“Why are you taking pictures of yourself?” Mark asked with one eyebrow raised as he turned around and saw my lens pointing into the window. “I’m getting bored, there’s nothing else here to photograph,” I replied.
The humidity had produced rivers of sweat on my forehead, which were running down the back of my neck and feeding into the giant prickly pear that was now my ball of hair.
“Don’t be a Negative Nancy, there’s plenty of things to see,” he teased.
“Dude, the bamboo isn’t even real.” I motioned to two plastic stalks lying in the sand.
“Fuck it, let’s get food.”