This is Chapter 6 of an ongoing series about my time volunteering at a wildlife sanctuary in Bolivia. Read Chapter 5 here.
Day 8: Bathroom, 11:45pm
I’d say there’s no good reason to punch a wall.
JT would disagree.
I lathered pink soap onto my arm and watched him in the mirror. He put his hands on either side of his head, slid down the wall into a crouch, swearing or angry mumbling- I couldn’t tell, dropping and lifting his head between his knees.
I didn’t want him in the bathroom with me. I didn’t need him there. But he followed me anyway.
The drinks that had loosened our hips on the dance floor were now like lighter fluid on a bonfire. I was watching a full-grown man mid-tantrum. An experience, I was now remembering, I hated ferociously.
He stood up and walked over to look again at the damage on my arm, then turned back to his tantrum spot and while swaying, abruptly pivoted mid-grumble, his fist hitting the cold white wall with a THUD.
I rolled my eyes.
The real task now was to get him out of here, so I could retreat to bed and end this ridiculous night once and for all. I peeled off my long-sleeve slowly, and bundled it up to gingerly wipe my skin dry. There was a hand towel, but I knew better. The sanitation odds nearly always favored my own clothing, however sweaty, over a damp towel anywhere in this place.
It’s really not that crazy of a story, despite the drama that ensued. It technically started 45 minutes before when a donkey bit me while we waited for a cab. But if I’m honest, it probably, really, started days before.
Day 7: Osos y Felinos, 8 am
There were two rangers in Bears and Cats- Carlos and Julian. I met them bright and early on my first day. Julian was short and dark-skinned and did not look at or speak to me unless I started it. Carlos was friendly and warm, 26 or so, and about my height. He had braces and wore a bucket hat and white rubber boots. An athletic frame showed through layers of clothing, and he wore a black stone pendant on a silver chain around his neck. I wondered what it meant to him but never asked. He was studying to be a vet.
I liked his energy right away. I perceived him the same way I always wanted someone else to perceive me.
He was confident, knowledgeable, and calm. I sensed no falsehoods, no faking or exaggerations. Integrity between his insides and outsides. He did his work well, treated other people kindly, and cared for the animals. He was careful and considered, entirely self-possessed, and still quietly powerful.
Character, like the posters that hung around public schools: who you are when nobody’s watching.
Once I worked with Carlos, it became clear that some of the other rangers at the sanctuary were just there for the paycheck. They embraced the animals, sure, but that was not what brought them there. Not Carlos. He was there for the animals, to learn, to experience the work in the jungle. In that way, I felt kinship. I had also come a long and far way to be here, to experience these moments in the loud, wet jungle. All to sit by a pacing jaguar for a few moments a day.
There was an unspoken familiarity between us that only grew the more time we spent working in each other’s shadow. He showed me how to clean correctly, reminded me if I forgot something, and answered all of my questions about the animals. A complete 180 from working with Josefina.
We developed a smooth camaraderie, sailing through the demanding schedule of Osos y Felinos. Washing the basket in the river; checking for monkeys before scooting between fences; passing the brushes and dish soap back and forth; plopping food from containers into feeding bowls; cleaning the water bowls and mopping the pools.
He let me participate. He asked me to raise and lower fences. Had me hold the spigot closed while he scrubbed a hard-to-reach spot in the puma’s pool. He handed me the keys to hold. We made a good team, I thought. I hoped.
He took the time to explain things to me, a godsend, since I had about four thousand questions a day. Why did we give the big cats a raw egg for breakfast? Why are there blue streaks on the hunks of raw meat? Why do the bears get electrified wires on their fences, when no other animals do? What is the name of the fruits, cheese, milk that the bears are given each day?
We’d stumble through each others’ languages, he’d use phrases he’d picked up from American music. “Let’s go, baby” he said once after locking up one jaguar’s cage and heading towards another. I laughed. He looked at me confused. I explained to him what he’d said, and from then on, he abridged it to simply, “Let’s go”.
And through the hours we shared pieces of ourselves.
Why was he studying to be a vet? Why was I here in Bolivia instead of the US? Did I have a partner, and why not? Had I worked with animals before? What was the US like? Had he been to any other countries? How many siblings did we each have?
There were tattoos on his hands. On the meat along his thumb was a treble clef and “drums” in cursive.
“You play the drums?” I asked when I got close enough to read it. He did. He asked what music I listened to and handed me his phone- Spotify already open. I played Parcels and Kali Uchis. I asked him to do the same, and he turned on Blondie.
Every day, we hiked the nearby mountain ridge to feed and water the toucan who lived at the top. He was friendly enough for me to pet and feed by hand. After replacing his water and delivering lunch (fruit salad and a quail egg), Carlos said “watch this.” He pulled a hose from the side of a nearby shed, cranked the spout and stuck a thumb in the end, the water turning from a lazy gurgle to a flat spray.
He aimed the hose, sprinkler-like now, at the sky, and beads of water fell from it like a midday shower.
The toucan eagerly jumped across gnarled branches to the water, washing himself in the newfound rain, twisting his head back and forth, opening his long wings and nudging the water droplets into the feathers with his yellow-blue beak. Shaking, washing, nudging, shaking. His feathers shining in the sun. He loved it.
There were few moments better than this one. Creating a personal rain shower for the toucan. The toucan, gratefully lavishing in it for as long as it lasted. The reciprocity of it was palpable.
One afternoon outside a jaguar cage, we reached one of countless stalemate moments - where someone’s translation was wrong - in which we made confused eye contact and, unable to hold it seriously for long, burst out laughing.
“Tu ojos” he said, pointing at me, “como el jaguar.” Your eyes - like the jaguar.
I couldn’t imagine a better compliment. I broke his gaze and probably blushed. “Si? Gracias.”
“Si” he said, “Bonita.”
I liked Carlos. I could feel that he liked me, too.
This place was lonely in some ways. Without the fluency of language, the thoughts that usually would have popped out of me without my awareness, as questions or comments, needed to sit and simmer for longer inside of me. In the absence of google or shared language, there is just wonder. Wonder, and quiet.
I didn’t mind it. But it was still nice to have a friend.
At meal times, though, Carlos sat at the opposite end of the long table. He was quiet around others and in group settings, our friendship seemingly gone. Or at least, on a break. Maybe even secret.
He kept his distance in public settings, but in the jungle it was like nothing had changed. We walked together for miles in on-and-off conversations that spanned the day.
I noticed his different behavior in group settings, but didn’t say anything about it. I wondered why he acted so differently.
At the end of that second day, on the trail back to home base, Carlos turned to me but kept his gaze on the ground. “I have a secret to tell you, but I can’t until we’re done working together, tomorrow.”
I was taken aback, but tried not to show it. I had a rough guess about this secret.
Our friendship had blossomed quickly and easily - there was humor and lightness despite our near complete inability to understand one another. I was sure his secret was that he liked me. I didn’t know how to feel about it; he was one of my closest friends here. I didn't want to complicate it.
But I also couldn’t deny that I felt similarly. I was approaching crush territory, watching his strong hands and arms fill and lift and throw giant buckets of river water, the way he noticed everything about the animals he cared for- if they ate slower than usual, ambled differently, acted antsy. The warmth he showed me and the quietude he marinated in otherwise. His skill and calm confidence. His smile and willingness to answer my questions in painstaking detail and translation.
“Okay” I said with feigned curiosity. “Manana.”
Day 9
The next morning, Carlos was quiet and distant. I tried to ignore this, acting the same as I had the days prior. Afraid to ask what was wrong, in case it was me.
After an hour of tangible quiet, he asked, “Why did you go to the city with JT?”
I was surprised. I didn’t know that he knew about that.
Day 4
JT was a ranger with the monkeys. We’d gotten to talking (if google translate counts as talking) and spending time together outside of work.
He sat himself next to me at every mealtime, showing me pictures and videos from the day: a spider monkey, a capuchin, a jaguar. He asked me questions through an app, gave me his leftover food when I wanted it, offered to wash my dishes for me. While I was cautious and untrusting of his sudden interest in me, a part of me also liked it. I loved the solitude and quiet this place had required of me, but I missed the consistency of friendship and of having people to check in with regularly. I would show him pictures from my life back home. I could sense his eyes on me whenever we crossed paths.
One morning, Pablo the cook leaned in while handing me breakfast- a bowl of porridge with a cinnamon stick. “You know about JT, right?” I shook my head. He gave me the cautionary tale. JT had a long-distance girlfriend and last year, she had given birth to a baby boy. Their baby boy. He was a father of a nine month old. The girlfriend had been a volunteer at the sanctuary a few years before, which was how they met, and how this baby came to be. He finished with raised eyebrows and wide eyes, leaving the obvious unspoken. Watch out, gringa. He has a type.
I decided to create some distance, and claim I was also in a relationship. I moved an opal ring from my right hand to my left ring finger. At lunch, he spoke into his translating app. A woman’s robotic voice said “You are married?” as he pointed at my ring.
There was a moment of hesitation on my part - in which I battled with the idea of my character - which is to say: honest to a fault. But this was a white lie. How dangerous could it really be to say I was married? To someone I would never see again, who didn’t know my name or where I lived, who may not even give a shit, anyway?
“Si”.
He nodded, still looking in my eyes.
“Tu?” I asked. You?
The app said, “I have a beautiful girlfriend, and a baby. They live in another country.”
I said some form of congratulations. He showed me pictures of them both. The baby had his brown eyes and long eyelashes. Her eyes shone unnaturally blue from the snapchat filter.
That was easy, I thought of my smooth dishonesty. Painless and easy.
Except, of course, that it wasn’t painless or easy for long.
We spent more time together after work shifts - walking the dirt road up to the nearest town for chocolate bars and ice cream at the bodega. He knew everyone, or at least, everyone knew him. We went swimming mid-day to cool off and wash away the sweat and dirt of the morning shift before the next one began.
There was an abandoned house along the dirt road to town. One night, we sat on the front stoop and smoked shitty Bolivian weed while watching the stars, which were clearer than ever in the middle of the dark cloud forest.
“Can I kiss you?” robot lady asked into the darkness.
I sat quietly for a while, my smirk hidden in the night.
First, my brain said: “No.”
Then, my brain said, “What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll never see him again.”
And then, “How often do things like these happen? When else will I kiss a handsome Colombian man under the stars?”
And then, “This guy has a baby. And a girlfriend.”
I grabbed his phone and switched the languages. Robot lady spoke again. “Only if you tell me your girlfriend’s name”
I had lied about my relationship; to keep myself safe from someone I didn’t know or trust. But now, having spent more time together and building an understanding of who this man was, I felt guilty.
Guilty that I had led him to believe that we both had something to lose.
The reality was, my first impression of him wasn’t complete. I’d heard that he was a player. Then I also heard that he had a big heart and was a good person who had lived a difficult life. Who worked two or three jobs, and sent most of the money he earned to his mother and girlfriend. I’d heard that he was in the military from when he was a teenager until a few years ago, that he’d lost his father right around the same time.
His baby was very real, and so was his girlfriend. I’d heard from others that their relationship was toxic, rocky - and had been off and on for years. I’d heard that she had forbidden him from coming to visit her. What did all of that mean? What did that mean for my own sense of what was right?
But my husband was not real, neither was my wedding ring. My excuses of loyalty to another person weren't even real. I only had myself to answer to.
I wanted him to remember that he had something to lose: the name he was about to tell me. And maybe he would change his mind if he said her name out loud. I wondered if he would.
“Katie” he said into the night.
“Katie” I repeated.
“Do you feel guilty?” the app translated for me.
He was quiet for a long while.
I felt the sadness vibrate through him while robot lady spoke.
“We don’t have a very good relationship. She’s blocked me for the last few months. She won’t let me see my son.”
“I’m so sorry” I said out loud. “I mean - lo siento.”
He was quiet. After a while, he asked me about my husband. I gave some vague details which I expected him to ask more about, but he didn’t seem to want to know any more. That was okay with me. I didn’t like lying, even if the stakes were low. But I did like the feeling of safety that my imaginary husband brought to me - a backup plan. Someone who I belonged to aside from just myself.
We made out.
It was late. We walked the dusty road back, our flashlight beams bouncing and converging with our gait. At the river, I veered off to my quarters. He, to his.
I brushed my teeth before bed and stared into my eyes in the mirror. I felt there were two of me. Like one of us was the mother- arms crossed, up waiting for the other to come home late after curfew. Expecting a confession. The other, refusing to give it.
I expected to feel ashamed, embarrassed. I felt a little, but not as much as I’d thought, now that I was back alone and having to answer for myself, to myself.
Perhaps this was a character I could play - a confused, young, married woman who goes to the wilderness to regain a sense of freedom, of control. Who is having a quarter-life crisis and needs to jet off to another continent to remember who she is. After all, that is what I was doing. I was trying to remember who I was. And what if she met someone along this strange journey who was equally confused and scared about who they are? What might she do then?
No, I wasn’t married and having a torrid affair - but what if I was? What if I pretended to be? It felt far too late to walk my lie back now. How different would it feel to play that character?
Who would I be hurting if I did?
Day 8: 10:30 pm
There was a bicentennial festival in the mountain town a few kilometers away. Everyone at the sanctuary was talking about it. JT asked me if I wanted to go see it. I did.
We walked around the colorful chaotic streets, ate dinner and went dancing.
After a few hours of dancing and drinking, JT led us from the club towards the main road in search of a cab to take us back down the canyon.
We cut across the town square, the path filled with partying people of all ages and an unattended donkey tied to a pole. It was dressed up in celebratory colors, a knit quilt lay along its back.
JT put a hand on its mane and stroked downwards, turned back and gave me a nod towards the creature. I approached and put my hand where his was, about to stroke the rough hair in the same way, when its thick head whipped around from the opposite direction it had been looking. Its lips pulled back to reveal two heavy rows of teeth just before it bit my arm, in the meat of my tricep. Hard.
I don’t think I made a sound besides a kind of gasp as I shot away, stumbling backwards. The pain of it, the speed, was astonishing. I was hot with fear but mostly embarrassment. “Did it bite you???” he demanded. I held my arm and said yes.
He looked around wildly, like he was trying to spot whoever was responsible for this. “Vamos!” I said, grabbing his jacket and starting towards the road. That was an even scarier option – JT fighting someone because their donkey bit me. I was embarrassed as hell. There was no one responsible for the situation but me. I couldn’t be mad at the donkey for telling me to fuck off.
I wanted to lick my wounds and scatter in privacy. He followed, begrudgingly.
At the cobblestone road, he looked for a car. My arm hurt badly. I kept this to myself. Through my shirt I could feel the hot flesh, shocks of impact stinging and radiating from its center. The adrenaline turned me quiet and stoic, this situation into no big deal. But the pain told a much different story.
He waved me over to a rusty black SUV. While we waited on the people already inside to rearrange themselves for us, I looked at JT and asked, nonchalantly, “esta bien?”
I pulled up my shirt, now grateful I’d worn long sleeves. The skin burned harder as the fabric bunched around it. He held my arm up to the light and I watched his face, where the answer became clear. His eyes widened, his brows furrowed. “No” he said, looking up at me. Furious. It was as if I’d asked something completely idiotic- “Is the sky pink?”. He looked at me with incredulity and disgust. “No, no está bien.” Anger contorted his face into someone else’s.
He looked back towards the donkey, like he was still considering retribution. He kept shaking his head and saying no, no no.
The playfulness of the night vanished, my focus shifted to getting back to the sanctuary.
We loaded in the cab- a loose term, since it was more like we’d hopped into an Uber pool with no seatbelts and a can of gasoline in the trunk. 20 minutes in it felt like hours. The driver was already best friends with the riders. He blasted music and smoked out the window while everyone else sang along and laughed at each other loudly, drunkenly. JT sat next to him in the passenger seat, chatting away. All of us bouncing like we were riding in a tractor. Up and down, side to side, with only our neighbors’ shoulders to stabilize us on the sloping, winding, dirt roads.
I recall thinking I would’ve really enjoyed this experience under different circumstances.
Finally, we rolled up to the familiar fork in the road. JT handed the driver cash and his phone for his number, presumably to call him the next time he needed a lift up to town. I said thank you and goodbye to the clown car, they hit the gas and bounced away loudly in a cloud of dust. We walked back towards the entrance, where I’d cross the bridge and finally absorb and process what had just happened.
JT pulled out his phone and talked into the translator, then handed it to me to read.
“I don’t know why you let that donkey bite you.“
Rage flared in my belly, growing until it warmed my cheeks.
Why I let the donkey bite me? Like I had chosen it? Like he hadn’t told me to pet it? What kind of gaslighting fuckery was this?
Furious, I let my hand and his phone drop to my side while I kept walking, considering my options. Was it worth fighting? I considered which choice – setting the record straight and standing up for myself, or letting it go – would get me what I wanted, what I needed, faster. I could see the gate approaching. I hit the microphone and tried to do both. “I didn’t want it to bite me—“ then, “I’m going to go back to wash it. Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow.“
I handed him the phone and picked up the pace. He stopped to read the translation, then called for me to stop. Robot lady said in the darkness,
“No my love come with me. See? Come back with me, I’ll take care of you. Come to my house, please my love? Please.“
He’d taken to calling me amor nearly 3 times per minute that night.
Hell no.
I wasn’t going to go back to his room. From what I’d seen it was dirty, 20 minutes away, and shared with another ranger. Not to mention, the exact opposite of what I’d just told him I was doing. Clearly the more important objective here was tending to my wounds, not whatever awaited me in his room.
No, I said loudly, grateful it was the same in both languages. He closed the gap and pulled on my good arm, towering over me, insisting and pleading. I could smell the liquor on his breath.
It continued like this for five minutes, arguing about whether I would go with him. Me saying no over and over and, evidently, that meaning nothing to him. Meanwhile, my arm radiated hot pain. It ended finally when he said he wouldn’t leave, but that he would come back with me. Whatever. Fine.
I just wanted to take care of myself. Wash off whatever kind of infectious mystery donkey spit might be growing on me. That, and get this guy away from me.
Day 8: Bathroom, 11:45pm
I patted the skin dry, rotating my arm back and forth to see the whole of it in the mirror. It was swollen, red, and already starting to bruise, a dark purplish cropping up by the cuts. There were two semi-circles of broken skin, a near perfect replica of two rows of teeth. He was right, it was not okay. But it wasn’t lethal. At least I could add donkey to my growing list of animals I’d been bitten by.
I slathered on a thick layer of Neosporin. I hoped no one else would walk into the bathroom right now. Behind me, he rubbed his freshly-pounded hand and pouted some more.
Name a feeling, I had it.
Regret, annoyance, rage, embarrassment, shame. I hadn’t come on this trip for boys, let alone to get myself all messed up with them. I tried to pinpoint my critical error, the moment it all went to shit. I began crafting the timeline, the prosecution against my dumbass- out here trying new things and lying to people and thinking she could just trust strangers.
But it would have to wait. I needed to get to bed. I had my last day of work in Osos y Felinos in eight hours.
JT had calmed down enough to finally obey my wishes to leave. I said a stiff goodbye, despite the full-speed twister raging inside of me. I just needed him gone. Better to pretend like I was okay than risk another twenty minutes of unpredictability.
Head hung, he left. I watched him walk down the path towards the gate and the bridge and his own room. Once he was far enough away, and I deemed myself safe to finally decompress, I heaved sighs of relief. Shoveled them out of me. I was shaken.
What the fuck, Sarah. What the fuck was that?
I climbed the stairs of the treehouse. Ralph lay in his bed by the door, his tail softly thump thump thumped as I creeped the door open. Finally. Back to bed. Back to the quiet room where three sets of lungs breathed in sleep. Alone again. Safe again. With only cockroaches to fear.
Under the covers, I resolved to say what I couldn’t in the heat of the moment. I WhatsApped him:
“That was not okay. I don’t want to continue doing whatever this is.”
I put the phone on the floor and stared at the ceiling, absorbing the totality of events. The shame of Coronas buzzing in me. The electric joy of dancing. The lively sounds and colorful sights of the town, the playfulness of being a married woman rediscovering herself. Then the abrupt pain, the confusion of his sudden rage, the unease of the bouncing backseat, the fear of being forced to do something I didn’t want - forced to spend more time with this person who was now unpredictable, this person that I clearly didn’t know after all. The anger of his disregarding my no’s so easily. The jealousy of the donkey, who could bite away an unwanted hand.
The lingering guilt I’d held for days melted away, now replaced with hot vindication. I was right to lie. I knew I needed to keep distance from him. I knew I needed to keep myself safe.
Day 9
I took my headache to the last day in Osos y Felinos.
Two hours later, I answered Carlos’ question.
Little did he know that I was also wondering why I went to the city with JT.
I thought about how to answer. I typed- “He invited me, so I went. I wanted to see the festival.” That was true, if not the whole story. I didn’t think the whole story was necessary.
His demeanor didn’t change, and he typed again. “Why didn’t you go with the girls instead?” He meant the girls I shared a room with. I typed my answer and handed him the phone. “The girls aren’t very friendly to me. They never talk to me.” This was true and unfortunate. For whatever reason, the women had been consistently quiet towards me; granted, none of them spoke English, but also none of them tried to communicate outside of requirements or greetings. He handed back the phone.
“I would have gone with you.”
I read the words and looked up at him. I wasn’t sure what to say. He never asked me to go. He barely even talked to me outside of work. Plus, I’d had fun with JT. I had liked the times we spent together, and never would have suspected that his easygoing, funny attitude could turn so dark and possessive after a few drinks.
Still uneasy from the night before, I was afraid to let emotions flare in any way again. I was grateful for Carlos’ friendship and kindness towards me, and I liked working with him. I typed, handed him the phone, and turned back to cleaning. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
I swept the leftover egg shells, leaves and twigs on the ground of the enclosure. I hoped my apology would end the whole thing, and would let us go back to working together in harmony, though I still felt confused.
If I was honest, I was sorry - but not for not asking Carlos.
I was sorry the whole mess of a situation even happened.
I was sorry for lying, sorry for the situation I’d put myself in, and sorry that the night had turned so sour so quickly. Sorry for the fake and real people I had betrayed. Sorry for JT’s hard life and the child he’d never met, for his girlfriend who blocked him and for kissing him anyway.
But it felt too complex to explain from the beginning. And I didn’t know if it would even be worth it.
I battled again with the version of myself I proclaimed to be: who was honest to a fault, who always took the high road, who otherwise behaved in a bulletproof, value-driven way. Who firmly believed it mattered who you are when nobody’s watching.
Here I was again, lying. Here I was again, forgoing integrity for ease. Did the language barrier, the short-term nature of this experience, make it less bad?
Make it okay for me to play a character, even if it cost me my own?
I’d just like to say: this was a rough one to write and share. It’s hard to admit fuck ups, especially in public. But I’m trying to write the whole story of this trip, and this was part of it. Thanks for your grace.