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Let's be honest, fellow
viajeras, when we're on one
of our worldly adventures, we can become completely absorbed in our own
adventure. But has it ever occurred to you that the people you are so
curious about are usually even more curious about you? It's true.
If you take just a few minutes to look around you
as you're walking through the market, or buying freshly squeezed juice,
or trying to figure out how to properly hail a cab, you'll see curious
faces staring back at you from all corners. These people want to know
about La Gringa. Who is this mystery woman stranger? And what on earth
could she possibly be thinking traveling all by her lonesome? For all of
you who have asked yourself this question at one time or another, I'm
going to answer it now. I'm going to take you to a very foreign place –
inside the mind of La Gringa.
Here she is, La Gringa from Seattle, Washington,
USA. She's just stepped off a 12-hour bus ride, it's 8:00 in the morning,
and she needs to exchange money, find a meal, and get a place to stay.
My ass hurts. I've been sitting on a wooden plank
of a bus seat for the past 12 hours. My knees hurt, they've been crammed
up against the back of the seat in front of me. Why are the seats always
so small in other countries? I have caked vomit on my shoes from the
little boy that couldn't take the windy road. I'm hungry, I stink, and
I'm tired. But I finally made it.
I can't wait to visit the beaches, see the monkeys,
and meet some new people. But first, I need to get a cheap place to stay,
I need to get some food in me, and I need to exchange some dollars. I
see tourist touts trying to make their way toward me. I always hate it
when I'm attacked right after I get off a bus. No, I don't have a place
to stay, but will everybody please leave me alone so I can look around a
bit?
I manage to sneak out of the station, only to be
attacked by traffic! Peligroso! People seem to drive so crazy here, and
there's trucks, motorcycles, bicycles, cars, dogs, pigs, chickens,
children and people, all sharing the same, narrow streets. It's crazy,
but this is why I travel. For all these crazy things that make me feel
alive, that make me think for myself, be responsible for myself. The
sidewalks are streets and the streets are crosswalks. Walk at your own
risk.
The air is pretty bad. I bring my sleeve up to my
nose like I see other people doing, trying to fit in. I always try to
look like I know what I'm doing, like maybe I've been here before, to
try and steer away all the touts that prowl on tourists fresh off the
bus.
My pack is getting heavier by the minute, and the
sun hotter by the second, but I always love walking around a new city.
It is breakfast time, and the food carts I pass smell so good, even
though their food is being cooked next to buses spewing exhaust. I'm
tempted to eat some of the fresh tortillas and eggs, but the last time I
ate from a street vendor's cart, I had diarrhea for three days, and
there's nothing worse that traveling with diarrhea. Why is it that the
public restroom is such a foreign idea in this country?
A pack of muddy young kids spots me and moves in
for the kill. They run up, yelling and laughing, holding their palms up
in the air for money from the Gringa. I never get used to being
considered a rich tourist. I've been wearing the same clothes for two
weeks, I'm dirty as hell, and I'd be kicked out of most places back home
on sight, but here I'm looked at like a queen! I love kids, but I hate
being hit up for money just because I'm a foreigner, so I shoo the pack
away.
There's a little coffee place on a street corner,
it looks fresh, it looks cheap, but it's all locals inside, which means
I'd have to stumble through my Spanish. Pass. There's another breakfast
place across the street, this one has an obviously foreign couple
sitting inside. I think I'll go there and ask them where's a good place
to stay. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to hang out with other
tourists the whole time, but I really want to get my bearings, and then
I can explore the city and meet local people.
The Australian couple tells me about a great little
guesthouse, and I'm walking down the street once again trying to look
like I know where I'm going. I can't wait to explore some of the
handicraft shops and meet some of the women I see selling fruit and
juice by the roadside. They are all looking at me with such kind,
smiling eyes, pointing at me and whispering.
I look up and see the sign for the hotel. I walk
in, and it's a small place, kept by a young couple. I barter for the
price of the room. I figure I'm staying for a week so I should get a
good price; after a well-acted resistance, they give in. They show me to
my room, a small, sparse space with a bed, a sink and a shower. I
wouldn't be caught dead in a room like this at home (it probably has
roaches even), but here, it's perfect.
I sit down on the bed, and the more I sit and stare
at the room around me, the more I begin to notice the amazingly
beautiful details: the colorful tiles in the corners of the floor, the
gracefully arched walls, the hand-knit pillowcases. The colors are all
so beautiful and full of life; it makes me feel welcome and warm. It
seems the more I stop and just observe while I travel, the more amazing
everything becomes. That's the beauty of travel – or of everything for
that matter.
I look out the barred window and see so much life in
the streets. Children screaming and playing, dogs scavenging, vendors
cooking, people socializing and selling everything under the sun. Women
are carrying supplies while men just stand around watching, smoking and
“manning” the stores. It sure seems like the women do most of the work
in these parts, even the heavy lifting, while the men just stand around
and act all-important and macho. I think I’d hate to be a woman here.
But I will try to meet as many local women as I can
on this trip. I look down at the street and see the women I saw on the
way in, the fruit and juice vendors. They’re just hanging around,
laughing, minding children, preparing juice, and talking. I decide to
hop in the shower to wake myself up, and get myself down there.
Suddenly, I’m very thirsty for a tall, cool glass of fresh mango juice.
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