The strange day in Peru, part II

Owen, dancing on Taquile Island

This second chapter has been hard to write as it touches on race, class, religion, and politics, and culminates in a perplexing emotional detonation. But a promise is a promise. 

Ann and Beth (pseudonyms) were the only other Americans on our very touristy boat tour of Lake Titicaca, the vast body of water straddling Peru’s border with Bolivia. We met on the Uros island described in the last post and cemented our friendship back on the tour boat as it motored on to Taquile, the other island on the itinerary. Owen and I gave them hand sanitizer. They gave us hard candies. 

I could tell immediately that Ann was a woman of great emotional intensity, a compulsive oversharer, what you might call a “live wire," probably a little nuts. I liked her a lot.

Ann’s 15-year-old daughter, Beth, was as serene as her mother was excitable. That probably wasn’t a coincidence.  An avid reader, she was carrying around a copy of Khaled Hosseini’s And the Mountains Echoed and we chatted about that and other novels we’d both read. She was one of those rare teenagers who talks to adults like they’re human beings and I liked her as much as I liked her mother. 

Owen’s role: genial bystander. 

Taquile Island, home of the Aymara people, is how I imagine Corsica. It rears up out of the blue-green lake, dry, rocky, and scrubby. Sheep grazed on hills that were gridded with orderly stone walls and dotted with huts. The people wore bright, traditional clothes and they looked prosperous and clean, the children appeared well cared for. (Unlike the Uros people, the Aymara seem to live very long lives.) We hiked 20 minutes up a steep stone path to the town square and I learned a great deal very quickly about Ann: long ago fertility troubles, Beth’s devastating decision last year to spend more time with Ann’s ex-husband, etc. The torrent of confidences was peppered with vehement political comments that did not always resonate with me. Restrictive zoning laws were a particular source of fury for Ann, as was public school funding, and “liberals who get angry when you idle your car.” I mostly just smiled vaguely in response.  We were on a gorgeous island in Peru and I had no interest in arguing.  

At some point, the tour guide ushered us to an Aymara home for an “authentic” Aymara meal. It felt about as authentic as a llama keychain, but was a lovely and happy experience nonetheless.  There was some music and dancing and for the meal we sat at long picnic tables on a patio with a lake view. We were served first a ceramic bowl of thin quinoa soup and then grilled trout. “The Aymara don’t have a source of salt and sugar, so they use very little in their cooking,” explained the tour guide. This was self evident. It is surprising how delicious bland food can be.

Owen and I sat next to Ann and Beth, of course. I wish the conversation had been recorded so I could play it back and analyze exactly how the little drama unfolded. I was only paying half attention and when I tried to piece it together after the fact there were whole chunks missing. What follows is not verbatim, but gives the gist. 

At a certain point in the meal, Ann started describing the resistance among (white) people in her state, including herself and Beth, to learning Spanish. It had something to do with the fact that almost all the Spanish speakers they met were Mexican maids and gardeners.  Somehow it just didn’t make you want to learn the language, said Ann, when all the people who spoke it worked in service. 

Whoa! I thought. Candid! I suspect the “maids and gardeners” bias explains the incredible popularity of French in our own school district, but no one has ever come out and said as much. Ann seemed to be grappling earnestly for a way to explain the anti-Spanish bias and I decided to help. 

“Because it seems lower class?” I said. I actually thought I was bringing clarity to the topic. In this context, wasn't “lower class” a useful synonym for “maids and gardeners?” Hadn't Ann essentially said it herself?

For the record, I think this anti-Spanish bias is silly and short-sighted. Plus, my maternal grandmother is a native Spanish speaker from Latin America. But I don’t think there was judgment directed toward Ann in my “lower class” remark. I know I didn’t intend any. 

This conversation soon petered out.

A few minutes later Ann said a propos of I can’t remember what: “A Latter Day Saint boy was interested in Beth and I don't want her to have anything to do with him.”

“No?” I said cautiously. “Why not?” 

“I just don’t want her going down that road,” said Ann. “It’s dangerous.”

Whoa. Candid.

I couldn’t let this pass. I said, “I should tell you, my father’s family was all LDS. I don’t think it’s dangerous to date a Mormon.” I said this lightly because I was starting to suspect that Ann was not just a live wire but a loose cannon. 

“It’s playing with fire!" said Ann fiercely.

Beth looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. I said, “Is the LDS boy your boyfriend?”

Before she could answer, Ann said loudly and stiffly: “No! We're not going to discuss that here! Let’s change the subject! Maybe we can talk some more about how I’m a bigot because I don’t jump on the Spanish bandwagon.”

Then Beth shook her head and said sorrowfully, “I’m definitely not a bigot.” The two of them climbed out of the picnic table and left Owen and me sitting there.

On the hike back down the hill to the boat we were 12 steps in front of Ann and Beth the whole time. We could overhear them and they could overhear us and while they talked animatedly, everything I said to Owen sounded stiff and forced. Why was I was the one feeling awkward when Ann was the narrow-minded hothead? 

On the boat back to the mainland,  I went over the interaction with Ann and Beth again and again. What had happened? What had I said or done? Bigot? Where had they come up with bigot? It hadn’t even crossed my mind. We disembarked and didn’t say goodbye to Ann and Beth, nor they to us. 

Back at the hotel, I went straight to the internet and looked up the definition of “bigot.” I had always thought it meant “racist,” which it does. But the Merriam-Webster definition is broader than that: 

Definition of BIGOT

: a person who is obstinately or intolerantly devoted to his or her own opinions and prejudices; especially : one who regards or treats the members of a group (as a racial or ethnic group) with hatred and intolerance 

I don’t think Ann was a racist. But take out the “especially’ clause and there’s no question she was a bigot.

After a thorough review that lasted well into the next day and involved a long conversation with Owen, who had observed the incident, I concluded that Ann was off her rocker and that I had behaved acceptably. Owen, however, argued that I should have disagreed with Ann the first time she said something objectionable. He said the only way to have a real relationship with someone is to lay your cards on the table from the start and if it’s not going to work out, you’ll know right away. (He just read this over my shoulder and says he's fine with me making him sound more articulate than he actually is.) I countered that you have to pick your battles. Moreover, if I’d disagreed with Ann earlier I would have ruined the whole afternoon, not just the last hour. 

But perhaps Owen is right. 

We left Lake Titicaca the next day and went to Cusco where we saw a cathedral that features a painting of the Last Supper with a guinea pig on the platter. We ate pizza topped with alpaca prosciutto followed by delicious, delicious alfajores and I sat on a park bench in the sun and read an excellent Peter Abrahams novel. Day before yesterday, we visited Inca houses built into the sides of cliffs and yesterday we hiked around Macchu Picchu and decided not to climb Huayna Picchu because we are scared of slipping and plunging to our deaths as people occasionally do. For dinner I ordered guinea pig confit. This morning I'm trying to decide whether one of my friends would ever wear a baby alpaca wool poncho and am thinking probably not. All of this has been enjoyable (except the guinea pig confit), but none of it has challenged my assumptions or forced me to think like that sad morning on the island of the Uros and the confusing afternoon with Ann. I hope the last few days of the vacation continue in this pleasant and unchallenging vein.