I am four years old, maybe five. My father is a novelist but has recently been fired from his position at a Catholic seminary. He has decided to become an anthropologist. He goes to Mexico to search for evidence of Egyptian influences among the ancient Mayan ruins of central America. We drive down in a station wagon with a camper trailer in tow.
We camp in the jungle of the Yucatán peninsula on the shore of
the sea. It is hot but my brother and I do not care. We spend the
nights singing American folk songs in the trailer. During the days
we play and swim in the ocean. My father often swims with us. We
convince him to roll a big log from the shore down to the water.
It becomes our pirate ship. Our mother is never around. I think
she stays in the trailer.
Sometimes we drive to the nearest village to a cantina. My father and mother become friends with the owners. My father speaks fluent Spanish. My brother and I drink watermelon refrescos that are delicious. Sometimes we go during the day and stay with the family during siesta time.
I cannot sleep during siesta. I sit at the table in the kitchen of the woman who runs the cantina. We speak in whispers so as to not disturb those sleeping. She gives me treats and smiles at me. I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her skin is light brown and her hair ink black, straight, and down to her waist. Her eyes are soft and brown and wide and when she looks at me she smiles and I see only love.
Coming home at night my brother and I sleep in the back of the station wagon. One time we are awakened abruptly. My father has dozed off at the wheel and hit a cow on the road. The cow is fine but the radiator of the station wagon is destroyed. We are miles from civilization and the night is pitch black.
There is a tree under which our trailer sits. A flock of wild parrots comes at dawn every morning to fight with one another over the fruit in the tree. There is plenty for all but they argue incessantly, nevertheless. They are unbelievably loud. They wake my parents. My father finds it amusing.
A man comes to our camp with a baby coati mundi for sale. It is incredibly cute and both my brother and I want it. My father haggles with him over the price while the coati climbs onto his shirt, removes his pack of cigarettes, and proceeds to tear them up, one by one. My brother and I laugh uproariously. My father comes to terms with the man and we get to keep the coati. We name her Zoaté (ZOH-tay), which my father says is the name of a Mayan deity. Zoaté runs and plays with us on the beach.
My brother captures a scorpion and puts it into an empty matchbox. We go to show it to my mother in the trailer. She freaks out and screams. We are scared. My father comes running in and calms her down. The scorpian escapes.
My father often goes into the jungle to do research. I follow
along. I do not remember that he takes my brother on these trips.
We walk on a narrow, sandy path. I ask my father if we will see
Jesus Christ lizards that can run right over water. He says maybe.
I ask my father what the strange marks are in the sand. He says
they are the trails made by snakes. I do not remember where we go,
what we do, or how we return.
All I see these days are those trails in the sand.
The latrine of our camp is in a green canvas pup tent. It is always hot and smelly in there. One day my mother goes crazy from the heat. My brother and I stop playing on the beach when we hear her screaming. She is outside the latrine, completely nude, tearing at her hair, shaking, screaming. We do not understand what she is saying. My father is trying to calm her down. He says, “Héloise, please. Not in front of the boys.”
This is all I remember from the Yucatán. We get to keep Zoaté. We return to the States where we stay with relatives for a short time before we move to West Africa.