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Cold water, check. Then again, as sweaty and overheated as I’m feeling right now, a cold shower sounds great.
“There are five stalls.” Trudy speaks up. “Each one is outfitted with eco-friendly soap and shampoo. Use that, not whatever chemical crap you brought from the mainland.”
“Towels are on a rack at the front.” Ann’s turn. “You’ll notice the other half of the space is our laundry facility. Which will be one of your new chores.”
“As well as cleaning the showers.”
“Now, your cabin.”
They’re off again, leading me down the left-forking branch of the trail, more white shells with red bodies scurrying out of our way. I notice rustling coming from the underbrush beside us, which has me veering to the middle of the path. An orange crab appears briefly, freezes, then does a quick side shuffle back into the grass.
“Is that a coconut crab?” I ask, as it’s certainly bigger than the hermits.
“Oh, no, you’ll know the coconut crab when you see it. They’re nocturnal, so not out hunting just yet.”
“You’ll definitely want a flashlight for after dark.”
“You think the path is busy now, just wait till then!”
We’ve arrived at the residential area, the crushed-coral trail now dotted on either side by small wooden cabins, each painted a rich hue of green or blue and bearing some kind of carved sign, from a perfectly shaped turtle to a leaping dolphin to an impressively detailed blossom. Trudy and Ann turn to the left, climbing the stairs to a green cabin adorned with an orange-and-pink painted hibiscus.
“Home sweet home,” Trudy declares, yanking on the screen door. It takes three tugs, then the door groans open, the humidity wreaking havoc on its wooden frame.
I mount the stairs, trying to notice everything all at once. The front porch boasts a single rocking chair, a tall black umbrella, and a row of pegs jutting out below the impressively sized front-facing window. More movement catches my eye, one of the orange crabs disappearing beneath the cabin. Behind us I’d already noticed three or four holes dotting the front yard. Apparently, the orange crabs also come in impressive numbers.
Stepping into the cabin, I’m immediately greeted by a cooling breeze against my flushed face. The ceiling fan, whirring away in the peaked ceiling. I’m still sighing in relief when I notice the rest of the space—whitewashed ceiling and walls, dark-green trim, and a pale-blue-painted floor. It sets the perfect stage for two twin beds, one on each side of the room and both topped with obviously well-worn but still adorable flowered quilts.
Three of the four walls boast large screened windows, designed to let in the maximum amount of air. More hooks dot the corner posts. There is also a plastic shelf unit and bedside reading lights.
“There are wooden storm shutters on the windows, but we took the liberty of opening them for you,” Trudy informs me. “You’ll want to keep the windows open and the fan running, or this place will turn into an oven. As you can see, no insulation. Good news: the amount of sun we get keeps the solar-powered generators fully juiced. Unless we end up in a prolonged storm, we’re good on the electricity front.”
“Storms?”
“You’ve flown south from Hawaii,” Ann explains. “You’re pretty much at the equator now, where the weather stays a consistent eighty-five degrees with eighty-five percent humidity. Pomaikai is classified as a coastal rainforest, which feels exactly like it sounds. And we’re subject to crazy storms. Sheets of rain that can hit for hours or last days.”
I take a guess: “Hence the umbrella on the front porch?”
Trudy is nodding. “You’ll see ’em everywhere. Though, truth is, once you get used to being wet all the time, it’s no big deal. Personally, I like a good storm. I think of it as a long, decadent shower. Aren’t people back home forking over a fortune for rain shower heads? See, we’re already living a life of luxury, and we’re not even having to pay resort fees.”
“Pro tip.” Ann again. “Take off your shoes outside. Otherwise you’ll constantly be sweeping out sand.”
“And use the pegs for your shoes!”
“Definitely use the pegs. Toe of shoe pointing up.”
“But you should still inspect them before putting them on.”
“Otherwise, spiders.”
“And geckos,” Trudy adds.
“Or possibly a scorpion, but that’s not common,” Ann reassures me. She points down to a bright pink pair of Crocs encasing her sock-covered feet. “We recommend open shoes. Too many things like the dark.”
“I… I have a pair in my luggage.” I look around, but my roller bag isn’t here.
“Perfect.” Trudy points up at a large black knot on a ceiling beam above us. “Don’t worry about the wolf spider. They look worse than they are.”
“That’s a spider?” The thing is nearly the size of my fist. Not the kind of roommate I had in mind, and I once had to share space with a feral cat that routinely bloodied my ankle. “Are there snakes around here? Just tell me. What kind of snakes?”
