The Year of the Ransom

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“Excellent loneliness.” Yes, Kipling could say it. I remember how those lines of his rolled up and down my spine when first I heard them, Uncle Steve reading aloud to me. Though that must have been a dozen years ago, they still do. The poem’s about the sea and the mountains, of course; but so are the Galapagos, the Enchanted Islands.

Today I need just a little of their loneliness. The tourists were mostly bright, decent people. Still, a season of herding them along the trails, answering the same questions over and over, does begin to wear on a person. Now they’ve become fewer, my summer job has ended, soon I’ll be home Stateside, commencing grad school. Here is my last chance.

“Wanda, dear!” The word Roberto used is querida, which could mean quite a lot. Not necessarily. I wonder about it for a flicker or two while he: “Please, at least let me come along.”

Headshake. “I’m sorry, my friend.” No, not exactly; amigo doesn’t translate one-on-one into English, either. “I’m not sulking or anything. Far from it. All I want is a few hours by myself. Haven’t you ever?”

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