Cheryl & Jules

Today, Cheryl and Jules, an American couple I met traveling in 2010 have finally been unseated from their long-held spot at the top of my not-so-short list of ‘travelers’, ‘backpackers’ and ‘gap year peeps’ whom, I deeply loathe and who ensure that the stereotypes about western travelers remain truer than true year to year.

Cheryl and Jules, well into their sixties bled America. Even without being cut. They also seemed to bleed money, but without the added effect or benefit of appreciating the output of their expenditures. I was staying (for one night) in a mid-range hotel in Antigua. The project I was working on had a budget the like of which I had never before experienced (it would be considered ‘modest’ in the business world, but for little NGO focused me at the ripe old age of 23, it was amazing. I’d had my own bathroom the whole trip and we ate three meals a day).  We were just wrapping up, and preparing to leave the highlands for California. This last night was a chance to do goodbyes, risk amoebas by buying one last bag of mango slices, nab a handful of bracelets from the market for my sister, etc. The hotel, situated near the centre of Antigua, like so many of the old colonial style houses, was a brightly painted adobe/stone affair with a series of rooms around a large central courtyard, filled with flowers.  There was, of course, a fountain and it was home to a pair of very vocal little Lovebirds—whose names, Juan and Juanita were posted on a sign next to the cage, along with the note that “they bite”.  And it was through the little Lovebirds that I met Cheryl.

I’d settled myself outside my very very very very lovely room at a small table near the garden (also very lovely) to do some writing, get a postcard or two off before my flight and to enjoy the Antigueno sun, when I heard her.

“OOOOHHHHHHHH” not quite a squeal, not quite a scream. “AREN’T YOU JUST LOVELY!” Her accent had a hint of New York and before looking over in annoyance I could have told you that every item of clothing she was wearing was both brand name and brand new.  Sure enough, from her blue tinted, slightly permed hair down to her Gucci bag and Pedro Garcia stiletto heels, Cheryl looked like money. Obnoxious, horrible, money. She wore an off-white silk button-up blouse underneath what can best be described as a ‘Steve Irwin’ style vest over light tan trousers. “ARE YOU PARROTS?”  She asked, poking her finger into the cage where the two, now significantly less vocal lovebirds were potentially considering taking action (biting).  

“ARE THEY PARROTS?” Cheryl turned, shouting at one of the Guatemalan employees who had been moving from room to room cleaning out the recently vacated spaces for the next round of obnoxiously moneyed guests.  The woman smiled rather politely at Cheryl and kept moving on.

“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION DEAR. ARE THEY PARROTS?”  The cleaner kept cleaning. I can only wonder at how many Cheryl and Juleses she’s encountered working in the tourist sector over the years.  

“I SAID ARE THEY PARROTS????”  At this point Cheryl had completely abandoned the Lovebirds and was staring directly at the hotel staff member, 15 or so feet away from her and *clearly* busy with her work.

“AAAAARRREEE THEEEEEEEY PAAAAAUUURROUUUUTS.?”

“IN THE CAAAAGEEEEEE?”

“THE BUURRRDSS?”  

At this point Cheryl had doubled her volume and taken to drawing out each of the vowels, adding diphthongs where there were none and pausing between questions to stare back and forth expectantly from the employee to the Lovebirds.

The cleaner was only saved from whatever level of volume Cheryl would have been able to produce next in her quest to understand the nature of exactly what the Lovebirds were as Cheryl’s husband, Jules, appeared in the door of a room just a few down from the cage.  

“Dear.” At this juncture I had I some hope that Cheryl was simply very very animated and interested in parrots. That would not last long. “Dear.” continued Jules in a his own not quite New York accent—head to toe decked out in safari gear. Including a hat. “They aren’t educated here. She may not know what a parrot is, or be able to differentiate it from another type of tropical bird.”

It should be noted here that Antigua is not located in a jungle. Of any kind. Nor is there anything resembling a jungle in the immediate vicinity of Antigua, or the immediate vicinities of the immediate vicinity of Antigua.  Sitting at just under 6,000 feet above sea level, Antigua is in no danger of ever becoming a jungle. Of any kind. Jules (whose name I did not know at this juncture) seemed utterly unaware of that as he took a seat and pulled a giant orange bottle of Deet from one of his plethora of safari pockets and started spraying it liberally over his clothing and person.

“DO YOU THINK?”  Cheryl turned away from the cleaner towards her bug-spray obsessed husband, her stiletto heels tapping loudly on the tiled floor of the hotel as she crossed. “WHY DON’T THEY HIRE SOMEONE KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT THE LOCAL WILDLIFE?”

“Now dear, you know we aren’t in the developed world.” Jules started every sentence to his wife with the word ‘dear’, and while that in and of itself was sweet and potentially endearing (pun intended) his clear dismissal of the ‘non-developed world just got more and more charming the more he talked.

“You just can’t hold them to our standards. You know that.”

This was the juncture that I began packing things into the canvas over the shoulder bag that served (and continues to serve) as a purse. With no idea how much longer Cheryl would ask about he parrots, and Jules would dismiss any non-Americans as idiots, I had decided that, no matter how lovely, this particular courtyard was perhaps, not for me.

“OH HELLO!”

You know when a deer freezes in a pair of headlights? When it has basically two choices, one of which ends happily, and the other which ends with it smeared across the front of a semi going 88 down the Interstate 84?

“ARE YOU AMERICAN?”

Had I been a deer, I’d have ended up lodged in a grill.

“HELLO?”

“Yes. Hi. I am….I was just heading out to meet a friend.” Lying through my teeth isn’t something that I do often, but if there were a time to have some immediate reason to not be in the vicinity of the hotel, this seemed to be it.

“IT’S SO NICE TO FINALLY MEET ANOTHER AMERICAN. WE’VE BEEN HERE TWO WEEKS AND YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW FEW AMERICANS COME TO GUATEMALA.”

I sank back into my chair slightly, still pushing the last of my writing supplies and postcards into the bag.

“Huh.” I responded.

“Oh yes.” Jules had tottered up to join Cheryl, the smell of Deet wafting off of his person and filling the patio with it’s rather specific perfume.  “And just to think, it’s like Mexico’s back garden!”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure a) how to handle the scent of Deet, b) how exactly one responded to an entire country being titled ‘Mexico’s back garden, or c) how to extract myself as quickly as possible.

“MY NAME IS CHERYL, AND THIS IS MY HUSBAND JULES.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“HAVE YOU BEEN TO THE LAKE? THEY HAVE MONKEYS.”

“Oh dear, I’m not sure everyone is as interested in the outdoors or trekking as we are.” He turned to me, “however, if you are, there is a lovely wildlife refuge near the Hilton in Atitlan.”

I should clarify. There are exactly three monkeys at a ‘refuge’ (read private park) near Panajachel at Lake Atitlan.  At least there were in 2010.  One is blind and one throws it’s food at things. They live in a contained space.  A big contained space, but a contained space. The ‘trek’ to see the monkeys is just over ¼ mile. On a circular, flat, paved trail.

“Not much of a ‘trekker’” I answered. The smell of Jule’s Deet was starting to get to me in a fairly impactful way and I forcefully shoved the last of my things into my purse in hopes that Jules or Cherly might get the hint.

IT WAS JUST WONDERFUL. Chimed Cheryl in her unforgettable, unmistakable trill of a voice. THEY ARE NATIVE YOU KNOW, HOWLER MONKEYS.

Oh. I let my reply slide.  No one, least of all Cheryl and Jules would give a flying rat's ass to know that despite being ‘native’ very very few wild Howler Monkeys still live in Guatemala.

I ran into Jules and Cheryl three more times before I took a shuttle into Guatemala City for my San Francisco flight and learned that:

• SOME BIRDS HERE ARE GREEN
• You can’t put toilet paper in the toilet because people ‘refuse to insist on better infrastructure’ and Jules intended to contribute to Guatemala’s development by clogging up the toilets.
• Tipping non-English speakers is pointless because you must ‘earn’ a tip, and how can you ‘earn’ a tip if you aren’t speaking English?
• THERE WAS A COCKROACH IN THE HOTEL IN MONTERRICO AND THEY REFUSED TO REFUND US OUR MONEY EVEN WHEN JULES KILLED IT FOR ME AND WE BROUGHT IT TO THE FRONT DESK.

Suffice it to say, on Sunday morning when I was boarding a tourist shuttle from Copan Honduras back to Guatemala City, while I might have had some trepidation about my company, I’d never in a thousand years have dreamt up ‘Jason’ from “Strayly.”  Despite having spent 11 months traveling from Argentina on up could speak no Spanish, managed four racists sentences out of his first six in the vehicle.  When two full seats to himself wasn’t enough--talk about man-spreading--he made a nest for himself out of everyone’s backpacks (besides mine, which I rescued) in the back of the van. The driver tried to insist he sit in a seat and wear a seatbelt, but that discussion ended along the lines of the phrase “well, I won’t have to clean it up if a truck hits us.” He spent a good chunk of the trip, in that nest, where he loudly watched ‘Family Guy’ on a giant touchscreen tablet until it ran out of battery and he got bored.  But that’s a story for another day.