Some guy named Shakespeare penned the following words (and I quote): "Hath not a dirty old man hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick a dirty old man, does he not bleed? If you tickle him, does he not laugh? If you wrong him, shall he not revenge?"Shakespeare may have been saying that dirty old men have some human qualities. What he really should have mentioned, however, is that if you provide public transportation, dirty old men will use it. Yes, even in Peru.
I have countless dirty old men stories--and a few stories about dirty young men (though I have always maintained my virtue, Mother, in case you're reading this). A seedy African man asked me, when I was an innocent of fifteen years, to marry him. (Incidentally, I did say yes; my bride price--40,000 head of cattle--simply proved to be too high a price to pay for a scrawny white girl with a bad perm.) A street person asked me, when I was but nineteen, to meet him for a date in the men's washroom at Princess Island Park in Calgary. And in Romania, I was unwittingly foisted upon a young man by his overeager mother (though he had an uncanny resemblance to the Fonz in Happy Days, forcing me to decline the offer of marriage).
Going to Peru, I believed that the ring on my finger would magically clear all traces of dirty old men from the world. But even my rose-tinted sunglasses could not save me.
In order to experience something entirely new and different, Rod and I took a first-class train from Cusco to Puno. The agent who sold us the trip keep insisting that we wanted the less expensive train "for backpackers." However, since we hoped to secure a few hours' sleep and the safety of our luggage, we persisted.
We were, indeed, out of place. We boarded to discover old men and women, and a few eccentrics (like the Asian lady who carried an umbrella everywhere to prevent a single ray of sun from kissing her porcelain skin). At this point I had no concerns about dirty old men: the train was so luxurious that in addition to the quaint dining car, an indoor parlour encouraged mingling and an open end car gave tourists fresh air and a view.
The servers served meals in unison, first standing in a long line and then simultaneously placing plates in front of guests. When our tablecloth had a slight crease, the staff went to every effort to amend the imperfection so as not to spoil our appetites.
My gut clenched: how great was the divide between rich and poor. My anxiety increased when Rod returned from a stroll with news that an elderly woman had been startled by a Peruvian local who gave her the finger as the train passed. We engaged in a lengthy discussion on disparity--the sheer injustice that most Peruvians could not afford to ride this train through their own country!
Then the entertainment began. Three models--two beautiful Peruvian girls and a thoroughly uncomfortable young man clutching a plastic llama--did the catwalk. They paraded up and down the cars, the women in tight, seductive clothing, and the man clearly wishing he could jump onto the tracks.
What I saw next made my skin crawl. Countless dirty old men emerged from the ashes of what had been classy gentlemen. Disregarding their wives completely, the old men gawked at the Peruvian girls, their eyes crawling up and down the tight, black jumpsuits. Their reaction was an instinctive appreciation of female sexuality, perhaps, but what made the scene so loathsome was their condescending approval. Here, Peruvian beauty was on display to tourists. Young women served no other purpose but to fuel the fantasies of vile men with flabby bellies and a thick bulge of cash in their pockets.
I was ashamed to be a tourist, ashamed to be exploiting a beautiful country because I am one of the privileged. My sole consolation? --that I have never been, nor will I ever be, a dirty old man. My one regret? --not taking photographs of the dirty old men who have earned an entire entry in this blog.
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