. Later in the day, by coincidence, I was at the front desk reporting a missing light bulb when she reported that the mosquito netting in her room needed repair. I overheard her name. Rachel.
Rachel is a familiar genus in Costa Rica. The average American abroad is a self-reliant, 47-year-old woman. Three out of four travelers on nature trips are women traveling solo. Sixty-four percent of travelers worldwide are female.
Mostly, I keep my distance from other tourists. I’m here to enjoy Costa Rican sloths and the rainforest. I’m not here to learn the life stories of AARP members from Ohio or listen to the carping of escapees from Europe’s sweltering summers. I like my privacy too.
A cheery voice booms, “If you’re all ready, let’s head out.” It’s the in-residence naturalist leading the daily nature walk. Rachel and I are the only two enrolled guests.
A few hours of sweaty hiking, swatting mosquitoes and seeing/not-seeing unusual animals breaks down reserves, builds a temporary bond, blows up our privacy walls. She, more than me, has things on her mind.
At intervals, between sips of water, like a sloth slowly climbing down a tree, Rachel reveals herself. Real estate lawyer in Denver, divorced, parents dead, no children. She is on a self-described self-care retreat. When she returns to the states, a surgery awaits.
“The American healthcare system screws women,” she half growls, half whispers. “For months, years, I’ve been in intense pain, and not one fucking doctor believed me. Every woman I know secretly hates their male doctor.”
Like a cascading rainforest waterfall, she is gushing words. “I have Stage 4 endometriosis. Sometimes, the pain in my stomach and pelvis takes my breath away. I get so tired, fatigued, worn out. I can barely function. Some days, I feel like I am drowning and other days I want to drown myself.”
“Betrayed by my body. Betrayed by the goddamn healthcare patriarchy,” she spits out. I listen as she recounts her horrifying, lost-in-a-rainforest invisibility with clinical precision. Our guide makes a point of keeping just out of earshot as if he is used to the rainforest mystically unleashing new levels of vulnerability and self-discovery.
Arriving at the lodge, Rachel retreats back into her shell. We don’t talk again. I become a shadowy memory from her rainforest trek, a forgotten leaf, a bit of decaying bark.
I doubt she remembers even my name. I remember hers.
