The Vacation Where We Should Have Stayed Home by Dan McKay

Zoe and I had been itching for a vacation. Something exotic, completely foreign to us. Preferably, off the beaten path, where we wouldn’t be swept into a crowd of tourists wearing the uniform of the naïve and ignorant. We’d dress like the natives, eat what they ate, sing their songs, and dance their dances.

I spent hours on the internet searching for some place not yet discovered by the hoi polloi. Finally, in an archived blog post from an AWOL sailor, I found it: the island nation of K’Puut. Described as primitive and friendly, it was where the sailor had hidden from the MPs searching for him.

In hindsight, Zoe wasn’t as gung-ho as I was. I think she went along with it because of my undue enthusiasm. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked as I booked a series of flights on increasingly smaller airlines.

We left the U.S. from LAX, and with each change, we shed vestiges of our modern life. Almost there, we ate at a tiny airport fast food stand. All they had left were “Jolly Meals” meant for children. I ate two, Zoe ate one.

K’Puut had no airport, so the last leg was on a wobbly seaplane, and we had to wade to the shore. “It’s not like you’ll have to wear a grass skirt and coconuts. It’s not like we’re going naked,” I told her. I’d be eating those words soon enough.

When we finally pushed through the surf and onto the beach, we were greeted by several natives bent over, presumably digging up clams, but their garbs had slid down, effectively mooning us. We politely looked away for a minute before I realized we were being greeted.

Having agreed to “go native,” I dropped my pants and returned the gesture. With some prodding, Zoe joined me. “I didn’t think to put sunscreen there,” she hissed. “And I don’t enjoy going around mooning strangers.”

“I remember you in college,” I said.

“Shut up,” she replied. “Those were youthful indiscretions.”

The natives rushed over to us and gathered behind my wife. They pointed at the birthmark near her hip. One even touched it, causing my wife to yank up her shorts. “Dave,” she asked, “what’s going on?”

“It appears they’re enamored with that cute little birthmark on your backside.” An old lady approached with a baby. She gestured towards my wife’s shorts. “I think they want an encore,” I joked.

She shot me an icy look despite the tropical weather. “Why couldn’t it have been you?” She slid one side down, and the old lady placed the infant’s hand on the birthmark. The crowd cheered.

Through hand gestures and a helpful vocabulary guide I’d found on the AWOL sailor’s blog, we requested to see where we’d be staying. They led us to a small hut with hammocks for beds. A goat stood in the corner. I figured out from the hand signals and pantomimes that the goat would guard against the things that tried to crawl into the huts at night.

We stowed our backpacks on the hammocks and followed the group to a campfire. A large pot bubbled over the fire, sending out a delicious aroma. Being so close to the equator, the sun had set long before we were accustomed to it in the summer back home. We sat cross-legged in a circle and passed coconut shells around.

Manna from heaven! I had never tasted anything so good. Eyes wide, Zoe nodded in agreement. “What do you think is in it?”

“Some sort of fruit,” I said, inspecting what was left at the bottom. “Maybe it’s better remembered if we don’t look too closely.”

After the meal, the islanders stood and formed a line. The old lady came up to Zoe and gestured at her bottom again. With a sigh, Zoe lowered her shorts and exposed her birthmark. Each person stepped forward and solemnly touched it.

As the last person walked past me, he leaned over and whispered, “It’s very good luck, sir.” Before I could say anything, he vanished into the dark.

That night, as we relaxed in the hammocks, the goat skittered around the room. “Did I hear one of them talking to you?” Zoe asked.

“Yes, one of them speaks English. The last guy in the line. He told me it’s good luck.”

“I hope they’re done with that now,” she said. “I tried, but I can’t even think of it as flattering.”

The goat bleated and charged across the hut. We heard a solid thump, and something ran off. Zoe squealed in fright. The goat huffed and snorted. Per their instructions, I tossed the goat some fruit rinds from a pail hanging next to my hammock. It ate them and added more droppings to the floor. The odor permeated the air. I imagined Zoe plotting a hundred different ways to kill me.

The next morning, we visited the island latrines, where “second tree on the left” wasn’t a joke. After a breakfast of fruit and coconut, we set off exploring. The unspoiled beauty of the beaches took my breath away. Outrigger canoes floated on the waves. One man raised a spear and threw it into the water. He pulled it back with a rope and raised a large fish in triumph.

I saw the man who had spoken to me. He waved me out of sight of the others and told me he wasn’t a native of this island. He told me to call him Mako, like the shark. The natives tolerated him, but his social standing was only slightly above that of guard goat. He feared he’d be expelled once they got tired of him.

Mako walked along with us, keeping an eye out for dangers. I expected he’d have a machete or club, but he tackled snakes, scorpions, and aggressive monkeys with his bare hands. When we swam in the crystal-clear waters, Mako swam ahead of us. He dove below the surface and came up gasping a couple of minutes later. What he had chased away, I’ll never know.

For lunch, they brought out island delicacies, some still squirming. Zoe nibbled on the fruit, and I, having promised myself to do like the natives did, ate everything they offered. An hour later, I spent several minutes on my hands and knees behind the second tree on the left, emptying my stomach in violent spasms.

Zoe helped me to my feet. “It’s the island curse,” I said. “I didn’t touch the lucky birthmark last night.”

She wound up to punch me. “Just try it, buster. You’re out of luck for a very long time.”

We sat on the beach and sipped a fruity drink from coconut shells. Seagulls screeched overhead, and Mako used a stick to keep the gulls from dive-bombing us. Zoe changed into her new bikini to soak up some sun. The skimpy bottom exposed her birthmark, and she soon had attracted a small crowd.

“Mako,” she hissed, “chase them away. Use your stick.”

“I cannot,” he said. “They will feed me to the sharks.”

That evening, we sat around the campfire and passed around coconut bowls. The food tasted just as good as it had the first night. After we finished, a line formed behind Zoe. I watched tears roll down her face as she complied with their lucky ritual.

We went back to our hut in silence. The goat performed its duties, chasing out unwelcome nighttime visitors and adding to the piles of goat droppings.

The next morning, behind the second tree on the left, Zoe grabbed my arm. “Dave, get me out of here. When does the plane come back?”

I pulled papers from my pocket. “Four more days.”

“Call him and get him here today.”

“My cell phone doesn’t have a signal,” I said. “I checked when we first got here. They don’t have phones or electricity here, either.”

“I appreciate the effort you put into this vacation, Dave, but I can’t take it anymore.”

“What can we do?” I asked as we trudged back to our hut for a midday siesta.

“Let me check my phone.” Zoe took her purse from the hammock. “No signal.” She dropped her phone into her purse. “Hey!”

I jumped out of my hammock and landed barefoot on a fresh pile of goat droppings. “What?”

She burst into laughter. “The Jolly Meals!”

I rubbed my feet in the dirt. “What about them?”

“They came with temporary tattoos.”

“So?”

“So, go find Mako. Now!” She pointed out the door. I’d seen that look on her face before, and I ran like the wind.

A few minutes later, I returned with Mako. “Okay, Zoe, here he is.”

 “Mako, turn around and drop your shorts,” she commanded.

“What?!” Mako and I said in unison.

***

That night at the campfire, when the line formed behind Zoe, she waved Mako over. The crowd looked puzzled, and some protested. She pointed to Mako’s shorts, and he lowered them. The crowd gasped and cheered.

“Look, there’s Dopey Smurf—that’s you,” Zoe said to me. “Naturally, Smurfette is me. And Lucky Smurf has to be Mako.”

Mako beamed as the people touched the lucky spots. Several men returned with a sedan chair and hauled him to one of the nicer huts.

The next day, we had to fend off the seagulls ourselves, but it was worth it. Zoe could sunbathe without gathering a crowd. Mako’s feet never seemed to touch the ground as the men carried him everywhere. “I feel like royalty,” he told us.

“At least until those temporary tattoos wear off,” I said.

Mako’s face fell. Zoe pulled me aside. “Do you think we can get him on the seaplane?”

***

The day before the seaplane was due, the gig was up for Mako’s now-faded tattoos. Zoe and I fell under a cloud of suspicion. The men carried spears, and a much larger pot appeared next to the fire. “They’re probably going to cook a goat in our honor,” I tried to assure Zoe. Mako slashed his finger across his throat. We skipped supper, and the three of us hid in the jungle. One man pounded drums all night while the rest carried tiki torches and stalked the paths. Zoe clung to me and made me promise our next vacation would be boring.

***

The next day, around noon, the seaplane buzzed the island and landed near the beach. We broke cover, sprinted across the sand, and splashed into the water.

“What’s the hurry?” the pilot asked as we scrambled into the cabin. A spear bounced off the fuselage, answering his question. In the excitement and rush to leave, the pilot didn’t question why we had an extra person or where our luggage was.

***

After a tearful farewell, Mako joined the crew of a freighter headed to his home country. Lucky for us, I had my wallet, although Zoe’s purse was still in the hut with our luggage, no doubt still guarded by the goat. We bought new clothes and checked in at the airport for the next flight on our way home. While we waited in the boarding area, I perused travel brochures.

“Check this out,” I said. “We can join an expedition to find Bigfoot.”

Zoe’s eyes bugged out. “Are you nuts? I told you I want our next vacation to be boring.”

“Here’s one where we get to swim with sea turtles,” I offered.

“A little better.” She handed me a pamphlet.

“The Rocking Chair Museum and Hall of Fame?” I slumped in my seat. “Are you serious?”

She crossed her arms and gave me a look I knew all too well. I covertly slipped the Bigfoot brochure inside the one for rocking chairs and made a show of stashing it in my new carry-on. The museum and the expedition were only about fifty miles apart. I was sure I could convince her to do both. What’s the worst that could happen?