wandering women

Less than 24 hours into my first trip in Central America, I met a girl in front of a cathedral.

I was sat with some hostel friends, drinking in front of the spires under the eyes of Jesus, feeling the hum of the city run through my veins: everyone, everywhere, laughing, chatting–the energy was electric.

Nestled in a group of mostly men, I drew little attention, though the same couldn’t be said for my companions. They were classically foreign, fanny packs, burnt noses. Impossible to miss.

And their attention seemed drawn to a group of girls across the street.

There were roughly ten of them, clustered together on the steps in front of a shop, passing cellphones and cigarettes amongst themselves. They possessed the kind of effortless ease I’d only ever read about. They were blasé, sprawling, and unbothered in a way that felt cool. They were a blip in the periphery, one that invited a proper glance.

It was only when one of them broke away from the group that the energy shifted.

I felt a prickle. The girl who made contact told us her name was Alex. She was short, pretty, with a fringe above her brows, the suggestion of a dimple on her left cheek. She greeted each of us individually, making and holding eye contact, radiating warmth, showing genuine interest.

She held my hand when she introduced herself. She said I had a beautiful name.

An hour later, once our group was integrated into theirs, Alex extended a smile and an invitation.

Ven con nosotras a celebrar el cumple de mi hermana.

A birthday. Alex’s sister was turning nineteen. She was among the group; the sisters had the same fringe. They were going back to Alex’s boyfriend’s house to celebrate–he lived just outside the city and loved throwing parties. They were excited to have foreigners join them.

The group of girls were eyeing the men. We hostel girls flushed, feigning disinterest, stung by the rejection. The men were eager. But they were a group, a unity, and they had an early check out in the morning that prevented them from accepting. They were really sorry they couldn’t attend. They said their goodbyes shortly after, and left.

Embarrassed at the men’s departure, most of the hostel girls started to leave, remembering plans they’d previously forgotten. The group of girls continued their own conversation, oblivious. It was ten against two, now. Myself and my hostel friend, a professional dancer. Alex kept her eyes on me.

Entonces?

A beat in the conversation. A quick glance at me and the dancer.

And in the second it took me to catch my breath, the dancer was already nodding. Saying yes. Grabbing my arm. She couldn’t contain her excitement. Alex nodded along, smiling the whole time.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in the back of a limousine, driving away from the city centre. Squished between a dozen girls, their chatter filling the vehicle, I kept my hands on my knees to stop them bouncing. Alex noticed, flashed me a dimple. Offered me a drink, there was so much champagne.

But even her complicit grins couldn’t calm me. I didn’t need a drink.

I liked adventure. I loved a challenge. I lived for a good story. But my knees were trembling. In a vehicle of mostly strangers, driving away into the night, I felt restless. Off-balance. Slightly dizzy.

And then a phone rang. Like a gun shot. Again–a moment of stillness.

The dancer answered. She was traveling through Latin America, learning about different styles of dance from the locals. Her team was upset that she’d missed their practice, how could she be so irresponsible, and could she please make it back to the studio as soon as possible? They had a performance coming up.

Nobody else batted an eye. But I felt my vision blur. The dancer turned to me with genuine remorse, “We can leave together if you want, right now.”

A tinkling laugh. The streetlights illuminating nearly perfect teeth, a slight chip on the right incisor, dulling its point.

No hay servicio fuera de la cuidad.

A dimple.

Los taxis no vienen por aquí.

The dancer smiled in confusion, looked to me for understanding. The group of girls giggled. In broken English, they explained how there was no cell service this far outside the city, taxis impossible to reach way out there. Alex chimed in, saying the dancer would have to wait until we arrived at our final destination to try to order an Uber.

By this point, we’d arrived.

As the girls made their way into the house, and the dancer followed, looking for service, all I could do was stare.

To my left, slightly behind me, a whisper.

Mi novio es DJ. Tiene plata–le gusta la casita?

The house couldn’t be called a home. Largely made of glass, giant, it was sleek and polished, a disturbance amongst the trees and undergrowth. Clearly Alex’s boyfriend had money. As I was guided to the stone steps in front of the glass windows, Alex explained how her boyfriend had built the house from the ground up, wasn’t that nice? He was a hard-worker, and he’d provided so much for Alex and her sister. Wasn’t that great?

I felt stolen. My brain couldn’t keep up with the rapidly changing landscape. A church, a limo, the mansion. Not a soul in sight. Laughter in a glass house. A pretty girl sitting next to me, offering coos of comfort.

Alex’s head snapped up. A vehicle was approaching, one headlight.

The moto stopped in front of us. It looked non-descript. The driver looked between us and asked for our names.

The dancer came bursting out of the house, a flurry of motion. Her cheeks were flushed. Her grin was bigger than her cheeks could support. She sobered when she saw me on the steps, slowed to pat my shoulder. “I got a ride.” She was apologetic. “Looks like only motos make their way out here. But if you book one now, it should come in the next 10 minutes.”

Off into the night she sped away. Behind me, I could hear shouts, hoots and hollers. I swallowed and pulled out my phone.

Ya te vas?

I turned to Alex. I said it was time for me to go. I complimented the mansion–the house. I explained it was getting late. I was hot and cold and unnerved. I felt my thumbs fumble as I typed out moto. Alex watched, a bemused tilt to her head. And then she smiled. Genuine, warm. Dimple and all. I paused. My ride was 12 minutes away.

Me recuerdas de mis hermanas.

Sisters? I thought Alex only had one sister.

She shook her head slowly, sighed, exasperated, half amused, corrected me. All those girls in there? Those are my sisters.

I didn’t understand, I was distracted by my curiosity. How could she have so many sisters?

Alex smiled. En esta casita de mi daddy, somos todas hermanas. Una familia.

I blanched. Daddy?

Alex became earnest. You remind me of my sisters, she said. You’re beautiful. I really like you. I think daddy would like you–I know you would like him. Come meet my sisters. Just come inside. Come, come. You’ll understand. Just come.

I was blinking. I think I was shaking my head. I watched her cheeks even out. Was this a joke? This felt like a movie. Hadn’t I seen this movie before? I felt her grab my hand. Her palm was clammy.

Mira.

And as I turned my head to look back, through those glass windows, I kind of already knew what I’d find.

A mane of locks tangled in the manicured hands of another woman. A mouth in the apex of her thighs. Her eyes shut as she shuddered on the couch. Another couple writhing on the floor. Hands grasping, clasping, at necks, backs, thighs. A wrestle for dominance. On the counter, splayed out like a feast, a woman by herself. Shivering, quaking, fingers lost inside herself. More–always more–girls in the background, cheering, leering, stripping, eyes alight. I’d never seen a group of girls look so alive. I’d never seen such frenzy.

I’d never seen so many limbs before.

I blinked. My stomach was roiling. I felt dirty, a bit used. I couldn’t look away. I think I saw a flash of hair–a fringe!–before it was wrapped around a fist and shoved into the wall, head snapping back, teeth bared. I felt bile rise. I tasted vodka. I kept blinking.

A squeeze. I forgot someone was holding my hand. I looked back at Alex.

Me entiendes? Me entiendes ahora? Ven conmigo. Mi hermanita. Siempre quise tener una hermanita mia.

God no. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to be anyone’s little sister. I wasn’t cruel, but I was afraid, and I stumbled through apologies and excuses. It sounded cruel anyway. Oh no, I couldn’t. That’s okay. Those are your sisters. Thank you for inviting me here, but no. No thanks. I’m sorry. I actually have to go. It’s late, isn’t it? Take care of yourselves. I appreciate the offer. You’re… kind to think of me.

Alex would still be pretty even without the smile. Her face was cherub. Wrinkle-free. But crying changed her. Morphed her features. Transformed her into something ugly.

And when she started to bawl, her entire face became hideous.

Por qué siempre me pasa asi? Por qué nadie me quiere? Cómo pudiste? La puta. La concha. Qué orgulla!

Sobs. Wracking her body. A contained disaster. Her face was slick. Her shirt was soaked. Her hand was crushing mine.

Cómo pudiste? Cómo pudiste?

I tried to soothe her. Hey. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Thank you for the offer. But it’s okay. I’m not interested. But you’ll be okay.

Se va a enojar. No estará contento. Me entiendes? Se va a enojar!

What? Who will be upset?

Daddy, daddy, daddy.

Crushed, breathless–I felt like I was drowning. Swept off my feet, sinking into something I didn’t understand. I–another headlight. A break. The engine cutting through the sobs beside me, the cries behind me.

I shook myself free. Alex crumpled into herself, fringe covering her face. I didn’t look back as I ran to the moto. Strapped in, they were swift, trees enveloping our escape.

I gulped down the fresh air. I felt delirious. I wanted to cackle. Was this funny? This felt funny.

The driver in front of me was stoic. Has disfrutao?

I blinked. What?

A side eye. A ese DJ le encantan las orgías. Son famosas en esta región.

A smirk. Le encanta invitar a los extranjeros. No eres la primera que he recogido.

My grip on the seat was strong. I couldn’t feel my fingernails. Orgies? Famous? Foreigners?

I was left in front of my hostel in a daze. I went to bed that night dreaming about fringes. I continued on my travels, thinking about sisters and daddies, families in general. Invitations to foreigners–come join our orgy today!

It was only later, days later, when I ran into the dancer, again, in another hostel, that I got an update on that family. We were making breakfast together, freshly cut mango on the counter, juice dripping down the side. Knife in hand.

“He went back,” the dancer said. “You remember? The guys? One of them went back. Skipped out on his trip, went back to that house.”

My grip tightened.

On the other side of the counter, slightly on my right, a whisper, “He says it was the best night of his life. It was… he’s never seen anything like it before.”

We looked at each other. Sunlight was pouring through the windows. It was over 30 degrees, still winter back home. I could feel sweat glinting off my forehead, remnants on the back of my hand.

The dancer was expectant. Cheeks flushed, eyes smoldering. Holding her breath.

I lowered my eyes. Kept cutting.

Daddy, daddy, daddy–indeed.