Cruise Pt 9

We head back through the jungle to get to the bus so we can eat our lunch. We have to pass many souvenir shops, all of which have some variation of the name ‘La Trapaza de la Turista’, all of which sell exactly the same merchandise, and are occupied by Mexicans who attach themselves to you like leeches. They gesture pleadingly with you to come inside. In the middle of the jungle, surrounded by these souvenir stands, is a Subway sandwich shop, just like you’d see in Canandaigua. Our bus is just up ahead, and we’re making a beeline for it when we hear shouts of ‘¡Che Guevara! Che Guevara! You! Che Guevara! I see a Mexican running towards me, waving and hollering. He stops and touches me on the chest. ‘¡I have Che Guevara shirt! Hand-painted!’ He drags me towards his shop. He takes it down from the wall and holds it out as he inclines his head with modest pride. I look at it. It is actually pretty cool, but it’s a large. I need an XL. I say ‘I’m sorry. Too small.’ ‘¡Aya! Wait!’, he hollers and runs into his shop where he rummages in a box. He runs out triumphantly and holds the shirt out. ‘Thirty Five dollars American’, he says.

I put on my best ‘Miguel two stalls down has it cheaper expression’ and expertly hem and haw. ‘Hokay. Twenty-Five Dollars American’, he implores. I turn to walk to the bus. ‘¡Twenty! He says, ¡For you! ¡Twenty!’

I hand him a crisp Jackson. He kisses the bill, makes the sign of the Cross with it, and winks at me.

We take the bus back to the ferry; here the same hair-raising crossing is repeated. Only this time they used even more barf bags. Suzanne and I thankfully, made the crossing just fine both times.