Pares cum Paribus Nº 4: Índice - Facultad de Ciencias Sociales ...

pink plastic case, they found a tampon - one designed by a woman gynaecologist, that
didn't come with an applicator. They eyed me, triumphantly.
Then they began to speak fast, rolling the tampon over in their hands. I looked at the jefe,
and tried shrugging. I had "travel insurance", in the form a hundred dollar American bill in
my wallet, but I didn't know if a bribe was necessary yet. The officer with the pork-rinds
held the tampon in his palm, and began unwrapping it. The jefe kept his eyes on me while
the woman kept an ink-stained hand on her gun.
The officer had the tampon dangling by its blue string. I gave the jefe a look so much as to
say he was a man of the world, he understood this business, then I took a risk. I nodded
towards the officer who was swinging the tampon around in a slow circle. "Next he'll be
wanting to use it," I said.
The jefe had another moment of blankness before his face doubled up into a grin. The
others caught on, and began snickering, too, as if they thought some joke had been made
at the gringa's expense. The jefe continued to grin, handed me back my Tourist Card and
my passport, and pointed me in the direction of the departure lounge.
"She is not a tourist," I heard him say, as I left.
* * * * * *
The Hotel Desaguadero was not what I'd been hoping for, but it was the only one in town
with vacancies, Paul had explained, as we drove in from the airport.
"Desaguadero" meant "drain": the road down to the hotel was impassable by car. The
owner looked surprised to see us and asked Paul how we had chanced upon the place, as if
it were impossible that anyone might come to his hotel by choice. In the evening he served
chicken necks, rice with gravel and Coca-Cola on a patio under a crackling bug-zapper;
the scorched remains of flying insects fluttered down onto our plates. When a royalty
cheque arrived from Canada we were able to afford a month's rent on an apartment with a
view of the Andes' western chain.
Elizabeth was not the femme fatale I'd been expecting, either. I'd been prepared to hate
her; I'd pictured her taller than me, full of sophisticated talk about punting in Brazil,
cigarette smouldering from an ivory holder. But even in red stilettos she didn't reach my