In Which Megan is Publicly Humiliated Twice in One Day
Tuesday, February 20th, 2007If there’s one thing Megan hates more than anything else, it’s being asked to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers and do something… you know, like call a bingo game. Because of this hatred, today was quite an adventure.
We had organized a tour of Las Islas Ballestras, often referred to as “the poor man’s Galapagos” because a tour costs $10 instead of $1500 and you still get to see boobies and penguins and sea lions. So, a guy picks us up at our hotel this morning and brings us to the tour bus where we join loads of other tourists. Weirdly, after we’ve been driving for maybe fifteen minutes, the guy that picked us up says: “Sarah? Sarah? You guys get off here.” We look around. No one else moves. We follow the guide to a pier, where the early morning anchovy catch is being packaged, and sit down on guano-strewn docks to watch the dolphins and wait for the rest of our group. Half an hour later, we’re sitting in the boat, the captain is spilling his guts about his ill-advised marriage at age 16, and the rest of the group still hasn’t shown. And then they do. Turns out our tour consists of the two of us, the captain, and about fifty seven-year-olds dressed in school uniforms which announce that they belong to the “Escuela de los Bomberitos” (School of Little Firemen). Cute, until you’re sitting in their vomit three hours later.
At one point on the journey the aforementioned captain explained to the two of us and the fifty bomberitos that the seas were going to get rough. “Don’t worry” he said, “if the weather turns I’ll sacrifice the two North American tourists to the gods. You know, fresh, white meat.” The bomberitos thought that was very funny. Other than the spectre of our impending doom, the boat was pleasant, the kids well behaved (even while vomiting) and besides a little nausea, both of us were safe to watch the sea lions and penguins.
Later in the day, on a bus from Pisco to Nazca (where we are now) there was another incident. Now, in South America, guys often times get on buses and give 10 to 30 minute speeches, often comical, which segue into the selling of caramels or just asking for money. One such gentleman entered our bus today and started his spiel. Everything was fine (usually, these folks assume we don’t speak Spanish and so basically ignore us) until he brought down a sports bag and insinuated that there was a cobra inside. The bus became, quite understandably, nervous. Since Megan was sitting on the aisle, right next to him, she craned her neck to see whether there was, in fact, a mortally dangerous snake less than a foot away. He capitalized on this move, grabbing her hand and sticking it in the bag, to a soundtrack of gasps and shrieks, and proved, thank the Lord, that there were only candy bars inside.
So began Megan’s second career as a “helper to the guy who does strange comedy routines to sell candy bars on Peruvian buses.” He asked her the usual questions, where are you from, what’s your name, do you want to take the guy sitting behind you home to the States with you, would you like to touch the killer snake I’ve got here in my bag… and so on. Then he decided, for some unfathomable reason, to involve Megan in a marriage proposal skit. He would declare his love, teaching the men on the bus the proper way to woo a lady, and Megan would respond in some way that would probably involve nervous laughter. She was unsure what this would entail, and hoped it would involve the least amount of Spanish speaking possible. He complimented her eyes, her hat, said their love was hopeless but he wanted to try anyway, and generally employed every love cliche in the book before requesting a hug. Megan complied, abashedly. The bus loved it, and everybody bought a candy bar. Even us. We’re such suckers.
At least Megan’s fever had subsided by this point.
-Las Dos
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