Gobble, Gobble Gobble, Republicans on Vacation
The climb up the Temple of the Sun was wearying, and hot. The Chiapas sun had finally burned through the hanging mist on the East side of the mountain leaving the Runias de Palenque speckled with the bright clothing of visitors from the world over. They dotted the stairways and promenades contrasting pleasingly with the dull gray walls of a millennium past.
“Well, let’s get down and have a refresco, hey Butch?”
“Cut out my heart and throw me down Rack, save me the walk.”
The Gringos worked themselves around the back of the temple and descended through the thick jungle, taking the shade by following a stream a few hundred meters through the deep green foliage. They soon arrived at a small pallapa and sat at one of the standard metal card tables emblazoned with “Superior” and the inevitable red and white checker board. They savored their Fantas beneath the thatched roof, watching the staked out alligators in the clear stream below.
“Chiapas garbage disposal,” Rack commented, watching the beasts slop down mounds of orange rinds and egg shells. A gaggle of turkeys entered the wall-less building begging for God knew what. “What do turkeys eat, Butch?”
“Same as everything else around here…” he replied, “…Orange peels and egg shells!” they giggled and gobbled in unison.
They noticed a pair of middle-aged Touristas winding down the seemingly endless waterfalls to the small soda stand. At their approach Rack reverted to Spanish while Butch put an “O” on the end of everything. They wanted to sound foreign so as not to have to guide more of the endless stream of nitwits to all the right places. But soon the rain forest ambiance was shattered by the pair of angry, shouting Americans.
Rack watched them berate a small ten year old Mayan girl who possessively clutched two bottles of Coke to her breast, shaking her head negatively.
“You Hippies speak Spanish?” The man boomed at Rack.
“No intiendo.”
“You guys look White.”
“OK, OK, what’s the problem?” Rack replied.
“See, Herb, I told you they were Americans. We are from Ohio, where are you from?” the wife asked.
“Florida.” Rack answered the sunburned aliens.
“This little Spic here won’t take our damn money, that’s what’s the matter!” The angry man shouted. “And she doesn’t even speak English!” Mrs. Buckeye added.
Rack had witnessed this scene all too often, “You speak Spanish in Ohio do you?” They of course, being typical parochial Americans had no idea what Rack was getting at.
“Que is problema?” he asked the frightened girl.
“Malo dinero.” she shyly replied.
“What y’all giving the kid here Herb? Let’s see… These are US fifty cent pieces, she never saw one of these before. You got any pesos?” Rack wondered himself when he had last seen a fifty cent piece.
Mr. Buckeye scowled, “Hell no! Me with Mex money, no way! I got checks, I got a VISA, and these here.” He said flipping one of the strange coins in the air.
“Well why don’t you give her the VISA and she can go down to the water and wrestle the card machine out of the gator. They eat them you know.” Rack was getting annoyed.
“Really?” Mrs.Buckeye asked, eyeing the large Caymans and stepping back.
“No, el kidding-O.” Butch replied, bouncing a turkey on his lap. The rest of the dozen or so fowl had made a close semicircle around him. “Gobble-gobble-gobble.” Butch cooed. “Gobble-gobble-gobble.” The turkeys replied in chorus.
“OK, OK, Butch, alto with the turkeys.” Butch quit turkeying. He could see Rack had just about had it with this new round of ugly Americans.
Rack turned to the girl and handed her a handful of pesos and told her to keep the change. She released the sodas to the couple with a sigh of relief.
“Gracias.” she said to Rack with a smile that was well worth the quarter tip.
“You tip these Spics?” Mr. Buckeye asked pocketing his coins.
“Ya know Herb, as I have heard them say so well down here, why don’t you go pound pinto beans up your ass.” Rack said turning away.
The couple waddled back up the path toward their air-conditioned Winnebago and ultimately back to Ohio to tell their friends how they had seen Mexico. Quaint, but too dirty, no one spoke English, and filled with American undesirables. As the Buckeyes entered the large van with the sodas the undesirables had bought them and the returnable bottles they had stolen from the Spic, Mrs. Buckeye asked Herb, “Have you ever met such rude people in your life?”