The Backpacking Housewife. Janice Horton
Ethan told me knowledgably.
‘But maybe this island could be a protected sanctuary for butterflies again?’ I suggested.
‘Perhaps. Only, to apply for the protected status from the government, we’d need to find an indigenous species here or at the very least an endangered one.’
‘Indigenous? That means a native species?’
‘That’s right. Like the Green Morpho.’ Ethan leaned forward to kiss my bare shoulder.
As if offended at not being deemed special enough, the little butterfly fluttered away.
‘There’s only one problem. ‘I adore butterflies, but I really can’t abide caterpillars.’
Ethan laughed in surprise. ‘Why ever not? I mean, it’s not like they can hurt you.’
‘Because I think I had a traumatic experience involving caterpillars when I was a little girl,’ I confessed. If I closed my eyes, I could recall a misty memory of myself as a child, standing at a big leafy shrub in the garden. ‘I was picking caterpillars off a plant and collecting them into a plastic bucket. I have no idea why.’
Back then, like today, there’s hot sunshine on the top of my head and the earthy scent of damp soil and vegetation all around me. I remember the simple childish pleasure I felt at collecting dozens – if not hundreds – of tiny new creepy crawly friends.
‘I suppose it was some kind of a childhood game.’ I continued. ‘Except, I’m still not entirely sure if it was something that really happened to me, or if it was just a horrible nightmare. When I heard my mother calling me, I left my bucket of caterpillars on a workbench inside our garden shed for safekeeping.’ I paused and shuddered at the thought of retelling it.
‘So how is that traumatic?’ Ethan scoffed, not seeing anything offensive in my story at all.
‘Because, when I returned to the shed to play with my caterpillar friends, I remember the wooden door slamming behind me and finding my bucket almost empty, except for just a few green caterpillars and some leaves. I can remember looking around to see only one or two caterpillars crawling along the bucket rim and wondering where they’d all gone?’
‘That doesn’t sound anywhere near as bad as the time I found my ant farm unexpectedly empty.’ Ethan interrupted me to say. ‘Except it wasn’t kept in a shed. It was in my bedroom!’
He laughed at the memory. I ignored him to continue with my own story of icky trauma.
‘I then suddenly realised that there were hundreds of caterpillars covering the walls and the glass windows. They were also crawling on the wooden beams and ceiling. When they started to drop onto me, I began to scream. They didn’t look cute to me anymore. They didn’t look like tiny friendly toys that wriggled. They looked like tiny bloated chomping hairy monsters and I screamed and screamed. I remember feeling the pitter patter of them falling onto my head and getting caught up in my hair and sticking to my dress and my bare arms. I remember trying to flee. Only to find the door handle and my escape route covered in caterpillars. I was trapped. They all looked like tiny wriggly scary snakes. Yuck!’
I shuddered again and pulled a face to show my revulsion to both snakes and caterpillars.
Ethan laughed and discreetly pinched my bottom ‘Oh, look, there’s a snake in the water!’
But I wasn’t falling for it and so we had a splash fight until we were suddenly aware of the time and how the whole morning had somehow escaped us. We reluctantly left the waterfall grotto and made our way back through the rainforest towards our boat, where Ethan said that included in our charter was a cooler with fresh drinking water and a packed picnic lunch of sandwiches and fruit. He was always so thoughtful and thorough about everything.
Although, being Ethan, of course, he would call it being prepared.
Once back on board, after our packed lunch, to get our bearings, we cast our eyes over the ancient map once again. I traced my finger along the line that formed this side of the island.
‘Okay, so this is the bay where we’re at anchor just now. And here is headland and the lagoon and the long stretch of beach that’s protected by this coral reef.’
‘Yes. That’s right. And that’s where I want to build our house.’ Ethan declared.
I dragged my eyes up from the map to look at his handsome face and wondered how I’d ever thought to doubt him over these past few weeks. He had been listening and sympathising with all my concerns. He had understood me when I’d tried to explain how I loved my life with him but couldn’t help but to feel anxiety over being separated from my family. He’d said then that he’d find us somewhere for us to call home and he’d been true to his word. All this, despite my reservations that Ethan Goldman could no more settle down somewhere, than a butterfly could choose to land on my hand. Happily, I’d been proved wrong on both counts.
‘I want to build us a big beautiful traditional style Caribbean house. Using only natural materials and with features that will provide us with a zero-carbon footprint.’ His eyes sparkled as he told me his plans. ‘We’ll use solar panels to generate our own electricity. We’ll dig a well and tap into the fresh water source here for our drinking water. We’ll finally have somewhere to call home. A perfect place to take time out and a base to return to between our travels. Where we can invite your family over to spend their holidays and where we can both grow old together. How does that sound to you, Lori?’
‘I think it sounds perfect,’ I told him with tears of happiness blurring my vision.
We gathered up our things to find the beach where he wanted to build our house.
Then Ethan opened the cooler again, to haul out a bottle of chilled champagne.
He waved it at me momentarily before stuffing it into his small backpack.
‘When we find exactly the spot to build our house, Lori, then we’ll open this to celebrate!’
I laughed and clapped my hands in excitement and approval at this wonderful idea.
We waded from the boat and back onto the little sandy beach in the heart-shaped bay from where we made our way into the steamy jungle once more. This time, we ventured in a westerly direction, into what looked like a beautiful and exotic tropical garden with giant vegetation and flowers everywhere and with butterflies and hummingbirds and other colourful birds in the trees. We stepped carefully over twisted roots and through feather-like grasses and wound our way through wild sugar cane and tall bamboo and trees with long hanging tendrils. We craned our necks to look up at the tallest of palm trees, laden with coconuts, and with their fronds waving back and to in the warm humid breeze. I saw bananas growing in great clumps, hanging down on storks, weighted down by the hefty purple cones of the banana flower.
There were breadfruits the size of footballs. Mangos and starfruits ripe and tantalisingly ready to eat. The tropical flowers that I recognised looked like those grown in heated botanical gardens back home. Others looked so vibrantly colourful and oversized and waxy that they looked completely unreal. With every step, I started to realise this island had an awful lot going for it. Ethan kept stopping along the route to take photos on his phone of the flora and fauna.
‘This island might look like a total escape from the outside world but as far as locations go it’s in the middle of the tropical suburbs,’ he told me. ‘It has protected waters. Consistent trade winds. Line of sight neighbours and it’s just a short boat ride from Tortola and its regional airport and the international airports on St. Thomas, Antigua, and San Juan.’
I started to get it. I began to understand.
Excitement fizzed up inside me like the effervescent bubbles in our soon to be popped champagne bottle. I could now see how this island was a middle ground for us between remote and accessible, public and private, and a perfect place for us to call home. It ticked all the boxes. It really was that perfect compromise that I’d been looking for and longing to find.
Suddenly,