Galápagos Islands

Between my friends and I, there is, at any given moment, a never-ending stream of diarrhea. Things I learned over study abroad: wear sunscreen, be wary of the water. In Spanish, I can recall the word for “kidneys” faster than “finches.” The hospital is the most reliable source of AC. I watch my girlfriend shit water. First kiss with a parasite. Chinchorros climb the line of the IV. They say the water at Puerta Ayora will give you a fever.

On the island, there are no directions. All the things which used to guide me: the river, the highway, are gone. The land here peaks up in one high point, surrounded by sea on all sides. Back home, the river pulls South. There is a movement to follow. Even if you are stuck there, the movement implies that there is somewhere beyond. Here, the ocean, like a river all around me, licks back at my feet instead.

Dear Glenda,

For our last day together, I’ve been looking back on the last three months we’ve shared. In this letter, I want to tell you all the things I haven’t had the Spanish to say.

Being queer, the concept of “found family” is not new to me.

I first heard the legend of the guayaba (guava) recounted during a hike through the forest at Hacienda Guadalupe, a farm up in the Highlands of San Cristóbal island. Our tour guide began the legend in a hushed whisper, about a mile into our hike. It was the first we had ever heard of Manuel Julián Cobos, the infamous first settler and founder of the torturous Hacienda El Progresso.