Tourists are a Fascinating Lot

I will soon write about the amazing Lares trek--our four-day journey to Machu Picchu that took us over mountain passes with a posse of llamas (indignant rabblerousers), horses, a guide, a porter, a cook, and a fellow trekker from the Australian army. I will soon write about the brilliant moment when, after watching our driver change a tire on a steep slope in the middle of nowhere, my dear husband stepped directly into an impressive pile of dog excrement and then into the van. I will soon write about the amazing children we encountered: descendants of the Incas who live quiet, peaceful lives on the mountain slopes, untainted by city life or tourists.

However, I cannot help but first write about tourists--some of the bizarre individuals we have encountered who are sometimes more foreign to us than the locals themselves.

I will begin with a middle-aged woman from Uruguay who was a member of our group touring the islands of Lake Titicaca. Whereas the majority of hikers wear khaki pants, hiking boots, bandanas, sunglasses, and hats to block out the sun, this woman wore riding pants, nylons, knee-high black boots, a suit jacket, and a most fashionable scarf. Her hair was perfectly arranged, and she had taken great care to apply her purple eyeshadow. (Keep in mind that I did not even bring deodorant on our overnight stay!)

Now, what is the most appropriate thing to do before an uphill hike at an altitude of 4,000-and-some metres? Normally I would suggest applying sunblock and drinking bottled water. This woman, however, believed that a cigarette would open up her airways; hence, neither Rod nor I were at all surprised when she had to be taken up the slope on a horse.

What made her even more fascinating (and I will admit that I took a liking to this peculiar woman) was her constant habit of touching the locals. She requested that women selling blankets and trinkets braid her hair. She reached out and stroked the cheeks of children even after being told that these were a shy, reserved people. She hugged and kissed and jumped upon every living being within her reach.

I was struck, too, by the differing attitudes of tourists. We spent one afternoon on a boat talking with Henrik and Marie, Norwegians with a passion for the poor. Henrik, a 23-year-old with plans to become a missionary upon procuring a wife, spoke of watching children search for scraps of food in a garbage dump. His face crumpled and he was almost silenced by his passionate anger against the injustice he had seen. His sister spoke of working in an orphanage in Bolivia, and observed how thrilled the children were when her family took them for dinner at a fast food restaurant.

Conversely, another group of tourists complained about some of the "bastards" they had encountered in their journey across South America. One girl, who was to spend a night with a family with a five-year-old boy, flatly stated that she did not like children but that the little boy was tolerable because he was quiet. "I was amazed by how thrilled he was when I gave him some pencils and paper," she had added, as if to redeem herself.