Guatemala is the saddest country in Latin America. The beauty of its verdant highlands dotted with whitewashed colonial towns, its shimmering lakes overlooked by soaring volcanoes and its Mayan ruins half buried in rainforest cannot conceal the ancestral oppression of its indigenous majority. It has had an elected civilian government since 1986. But a guerrilla war lasting almost three decades was settled only in 1996. It cost some 200,000 lives; most of the victims were Mayan Indians killed by the army. The war continues to cast a dark shadow. Guatemala’s democrats must struggle against what some have called poderes fácticos – shadowy networks linking corrupt former army officers and organized criminal gangs of drug traffickers and money launderers. In many ways, these networks are the real power in the country. They appeared to flourish under Alfonso Portillo, the country’s president from 2000 to 2005, who fled to Mexico on leaving office and faced charges of stealing $16 million of public money. Under Oscar Berger, a reforming liberal elected in 2004, a new effort began to cut Guatemala’s army down to size and to liberate democracy from military tutelage.

The CIA snuffs out the Guatemalan spring

And yet Guatemala might have developed into a far more robust democracy much earlier. That it did not do so is in large part the fault of the United States: more than anywhere else in Latin America, Guatemala is a victim of American intervention. In 1954, the Eisenhower administration organized a coup to topple the democratic, reformist government of Jacobo Arbenz, which the American president alleged to be a possible ‘communist outpost on this continent’. Though the enterprise was initially hailed as a success y its authors, in the words of one historian sympathetic to them ‘in light of subsequent events it might reasonably be considered little short of a disaster’. Not only did Guatemala itself pay a high price for the American intervention: the lessons drawn by the United States and by Latin Americans of both left and right had tragic consequences in other countries, handicapping democracy in the region for a generation or more. How was it that Guatemala came to be the first battle in the Cold War in Latin America?

Central America was an underdeveloped backwater throughout the nineteenth century. After independence in 1824, the United Provinces of Central America soon fragmented into five separate countries of which Guatemala, the seat of the colonial captain-generalcy, was the largest. Except in Costa Rica, an unenlightened despotism was the norm in the isthmus. In Guatemala, a long line of brutal dictators went through the motions of legitimating their rule through elections, but these were farcical affairs in which opposition was rarely registered. An oligarchy of coffee planters dominated the republic; they assured themselves of a seasonal Indian workforce through debt peonage.

When the Second World War drew to a close, democratic eddies washed across Latin America. Several dictatorships in the region fell, to be replaced by governments elected on a reasonably broad franchise. Labour unions expanded, and flexed their muscles in a strike wave. Communist parties grew rapidly, from a total membership of less than 100,000 in 1939 to 500,000 by 1947. In Latin America, as elsewhere in the world, there were expectations that a new era of democracy was beginning. According to one account, this opened up an opportunity for Latin American countries to move towards social democracy – as much of Western Europe would do in the aftermath of war – through an alliance between industrialists and the emerging middle and organised working classes. But the opportunity proved tantalisingly brief. In Latin America, the rural landlords had not been hurt by war, and they still exercised a powerful political grip, while the trade unions were still weak. By 1948, in most countries, the progress towards democracy had been rolled back, and Communist parties had been banned. By then, the Cold War had begun. It did not create anti-communism in Latin America. This had been espoused by conservatives and the Catholic Church since the formation by Lenin in 1919 of the Third Communist International (Comintern) with its brief of world revolution. So most Latin American governments were happy to line up with the United States in the Cold War. For Washington, it began to matter more that those governments should be reliably anti-communist rather than democratic.

In Guatemala the post-war democratic spring lasted longer. In 1944, protests by students, teachers and other members of an incipient middle class prompted Jorge Ubico, a dictator even more repressive than his predecessors, to step down. Three months later, junior army officers rebelled against his chosen successor. This ‘October revolution’ was carried out not in the name of Bolshevism but of ‘constitution and democracy’. Both were quickly achieved. Juan José Arévalo, a mild-mannered teacher of philosophy who had returned from years of exile in Argentina, was elected president in the freest vote Guatemala had seen. Arévalo claimed inspiration from Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal and from the Four Freedoms – of speech, religion, and from want and fear – for which the president had fought the war. A new constitution extended the franchise to all except illiterate women, created elected local authorities, made racial discrimination a crime and banned military men from standing for office. Arévalo’s government gave rights to trade unions, established a social security system, central bank and statistical office, and built hundreds of new schools. It brooked no restrictions on political or press freedom, despite suffering frequent plots from conservatives.

In 1950, Jacobo Arbenz, a leader of the ‘October revolution’, was elected to succeed Arévalo, with 65 per cent of the vote. While Arévalo had established democratic freedoms, Arbenz promised ‘to convert Guatemala from a backward country with a predominantly feudal economy into a modern capitalist state’. His plans to do this centred on agrarian reform and public infrastructure projects, several of which had been proposed by the president of the World Bank. On both counts, that meant a confrontation with the United Fruit Company, an American firm based in Boston. Known to Central Americans as el pulpo (‘the octopus’) because of its all-encompassing tentacles, in 1899 United Fruit had obtained a 99-year concession over a vast tract of jungle from Guatemala’s then dictator and with it, the right to finish and operate a railway to the Caribbean coast. The company thus obtained a monopoly over much of Guatemala’s trade: its port at Puerto Barrios was the country’s only Atlantic port, and its railway the only means of transport to and from the port. In return it paid only a small tax on banana exports. Arbenz proposed to build a public port next to Puerto Barrios and a highway to it; United Fruit, which had already seen a rise in trade union organizing, became the main target of this land reform.

Even by Latin American standards, land distribution in Guatemala was highly unequal: 2 per cent of landowners held three-quarters of all cultivatable land, while more than half of all farmland was made up of large plantations (above 1,100 acres). Much of this land was left fallow. Arbenz’s reform affected farms larger than 670 acres whose land was not fully worked, or those above 223 acres where a third of the land was uncultivated. Compensation was paid in interest-bearing bonds according to the land’s declared taxable value. In two years a million acres – a third of this from German-owned farms nationalised at American insistence during the war – were distributed to 100,000 families. Arbenz ordered the expropriation of 380,000 acres of United Fruit land – a substantial chunk of its holdings, of which 85 per cent were left fallow, supposedly in case of banana diseases. The government offered compensation of $1.1 million; the company claimed the land was worth $16 million, thus revealing the scale of its tax evasion. Its claim was backed by the US Department of State.

By then, the Eisenhower administration was bent on overthrowing Arbenz, whom it accused of presiding over a communist takeover. With support from Nicaragua’s notorious dictator, Anastasio Somoza, and his counterpart in Honduras, the CIA trained and armed a force of 170 men, and assembled a dozen planes. Their ‘invasion’ was a halting affair. But bombing and strafing from the air, combined with disinformation broadcasts suggesting a force of thousands, caused the army high command to oblige Arbenz to resign. Through a mixture of threats and manipulation, the Americans quickly secured the appointment as president of Carlos Castillo Armas, the undistinguished retired colonel they had chosen to lead the ‘invasion’. Guatemala’s ten-year democratic spring was over.

Ever since, controversy has raged over the American action. Was the coup an enterprise of crude economic imperialism, in which the Eisenhower administration was acting as enforcer for United Fruit? Since the days of Arévalo, the company had conducted an effective propaganda campaign in the United States, painting Guatemala as being in the grip of communists. The family of John Foster Dulles, the secretary of state, and his brother Allen, the CIA director, were shareholders in the banana company; both brothers had worked for Sullivan & Cromwell, a New York law firm which had represented United Fruit’s rail subsidiary. Several of the company’s officials had close contacts with the administration. But J F Dulles insisted: ‘If the United Fruit matter were settled, if they gave a gold piece for every banana, the problem would remain as it is today as far as the presence of communist infiltration in Guatemala is concerned.’ Just five days after Arbenz was toppled, the US Justice Department began an anti-monopoly action against United Fruit; as a result, the company eventually agreed to hand over some of its land in Guatemala to local firms and sold the railway. In 1972, it sold its remaining interests in Guatemala to Del Monte. (United Fruit changed its name to Chiquita in 1989; the company filed for bankruptcy protection in 2001).

In recent years, as official archives have been opened, historians have come to accept Dulles’ contention. But many question his verdict on Arbenz. Not for the last time in Latin America, the critics argue, the United States failed to distinguish between a nationalist reformer and a communist. The Guatemalan Labor Party, as the communist party was called, was tiny; it never had more than 2,000 activists. Though an enthusiastic backer of Arbenz and the land reform, it was the smallest of the four parties in the governing coalition. It won only four of the 56 seats in Congress in an election in 1953, had no Cabinet members, and fewer than ten senior government jobs. Guatemala had no diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union and the eastern bloc. Until the late 1950s, the Soviet Union had only three embassies in the whole of Latin America, a region Stalin had dismissed as ‘the obedient army of the United States’. Dulles made great play of an arms shipment from Czechoslovakia received a month before the coup. But the United States had imposed an arms embargo on Guatemala since 1948, and the Czech arms were of limited use. Arbenz’s coalition was fractious, the army restless and the middle class became disillusioned as tensions with the United States rose. The president did come to depend on the communists, who alone could mobilise popular support for the government. His wife is alleged to have been a communist sympathiser. The CIA feared that land reform would create a base for the communists in the countryside. Even so, it is hard to see the army or the civilian politicians acquiescing in a communist takeover.

In the event, the US crushed democracy not communism in Guatemala.  Castillo Armas quickly reversed the agrarian reform, reached agreement with United Fruit, and restored the old order of corrupt dictatorship. In 1960, junior army officers would rebel in the name of nationalism, angry that Guatemala was being used by the CIA to train anti-Castro Cuban exiles. The rebellion failed, but two of its founders went on to found Guatemala’s first guerrilla group. This was crushed after right-wing death squads murdered thousands of civilians, many of whom had no connection to the guerrillas. In the mid-1970s, new Marxist guerrilla groups established a presence among the Mayan Indian communities of Guatemala’s western highlands. That prompted the army to undertake a scorched-earth campaign that saw scores of Indian villages wiped out, their inhabitants butchered and the survivors forcibly relocated and conscripted into army-backed auxiliary forces  called ‘civil patrols’. Of all the counter-insurgency campaigns in Latin America during the Cold War, only that in Guatemala merits the much-abused term of genocide. Repression by dictatorships in Chile and Argentina, where most of the victims were middle class, attracted far more outside attention. But in the deliberate infliction of mass terror, the massacres of the Mayan Indians in the western highlands in the late 1970s and early 1980s had no parallel in the region. Those excesses caused Jimmy Carter to cancel the United States’ previous aid to the army. Another Democratic president, Bill Clinton, made a formal apology for that aid on a visit to Guatemala in 1999. But by then the Cold War was long over.

The ease with which Arbenz was overthrown would lead policy-makers in Washington to adopt ‘regime change’ as their standard process to perceived communist threats in Latin America. A few years later, another such attempt on a much larger scale would end in disaster in the Bay of Pigs in Cuba. Thwarted, President John F Kennedy would launch the Alliance for Progress in an attempt to stall the spread of communism in Latin America by encouraging democratic reform. ‘Those who make peaceful change impossible make violent change inevitable,’ Kennedy declared. Indeed, had Arbenz’s agrarian reform taken place a decade later – or a decade earlier when FDR was preaching freedom from want – it might well have drawn applause from Washington.

The Latin American left, too, drew lessons from Guatemala. A young Argentine doctor, Ernesto Guevara, had arrived there on New Year’s Eve 1953 and witnessed the fall of Arbenz. By the time he was given safe conduct from the Argentine embassy to Mexico, he had acquired the nickname Che, bestowed by leftist exiled Cubans he met in Guatemala. According to one of his most perceptive biographers, Guatemala was Che Guevara’s ‘political rite of passage’. Guevara thought the coup showed that the United States ‘was a priori ruthlessly opposed to any attempt at social and economic reform in Latin America’. So he inferred that the left should be prepared to fight US interference rather than try to avoid or neutralise it. He also thought that Arbenz had allowed his enemies too much freedom, especially in the press, and had erred in not purging the army. This is confirmed by Hilda Gadea, Guevara’s first wife, who wrote: ‘it was Guatemala which convinced him of the necessity for armed struggle and for taking the initiative against imperialism’.

See the other sections of Reid’s book I’ve published here: Cocaine Cartels and Economics in Colombia or FARC, Guerrillas, and Paramilitaries in Colombia. Or for more on the sordid past of United Fruit Company / Chiquita, see the separate Wikipedia articles on United Fruit and Chiquita.

A Facebook update from November 2009 (facebook.com/post.colin):

I’m spending 6 weeks in the States and I’m not eating one grain of rice the whole time!

My January 13 tweet (twitter.com/colinpost):

Life in Latin America is a daily struggle to minimize my consumption of rice.

Rice has no taste. Rice is nutritionally worthless. Rice is filler crap, the most abused filler crap in the world.

I went broke in Bogota, so I’m living and working in America for the summer. People here are always surprised at my refusal to eat rice. I didn’t have anything against rice before moving to Latin America. If you grew up in the States, you wouldn’t think anything of it because you rarely eat it. It wasn’t until about the one-year point living in Latin America that I grew weary of rice. You can’t escape it. If you eat in restaurants, then you’ll have to eat rice EVERY FUCKING DAY.

Rice tastes like nothing. If someone wanted to create a purely fuel food that eliminated all flavor in life, it would taste like rice. However, it wouldn’t be rice because rice is nutritionally worthless.

I’ve already decided that, whenever I start a family, my kids won’t eat rice more than a few times a week. I’d rather not keep it in the house. High consumption of rice may be why Colombia and other countries suck at sports on a global level. How many rice-eating countries make it to the World Cup finals? Argentina eats pasta and meat. Brazilians eat rice but also lots of steak. 2010 champion Spain is known for paella, but most Spanish cuisine does not have rice.

The only public good rice serves is in alleviating famine. It’s cheap filler crap for countries that have trouble feeding themselves. I’m not from such a country.

Nutrition Facts, 1 cup of rice (link)

Calories 193
Total Fat 1g
Total Carbohydrate 44g
Dietary Fiber 1g
Sugars 0g
Protein 4g

For every 44g of simple carbohydrates, rice has only one gram of fiber. A cup of rice contains no significant amount of vitamins or minerals save a measly 10% RDA of iron, which I don’t need given my high intake of iron-rich eggs, beef, chicken, fish, and beans. From a nutrition standpoint, the only functional reason to eat rice would be immediately after lifting weights to spike insulin. However, you’d still be better off drinking a liter of milk for the same effect PLUS protein, calcium, Vitamin D, and all the essential amino acids. (Read why Milk is the Ultimate Post-Workout Food)

Here’s a list of carbohydrates better than rice:

• Potatoes – more fiber and rich in Vitamin C
• Oats – more fiber, protein, and complex carbs for energy throughout the day.
• Beans – maybe the world’s perfect food. Complex carbs with lots of fiber and protein, plus B vitamins.
• Carrots – more fiber plus Vitamin A and beta carotene.
• Fruit – simple carbs plus fiber and lots of vitamins and minerals. And FLAVOR! See my post about the kick-ass fruit in Colombia.

Revolution is a long shot. In Hong Kong I was studying for a Master’s degree in economics. None of my classmates seemed to have strong political views. Most took up economics because their parents told them to, or because they thought it would lead to a well paying job, or just for the prestige conferred by higher education – any subject would do.

I once attended a seminar on China’s one-child policy, where the guest speaker was a Hong Kong-born Ivy League professor. He explained its effects and stated that he thought the policy should be repealed. Chinese students rarely speak up in class, and never to contradict someone so distinguished. But surprisingly, a few classmates vehemently defended the one-child policy – because the buses and trains are so crowded.

Equally ridiculous was a question asked by a different professor who attended the seminar: “Could there possibly be multiple equilibrium points in regard to population?” Multiple equilibrium points? At any rate, Westerners may find the one-child policy abhorrent but many Chinese do not.

I’ve seen little of the political fanaticism necessary for government upheaval. The over-a-beer debates commonplace in the West don’t exist here, at least not in my presence. Yes, everyone in China knows about the Tiananmen Square incident and may even refer to it as a “massacre”. But I’ve also heard separatists in Tibet and Xinjiang described as “troublemakers”. The discussion usually stops there.

Once a group of Hong Kong students were complaining about how they couldn’t change their government by way of vote. (There is universal suffrage in Hong Kong, but only 1/3 of the legislature is elected; the rest are appointed by Beijing.) I asked if they thought things were unfair, or if they thought the government was not active enough, or what exactly they wanted changed. After all, it doesn’t get much better than Hong Kong. “We just want to vote like other countries.”

In Beijing I once thought revolution possible. Just next to my first apartment was a small shop selling instant noodles and beer. I rarely saw any customers other than myself. This place was just outside of a network of hutongs – alleyways with one-story, traditional-looking buildings generally occupied by poor people – within the Second Ring Road. In the hutongs some people burn charcoal for heat and you can find cages with live chickens. The most traffic my local instant noodle/beer store would see was a group of middle-aged men who played a version of checkers outside in the evenings.

Once as I was opening the fridge I turned my head to see a string of chain-linked bullets lying on the ground next to the shopkeeper. Holy shit. “Ni shi jun dui ma?” I asked, which is undoubtedly incorrect Chinese for “Are you in the army?” He made a nervous laugh and pushed the bullets behind the counter with his foot. He then responded with something I didn’t understand, not just because my Chinese sucks, but because he spoke in thick Beijinghua. I put five kuai on the counter for the beer and didn’t inquire further.

Although my experience with weapons is limited to what I used in the army, chain-linked rounds are indicative of automatic rifles – the kind you have to periodically lay off the trigger to keep the barrel from melting. And those bullets were big, not quite 50-cal but larger than the 5.56 mm used by the M-16 – very illegal. As violent crime is rare in China, I don’t think the shopkeeper would need to deter robbers with something that could be mounted on a tripod. Running drugs maybe? This also seems unlikely as I rarely see evidence of drug use, and he was in his forties and poor. This was the most compelling thing to make me think revolution could happen.

Despite the display of some desire to vote and the strapped shopkeeper, a revolution is less likely than Western media leads you to believe. A Chinese friend once told me that Chinese culture is centered more on the family than on any transcendent ideology or absolute truth, personified by the traditional importance of religion in Western cultures. Just as the Inuit language has more words for seal and snow due to its importance in their culture, the Chinese have something like 35 words for family members which do not readily translate into English – paternal grandfather, maternal grandfather, older female cousin on the mother’s side, father’s older brother, on and on. What this means is that most Chinese people probably don’t care about “freedom” or political issues so much as a train ticket home for Chinese New Year. True, there have been two revolutions here in the last century. But from what I’m seeing, I can’t imagine a third.

Sin Nombre is the best film I’ve seen in a long time. It’s also the first Spanish-language movie I watched without subtitles. They weren’t available at the pirated DVD market where I bought the disc. Fortunately I had no trouble understanding.

SPOILERS DISCLAIMER – mad spoilers follow.

If you don’t need a plot summary, jump to the analysis below.

The film starts by introducing us to Casper, a member of the Mara Salvatrucha gang (MS-13), in Tapachula, Mexico. Then we meet Casper’s young friend, Smiley, who couldn’t be older than 12. Casper takes Smiley to his MS-13 initiation, a 13-second beat-down from the gang. We also meet gang leader Lil’ Mago, who it’s worthy of mention is covered with tattoos, a prominent MS drawn from above both temples all the way down to his jaw-line and chin.

Then we flash to Tegucigalpa, Honduras, to meet the beautiful Sayra. Sayra meets her father for the first time in what’s implied to be a long time or maybe ever. She’s to join him and his brother on a journey to the United States, from where the father had just been deported. He wants Sayra to join his new family in New Jersey.

Next we see Casper visit his girlfriend, Martha Marlene, at her place for a textbook example of a Latin love session. After the loving, Casper takes Smiley to the gang hideout where, under Lil’ Mago’s direction, Casper helps Smiley execute a rival gang member to complete his initiation. (Then they feed the deceased to dogs!)

The plot develops two storylines: the first being Sayra’s resentment toward the father she never knew, who she believes never would’ve returned for her if he weren’t deported; the second being Casper’s neglecting his responsibilities to the gang because he’s spending more and more time with Martha Marlene. She’s increasingly angry with him because she feels he’s hiding something from her, which he is in trying to keep her separated from his gang life. In fact, she knows him as Willy instead of his gang name, Casper.

The latter conflict culminates when Martha Marlene crashes a gang meeting in a cemetery in which Casper (Willy) is about to be disciplined for neglecting his duties. Willy tries to escort her out of there, but Lil’ Mago overrules. He insists on showing her out while Willy gets his 13-second stomping. Away from the gang, Lil’ Mago tries to have sex with Martha Marlene, citing ‘generosity’ as a crucial element of friendship. When she refuses, he tries to rape her. In the struggle, he accidentally kills her. Casper has to accept it because Lil’ Mago is the boss and devotion to Mara Salvatrucha trumps all else.

This particular MS-13 “clique” earns much of its income from the Bombilla, the train station in Tapachula which sits on the border with Guatemala. All the Central Americans migrating to the US pass through the Bombilla to jump on trains headed north to the Texas border. The local MS-13 gang robs the migrants on their way north.

Lil’ Mago had Casper and Smiley accompany him for one of these robbery trips. So the three are on top of the train, robbing each and every passenger for everything they have when Lil’ Mago comes across the beautiful Honduran, Sayra. He gropes her and forces her down in what appears to be an imminent rape. Casper, still not over the loss of his love at the hands of Lil’ Mago, and watching him unleash on another innocent girl, whacks him with his machete, cutting through half his neck.

Lil’ Mago falls from the train dead and Casper orders Smiley off. Here the main plot has developed. Sayra feels indebted and befriends Willy (he’s not ‘Casper’ anymore). Smiley goes back to the gang and tells them what happened. They order Willy killed and appoint Smiley to do it, along with everybody else in their clique plus the others all along the train route, throughout Mexico and the US.

So Willy’s been marked for death by the largest gang in the Western Hemisphere. Noting Sayra’s growing attachment to him, Willy jumps from the train as everyone’s sleeping but she awakes and jumps after him, leaving her father and uncle behind. Willy then resolves to go for life redemption by helping Sayra safely cross the border into the States. There’s action, there’s hope, there’s sadness, there’s beautiful (and ugly) Mexican culture and countryside, and there’s stimulating footage of MS-13 culture.

Just as Willy sends Sayra swimming across the Rio Grande, waiting his own turn, the gang appears and guns him down on the riverbank. Smiley scores the first shots. The final scenes show Sayra at a Texas Sam’s Club calling her dead father’s family in New Jersey (her dad died after they split up), her uncle starting a new attempt to cross the border from Guatemala into Mexico, and Smiley getting “MS” tattooed inside his lower lip.

Powerful shit!

Clichés

I’m going to start with a few petty gripes, specifically the film clichés.

I don’t know about you, but I am burnt out on the accidental death via head-hitting-the-rock-or-metal-bar-or-whatever. Martha Marlene died after Lil’ Mago kicked her in the ass, sending her head into a rock. I’m tired of that shit! I attribute that to laziness or lack of nerve on the part of the writer. If you can’t create a motivation to kill her intentionally, don’t go to the tired-ass playbook. Maybe he could’ve successfully raped her, admonished Casper (Willy) for not sharing, and then she commits suicide. Anything but the head-accidentally-hitting-the-rock bit.

Aside from the scene where he helps Smiley execute a ‘chavala’ begging for mercy, Casper’s never seen as the vicious gangster he must’ve been to have a career with MS-13. He didn’t pistol-whip anybody on the train, or rape or rob anybody for the whole film. Granted, his transformation may have started long before in his falling in love with Martha Marlene, but it was still too sympathetic in the marked contrast between his innocent white face and the viciousness of the other MS-13 gangsters.

It turns out I only have two gripes and one kudos to give regarding happy endings. American films (which this is), Hollywood, and American audiences are incredibly biased toward happy endings. When I first heard of this film, I read all about it and I could’ve sworn I read that Casper (Willy) arrives safely in the US. The sad ending made it a better film.

Mara Salvatrucha

Many may not know, but MS-13 is the largest gang in the United States. It started in a Central American section of Los Angeles to protect Salvadorans from Mexican and black gangs. It’s since exploded to also include Mexicans with chapters in the United States, Mexico, Central America, and Canada. They’re known for their tattoos. There are a dozen or so MS-13 videos on YouTube, some featuring MS-13 music.

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Immigration & human rights

I’ve stated my support of immigration in this blog before, but the images and visualization of the reality facing migrant workers in this film re-awakened my interest in the cause. The human rights issues and violence along the US-Mexico border is horrific. Girls are forced into prostitution; gangsterism thrives. What is the fucking point???

All these people want to do is work in America, the land of opportunity. Their own countries were flawed in their design so the same opportunity doesn’t exist. Migrants’ big mistake in life was being born on the wrong side of the border, to a family in the wrong social class. I’ve known many illegal immigrants and I admire their work ethic. And I’ve known a lot of lazy and incompetent Americans who live luxurious lives in comparison simply because they were born on the other side.

Last year I read Ben Casnocha argue immigration is a solution to poverty. In that post, he mentions the idea of “free movement of people” among countries. I’m pro-immigration, but I wasn’t eager to jump on board when I first read that. Now I’m more receptive. There’s rarely reform without an extreme position underneath. If free movement of people among nations seems extreme to you, it doesn’t to me.

Why should I have free reign to move wherever I want in Latin America to reap the fruits of these countries using my gringo-ness, my native English, my height and blue eyes, my American education, etc., while Latinos born on the bottom in these countries can’t do the same in my country?

I’ll now count myself among the extreme camp of free movement of peoples among nations. I’d love for it to be a regulated process of accountability, but I’m in the camp regardless. Michael Clemens is the most outspoken advocate and dedicated researcher for this position.

Love in Latin America

Having written extensively about Love in Latin America, I’m not covering new ground here. But the film captured that aspect perfectly.

I was sad as fuck watching Sin Nombre. Despite the few clichés, the film established credibility with me in its depiction of Willy’s and Martha Marlene’s relationship. Their first scene in her bedroom goes exactly as I’ve found love to go down here. She slapped him. They made love. She accused him of cheating and threatened to cut his penis off. They cuddled and professed eternal love. Despite her getting angry with him in other scenes over ‘disowning’ her (kinda difficult to translate “desconocer”), the chemistry and time spent together made me long to be in love again.

Edgar Flores stars as Willy, and he was excellent in the role. Willy’s love for Martha Marlene was convincing; I could feel his pain when his gang killed that love – the same gang Willy defended his whole life. And just as it seemed he might have love with Sayra, the gang killed him too. I look forward to more of Flores’ acting.

Foreshadowing and magic realism

Magic realism is prevalent in Latin film and literature, but not so much in Sin Nombre. However, Sayra always alludes to an old witch in her neighborhood who predicted she wouldn’t arrive in the States in the arms of God, but The Devil. I’d call that magic realism and also foreshadowing, which is prevalent throughout. Willy consistently warns Sayra that he’s a dead man, which proves correct. And in a great foreshadowing scene, Willy and Sayra come across MS-13 graffiti that reads something like “Lil’ Mago – don’t worry, El Casper won’t pass…”

Notes:

• Machetes – Willy killed Lil’ Mago with a machete, which was pretty bad-ass. The use of the machete in Latin America is under-represented in film.
• Mexican / Central American gangsters and face tattoos (politically-incorrect warning) – The older I get, the more I err on the side of genetics over upbringing, nature over nurture. In his autobiography, Malcolm X says whites are correct in believing blacks are born with dancing in their blood, and there are dozens of other cases like the higher per capita rate of AA meetings in Irish neighborhoods. In looking at the images of MS-13 gangsters, I couldn’t help thinking they look like the Indians from Apocalypto. Is it in the genetic DNA dating back to the Mayans and Aztecs to paint their faces up and kill? Look at some of those MS-13 videos on YouTube to see what I mean.
• The film was produced by Gael Garcia Bernal (Motorcycle Diaries) and Diego Luna (Milk), who co-starred as best friends in Y Tu Mama Tambien, another kick-ass film set in Mexico.
• Sin Nombre won Sundance Film Festival awards for directing and cinematography (Director Cary Joji Fukunaga and Cinematographer Adriano Goldman). The film wasn’t nominated for any Academy Awards because the Oscars suck shit.
• The Sin Nombre soundtrack only features the score, but the songs from the film are great. Check these out:

Dick el Demasiado – Flaca de las Coloradas

Vakero – Ya No Hay Gente

Amandititita – Mecánico

Buy Sin Nombre on Amazon.

I wasn’t around during the Great Depression; I only have the impression I got from American textbooks. My impression was that it was depression, a miserable time that spanned over ten years. Similar to that impression, my feel for the current economic stumble was limited to what I’d read in newspapers and among economists (In Peru, GDP growth still hasn’t dipped into the negative). This work holiday was the first time living in America during the biggest recession of my lifetime. Things were noticeably different, some in unexpected ways.

My goal and justification for 6 weeks was to earn as many US dollars as possible. Before leaving Colombia, I secured a 30 – 40 hours / week job serving and bartending at my old college employer. I also lined up retail promotional work for about 15 hours / week. Finally, I presented the same company a proposal for an e-marketing campaign (a four-figure deal), which was accepted.

So I definitely found work. In fact, I gave up all my restaurant shifts my last week because I felt I hadn’t spent enough time with family and friends.

I worked 3 long weekends doing promotions inside Costco stores, one of the more innovative retail giants in big-box capitalism. Many of the deals I saw in the States were in similar stores: Target, Walmart, etc.

The VitaMix Solution for $394.99 – This product was featured in a similar promotion to the one I was working in Costco stores, on the same days. The Solution included a big power blender, a disc and recipe book to make your own juices. VitaMix demonstrated the product and handed out samples of the juice they made. The one I tried had pineapple, carrot, spinach, strawberries, and more. It tasted excellent. The blender easily hacked through the carrot and pineapple, which weren’t chopped but simply cleaned.

I’m biased being accustomed to cultures that drink juice from a blender as opposed to a bottle or can. And the VitaMix is a big powerful blender with extras that add value, but I couldn’t help thinking they’re selling a $400 blender during the worst recession since the Great Depression. You don’t have to sell many to make a profit at that price.

¼ pound hot dog + free refill fountain drink for $1.50 – Everyday in the Costco food court: ¼ all-beef hot dog with a refillable drink for 3000 pesos? Not in Bogota. Big-box capitalism with a selection of fountain flavors, deli sauces, chopped yellow onion, and napkins in the service bar. I must’ve eaten 20 over 3 weeks.

6 lb bag of EAS protein blend for $29.99 – I stock up on protein powder In the States because it’s profanely overpriced in Latin America. In Bogota, I paid 80,000 pesos ($40) for a 2 lb tub! In St. Louis, I grabbed three 6 lb bags of EAS from Costco to fit into my luggage.

Levi’s jeans for $19.99 at Target –The Levi’s brand suffered overexposure in America during the 90s, but it’s a top quality brand internationally and especially in Latin America. I’ve seen authentic Levi’s and Wrangler jeans retail for $60 – $100. The ones I got at Target didn’t have that red tab on the butt, but they’re classic dark Levi’s nonetheless for $20.

City Museum’s best year to date was 2009 – My friends who work at the City Museum told me the fast growth from before the recession never slowed, their best year being the last one. Something had changed though. They said they’d often heard some redneck from Missouri or Southern Illinois or wherever explain his family usually goes down to Florida this time of year. But with the economy the way it is, they decided to road-trip it to St. Louis.

I noted St. Louis is an inferior good to Florida, as far as tourism’s concerned anyway. When a product sells better in a down economy, it’s defined an inferior good. Busch beer, Wal-Mart, and vacations to St. Louis are examples of inferior goods.

PBR: $2 pints at Fitz’s, $1 16 oz cans at Delmar Lounge – Pabst Blue Ribbon was always widely available on Delmar, but never at these two places. One carries the sub-premium brand on tap and the other in a 16 oz can. These two bars didn’t have PBR because they didn’t want the PBR crowd. Any increased distribution isn’t due to branding ground gained but the recession. PBR is also an inferior good.

High-end marijuana and vaporizers – My smoker friends (most aged late 20s, early 30s) have abandoned cheap marijuana. Everybody pays $50 for 1/8 ounce of bright green, super-potent marijuana. Things apparently aren’t so bad to warrant sacrifice in this category. One health-conscious friend ordered a vaporizer on eBay so he could vaporize his marijuana instead of smoking it. Vaporizers have apparently become popular in California in an apparently new legal industry sprung from the state’s legalization of medical use. This gadget provides for a smoke-free THC high.

Restaurant food costs & revenue – The restaurant where I worked had changed the burgers from an 8 oz patty to 7 oz, while standard price increases on burgers kept with inflation.

Labor costs – The same restaurant runs a much leaner operation than before. Former management subscribed to the TGIFriday’s school of using lots of staff. However, when sales are a significant percentage down from previous years, cuts must be made to stay profitable. The floor managers won a bonus by achieving their goals in cutting labor costs.

I used to work in three different positions: bartender, dairy bartender, and server. Instead of the opening bartender coming in at 10am to prepare the upstairs, at least for the winter (slow) season, they come in at 11am and the owner takes down all the chairs and makes it easy to set up quickly. The dairy bar position was where, in the winter, I got much of my grad school reading and homework done while getting paid $8 / hour. Now they’ve cut the position for Monday – Friday, servers making their own ice cream drinks (working harder but not tipping out the dairy bar). The servers are also responsible for cleaning and closing the dairy bar Sunday – Thursday nights. So in addition to adding these extra tasks to the server’s responsibilities, they also reduced the number of server hours by staggering start times for the shifts. There used to be two start-times: 10am and 4pm. The new system had so many start-times and I had three different positions to learn that I never really learned how it worked. However, when I had shifts that historically weren’t money makers, I saw that I got busy during those off-hours and ended up making good money during those hours. They trimmed all the fat they could from the shift and job tasks to get the most production as possible for the money.

Whenever the economy is back to healthy growth, the restaurant will enter the season of opportunity after having gotten stronger during the down-time. The labor costs and work environment at the restaurant taught me to look at recessions as belt-tightening seasons and opportunities to cut fat, rather than misery and depression.

Unemployment – A couple family members are out of work. Another big conclusion on recessions and their real impact on quality of life is that it’s not so bad so long as you don’t lose your job, but life’s still grand for them too.

An old man draped in filthy rags blinked in the unrelenting Mexican sun. His creased face was the color of a brown paper bag and he sported a dingy yellow cowboy hat. Out of tired rheumy eyes, he watched three white Ford trucks – Tijuana paddy wagons – hurtling down a broad street kicking up dust. Several police clung to the sides as they raced by – dark eyes filled with fear and hatred, faces covered in black masks. One stared back at the old man, fingering his shiny black AK-47. The old man stood glaring in apathy.

Seconds later and blocks away, gunfire and a rumbling explosion erupted. Five more trucks careened past, followed by monstrous paramilitary vehicles while the street teemed with pedestrians casually going about their affairs.

I stood in the coolness of an awning sucking on a cigarette. Three squad cars roared past the dusty greenery of Park Teniente Guerrero, their squealing sirens scaring a mother clutching her baby in her breast. Five kids raced behind, crossing the street of kamikaze taxis and rickety buses belching black smoke. Several shifty and dubious malandros turned to hide their faces from the barreling convoy. The police cars always travel in threes now, ever since the local cartel executed 14 people in the last month, many police officers included. Faces cold and featureless, masks of fear and suspicion …

I remember two nights ago in my room hearing the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire in the distance. Last night the symphony repeated itself down on the corner. Seven bodies lay akimbo in the darkened streets, blood oozing onto black concrete and vecinos didn’t care. Thirty minutes later a fat cop chewed a cigar stump, surveying the scene …

In the rural hills of Independencia where you can score speed, heroin, coke, crack – anything your junky heart desires – fires run rampant in the shanty adobes across from the school where a five year old boy timidly scuttled home, clutching his textbook. He passes roving gangs of cholos, their faces vicious with hate as they prowl and brandish pistols to deter the inquiring placas …

Down on Avenida Revolucion, the arrogant tourist still lurks, still drinks, still dances, still buys that ‘One-tequila, Two-tequila, Three-tequila … Floor!’ t-shirt that they must have for the folks back home, unaware of the slaughter occurring a few blocks from their reverie. This is Tijuana – my Tijuana – a place I call home …

Despite the utter squareness of the other students in our study abroad program, KT and I had some adventures in Deutschland. While they were practicing verb conjugations in our slumlord-governed apartments, we were buying drugs from the Turks in the park and smuggling mushrooms from the Netherlands.

After 5 weeks of studying German and drinking brown liquor, it was time to go. An opportunity to hit the road and see what excitement the rest of Europe had to offer. After hitting up our favorite happy-hour, we wheeled our collective 120 lbs. of luggage to the train station to take the 10:26 from Berlin to Munich.

On the platform, it was 10:20. Then 10:25. And 10:30. At 10:45, we realized something was up. Germans are NEVER late. This train was not coming. Using our rudimentary language skills at the information desk, we learned the train had been rerouted to the other side of town and would arrive at 12:13. We arrived at the new station around 11:30 and presented our tickets at the desk.

“Nein! Kein Zug am Abend!,” the attendant screamed at us, like most Germans do. The corners of the letters he spat were physically striking us. He explained the next train would be leaving at 5:26 AM. Frustration set in, for we had six hours to kill. We’d just walked a few miles dragging enormous suitcases, and were tired and dejected. KT had an idea. “Brain,” he said, “Let’s go to the bar.”

We rented a locker and stuffed our things inside. We ducked into the first bar we could find, happy to see the “Open till 4 AM” sign outside. The bartender empathized with our cause, giving us the first round for free. “We vills stay opened past four ifs you guyez vant to stay here and the drinking!”

Drink we did. Euros started to look more like Monopoly money with each Pilsner. We moved from German beer to fine scotches, expensive shots, and cocktails. We bought shots for the bartender, a few cute girls, and later for ugly girls. We were having a great time.

Eventually it was time to be on our way. Just as we were ready to pay, the bartender went into the back room. KT asked, “Hey Brain, you just want to bail?” We sprinted out the door and towards the station. The drizzle had grown into a maelstrom, adding to the drunken drama. When I was convinced we had escaped, I ripped open my soaking collared shirt like a young German Hulkster and spun it in the air above my head. KT let out his rebel yell.

As we high-fived, my excitement turned to fright. “KT,” I said, “The key was in my shirt pocket.” My shirt, or pieces of shirt, lay in the puddles with no key in sight. We dropped to all fours and searched underneath the streetlights desperate not to miss another train because of our unobtainable luggage. After a few minutes, KT found the key. Our excitement was more subdued at this point. I picked up my tattered shirt and we walked toward the station.

A voice screamed in broken English, “Hey guyez! What is your ideas? You have yet pay!” We saw the bartender. He stood, cell phone in hand, ready to call the Polizei.

KT cooly responded, “It’s cool man. My buddy lost the key. He freaked out, I came here to get him. How much do we owe you?”

“It’s 195 Euros!”

We paid, happy the Polizei were not getting involved. You saw what the Germans did to the Jews…

We walked on towards the station, broke with a drop of guilt. We had a nine-hour train ride on zero hours sleep with the inevitable hell of a hangover.

I originally planned to stay only two days in Ireland, but what can I say? I fell in love with the place and spent two weeks seeing Dublin, Howth, Galway, Doolin, and Ennis. My last night I got wasted on Irish beer and whiskey with two American travelers in Ennis.

After eating, we met up with two local girls. They were drinking Bulmers by a newly built bridge. Apparently, the building of the bridge was a big deal. I guess when the town is that small, things like bridges excite the locals. We shot the shit for an hour or so until the girls led the way to get our drink on.

After a round at a pub, we went to a livelier place with a dance club in back. I disappeared from the group for a while to scope out the talent. When I got back to our table outside, Maz had some drunken Irishman in his face. He was your classic example of a ginger (ginger: Irish slang for red hair, freckles, fair skin) who looked like he could put up a good fight. Feeling tough from the beer, I walked into the heated conversation to see what was up. Apparently, the guy’s problem was that Maz had ordered a “black and tan”.

In his Irish accent the guy said, “you Yanks are lucky, because if you were a Brit and had ordered that drink we would fucking kill you”. A Black and Tan is a beer of 1/2 Guinness and 1/2 Bass or Harp’s. Because it’s thick, the Guinness sits on top. Supposedly a harmless drink unless you’re around a bunch of Irishmen that know their history.

The last thing I expected was to get a history lesson. I couldn’t follow the conversation well because I kept looking over my back at all the micks staring at us. What I did get was that the “Black and Tans” were the English who came to Ireland in the 1920s to enforce English law. The Irish that didn’t adhere suffered the consequences. Apparently, this Ginger’s grandfather or great grandfather had lived through this and the story is still passed down. The Black and Tans raped the women and burned the towns of those who opposed English rule. They wore black and tan uniforms, giving them their nickname, “Black and Tan”.

I felt for the Irish. I felt like I had stepped back in time while listening to this mick getting emotional. The guy was nearly in tears when he finished his story. Maz apologized. I needed a beer.

Maz, Isaac, the girls and I made our way to the dance club in back. The girls started dancing and wanted us to join. Isaac started doing every move in the book: the lawn mover, the pizza toss, the dice toss, and more. Everyone was laughing. Maz was scheming on which girl he was going to take home. Too bad for him, his plan was crumbling before him because he kept disappearing with one or the other and they caught on to his game.

One of them, Laura, told me she smoked weed. Excited as hell, I begged her to smoke with me at the end of the night. We all straggled out and Maz was walking with Laura. Just as Maz got her into a cab but before they could speed off, Laura called out to me, asking if I wanted to smoke a spliff. I got in. The cab dropped us off in front of Laura’s apartment. Maz thanked me for coming. He may have been sarcastic in saying, “Thanks bro, for coming. I didn’t want to walk home by myself”.

Laura’s apartment was a disaster. Clothes were everywhere and dishes scattered in the sink, but she pulled out a bag of ganja and I was happy. We all sat on her bed as she rolled a spliff. She passed to me and I took a big hit. After exhaling I noticed it tasted like tobacco. I remembered a spliff is a mix of weed and tobacco. She said everyone smokes like that over here and anyone who doesn’t is crazy because the weed by itself would really fuck you up.

I thought that was the point?

She rolled another one after we finished the first. While we were smoking the second spliff, Maz looked at me like, “let’s try and tag-team this broad”. Maz and I started kissing her neck while she was smoking. She laughed. I was kissing her neck and rubbing her tits. We made it down to her pants when she stopped us and said that she wasn’t with the gang bang. We laughed and said “we were just having fun,” and went back to what we were doing. I started making out with her while Maz fondled her tits. This only worked for so long when she stopped us again. She tried to explain what she wanted. She said to Maz, “I like you … but not that way. Just as a friend,” and then looked at me and said, “I like you and think you’re cute and …”

It was awkward as Maz stood up and said goodbye. I could read his face: “you fucking cocksucker you just cock blocked me”. I felt bad but knew that’d probably be the last time we’d see each other anyway. I saw Maz creep behind the back and peep in the window to her room. I laughed but didn’t say anything. Laura turned the lights off.

We made out for some 10 min. I nibbled on her ear and rubbed her tits while she moaned. I started moving my way down her neck and to her breasts. As I was kissing and sucking on her nipples I unbuttoned her jeans. As I pulled her jeans off, her thong went too. I started kissing around her thighs.

Luckily she had a condom because my dumb ass didn’t. She asked me to take it slow because she hadn’t been laid in a while. I figured I would start off in missionary. Once I was inside, she wouldn’t spread her legs. I said, “Baby is there something wrong? This is going to work if you don’t relax”. She said she was nervous. So I went back to more kissing.

I got frustrated and told her to turn around. When all else fails, go doggy. So she simply turned over, instead of arching her back with her face down and ass up. It was just the opposite. I started to laugh. This was fucking horrible. I kept telling her to arch her back with her ass up in the air and her face down, but she kept going the opposite way. I flipped her back over and went to missionary. This time she was a little more relaxed but not much. By that point I didn’t care about helping her. I just got mine. And after that, I rolled over and passed the fuck out. I don’t know who was with her before but I felt sorry for him.

The next morning she rolled over and asked me to fuck her again. I told her I was tired or some bullshit excuse because I wasn’t about to go through that shit again. I said my goodbyes and told her I’d give a ring if I came back in town before I left Europe.

While walking back to the hostel, I laughed as I thought about drinking with the locals, almost getting my ass kicked by the locals, and then fucking one of the locals. Good night!

I took my first trip outside America in August 2006. We spent 8 days in London and 2 in Amsterdam. I had recently gotten dumped by a girlfriend of 3 years, 1½ of which we lived together.

A good friend had earlier tried to persuade me to have sex with a prostitute. I was very much in love with the ex at the time so that wasn’t an option, but his compelling arguments made me curious. He likened it to a rite of passage for men. Paying for sex will make it seem so much less important. It’s just sex.

Newly single with love hangover issues, I fully intended to take advantage of Amsterdam’s Red Light District and complete my rite of passage.

Our first day in Amsterdam, I hit the Red Light District with one of my buddies while the other took an early-afternoon nap. We walked around on the pretext of checking it out, but I was shopping. The main Red Light District is 5 blocks along a canal just southeast of the central train station. Along the canal and the immediate side streets, about three blocks in each direction, are bars and sex industry establishments. Lingerie- or bikini-clad girls pose in glass doors under red lights.

It wasn’t long before we came upon a beautiful, slim girl with dirty blond hair. I told my buddy we should talk to her. She opened the door and I asked how much and what it includes. She was very nice and professional in answering my questions. I told my buddy that I was going to do it and he went back to the hotel alone.

I was very nervous. The most difficult concept for me to grasp was how to have sex with a girl with no foreplay. I had been thinking about sex as much as possible in walking around, but it’s still different to simply take your clothes off and be ready to go. My doubt was settled soon.

The girl led me through the glass door and immediately down about four steps. At the foot of the four stairs was a small room with a pseudo-leather bench (not couch), a sink, and bathroom. The girl was sweet. She told me she’s from Prague. She insisted on collecting the 50 euros before starting. I paid her and took my clothes off and sat down.

I may have been shaking a little. She had me lay down and put a condom on me. Then she sucked it hard, settling my previous doubt. They usually put a condom on it before touching anything. Then they suck it hard.

We had sex – missionary and doggystyle. I was nervous. I worked extra hard and started sweating.

After some time, she told me that my 20 minutes was up. If I wanted to continue, I would have to pay for another 20 minutes. She insisted that I pay before continuing. So I rifled through my pants, found my wallet and paid her 50 more euros. During the second session, I lost my erection. Towards the end of the second 20 minutes I gave up. I think she closed for the day after that.

I hit the street red-faced and dripping with sweat. A group of European tourists were looking at me. Looking at me, sweating while coming out of a whore’s lair. I felt weird for a second, but then realized this is the Red Light District. This is what happens.

I went to the hotel to take a nap. I was frustrated. I needed an orgasm. I couldn’t think about anything else. I woke up after an hour and headed back to the Red Light District.

I wasn’t looking for a skinny little cute girl this time. I needed an experienced professional.

I found a tall, Southeast Asian looking woman with big breasts. She was tall with a nice body. I say woman because she wasn’t in her 20s anymore, but still beautiful.

I went in. She told me she was from the Phillipines and I told her I was very nervous. She said that’s OK in a super-Asian accent. After paying, I took my clothes off. She seemed to first notice what I look like and said, “Ah, you are good-looking!” Thanks. I guess?

She didn’t go right for the condom. She climbed on top of me and hugged me, rubbing her body against mine. She said, “A little body-to-body.” She put her boobs in my face. I kissed and licked them and she said, “Yes, yes,” in a motherly voice.

I was ready to go by the time she went down to put the condom on. The Phillipine’s oral was unbelievable. A rhythmic, swallowing noise came from her mouth on each pump. She wasn’t at it long before I felt myself close to orgasm.

I took her by the shoulders and pulled her up. She sat on it and started to ride. I felt closer than ever so I turned her over for doggystyle. After a few pumps she said, “Easy…” I didn’t let up but it didn’t matter because I was already finishing. It was all over in less than five minutes.

It was an intense, blue-balls-alleviating orgasm. I let out a loud exhale and took a relaxed stance in the middle of her lair. She said, “Wow, you so nervous. But then you fuck so hard!”

In my after-buzz while putting my clothes on, I dropped and broke a glass marijuana pipe I’d brought from the States (sorry, Billy!). I was so relaxed I was almost dizzy. The girl got into her bikini and back in her window before I was even dressed.

I met up with the guys and told them about the Phillipine whore. I described her as motherly. A godsend. A real semen-extractor, that one. That’s all she was born for, extracting ejaculate. And she’s good at it, God bless her. The guys laughed.

We drank heavy that night. One buddy went to sleep and the other came with me for a quick tour through the Red Light District. The area’s much busier at night – and a little sketchier. But we discovered a new part west of the big canal, a prostitution zone a little removed from the beaten path Red Light District.

This is the low-rent area for value prostitutes. Almost all of them were black. A couple of them yelled “20 euros” at us as we walked by. This certainly isn’t their going price, but a special offer when it’s 4am and the guy’s handsome. We went back to the hotel after our brief tour but I made a mental note of the black section.

I was back in that area soon after breakfast the next day. I spent a long time walking around the low-rent part, which features a lot of girls who are at the end of their careers (or should be anyway), and it’s difficult to find a diamond in the rough working the lunch shift.

I finally found a gorgeous thickie inside a closed-in hallway of windows. “30 euros,” she said. After going in, she told me she’s from Dominican Republic. We switched to Spanish. She waited until after I had paid and got naked to tell me that 30 euros pays for missionary – not doggystyle. Bait and switch! Well, I’m not going to pay for a thick black girl and not bang her doggystyle. So I paid her 20 more euros and we got started.

Something strange happened during my blow job. There was a knock on the door. To my surprise, the girl stopped her work to answer it! The door was behind me on the right, so I didn’t see the dude outside. She took a cup from his hands and closed the door. She set the coffee cup on the nightstand and turned her attention back to me.

After it was all over, there was a light conversation while getting dressed. She told me I should visit Santo Domingo sometime. I agreed it was a good idea, thanked her, and left. Just like getting the oil changed.

I never would have believed it at that time, but I ended up in Amsterdam again just a year later. I was drinking in a bar with my cousin and his good friend. My cousin started telling his buddy about how I had recently returned from Brazil. The friend started asking about Europe and I started to explain London and Amsterdam. We got drunk and decided to go. A few weeks later, I was back in Amsterdam – for a week this time.

I was no longer suffering from love hangover, but the slut phase which follows. I was sticking it in everything I possibly could with as little commitment as possible. My Amsterdam Redux plan was to try to score with whatever was free every night and only bang whores as a last resort.

Well, the cousin and his buddy dragged me to a sex show in the Red Light District. A sex show is exactly what it sounds like – people having sex for a show. Live porn. It gets the juices flowing.

By the time we left the show, I had one thing on my mind. It was no longer my first time here so I wasn’t taking so much time to choose. I saw a thick, thick, thick light-skinned black girl on the main drag. Some Asian tourists were taking pictures of her from the other side of the canal. The girls usually close the curtain when cheesy tourists try to take pictures, but she had to hold the door open for me to enter. So she yelled, “Fuck you, motherfuckers!” That accent – something was familiar.

She’s from Brazil. I told her I was just in Brazil a few months ago. Cool! We went up a full flight of stairs. At the top was a large apartment with all the typical prostitution fixings. This was the biggest pad I’d seen yet. This girl may live better than most Dutch.

She had a beautiful face to go with her big body. She must’ve weighed 150 lbs – all boobs and butt and softness. Body just flopping around and spilling out everywhere. Technically overweight, yes, but she wore it well. Very sexy in my opinion. We got started.

At some point during doggystyle, I spanked her. She told me not to spank her. Her butt was so big that I had to massage each cheek in two different places in order to massage the whole cheek. Huge cheeks.

I pulled out momentarily and my jaw dropped. The condom was mangled. Shredded. It was barely sticking to me by the moisture and not even covering the dickhole. She turned around and saw it. She took it in her hand and paused, examining it. Then she threw it away and laid me down. She went to work with oral. Then she went to work with just her hands, her huge breasts weaving back and forth. I soon exploded and must have let out a loud grunt because she gave me a horrified look. I told her to keep going and she finished it off.

Despite the impression you may have from her yelling profanities at the tourists, this girl was quite sweet. She smiled a lot. She asked me where I was from. After telling her, she told me her husband lives in Los Angeles. Really? Cool, I used to live there. And your husband lives there. Interesting. I wonder how that works. We gave a warm, Brazilian hug and goodbye kisses before I left.

The next night, I was extremely wasted when I stumbled down a basement staircase facing the main canal near the street that leads to Dam Square. A scrawny, dark black woman opened her door and let me in. Again, woman because she wasn’t in her 20s anymore. She had a nice little apartment lair. It wasn’t as big as the Brazilian’s, but big enough.

This one was from Ghana with a slight accent. She had a gold tooth. Her sex style was interesting. She laid me down for oral. Then she straddled my chest and went down on me in a position so her ass was in my face. In addition to the meat and potatoes of a blow job, she used her other hand to rub my chode (the area between my sac and where the buttcrack starts). This was a first for me. It was pretty cool, almost painful in a good way. I bit her on her butt. She turned and looked at me.

She got up after 20 minutes and took a water break. I paid her 50 more euros for 20 more minutes.

This would be one of several breaks she took. She took breaks for water and to smoke her hash joint – a tobacco cigarette mixed with hash. She made jokes and cracked up hysterically, touching or rubbing my stomach every time she made a joke. She held the hash joint up to my lips and then offered me water.

We never spent too much time on hash and water. We’d get back to business, but I was pretty wasted so it wasn’t easy. I ended up paying her another 50 euros for 150 total. She told me that if I think I’m going to be an hour, I should pay 100 euros upfront. I didn’t know that, but I do now.

At one point during missionary I started strangling her. This was when she started yelping loudly with every pump. After she stopped yelping, we switched to doggystyle. At one point during doggystyle I must have hit something nice for her because she made a sound and then slapped my balls. She basically hit me in the nuts. It kinda hurt. But I let out a grunt of relief. And that’s when I learned that pain is an important part of any pleasure.

Still doggystyle, she eventually moaned “You gotta cum, baby.” (You gotta cummmm, baabyyyyyyyyy) She was running out of gas. She collapsed just as I was on the verge. I turned her over real quick and finished up during missionary.

She got up and said, “Whew, baby, what you been drinking?” I didn’t know – probably absinthe, beer, and whiskey. Weed. And hash of course.

This whore was a great time. If you’re going to be a sinner, don’t go half-way. Get a whore from Ghana with a gold tooth who rubs your tummy and hits you in the nuts and holds the hash joint for you and milks the prostate. That’s how you do it.

Not surprisingly, I found myself very drunk very late in Amsterdam again on that trip. I found my way to the Red Light District. Being the diversity advocate that I am, I was in the mood for a skinny white girl this time.

I settled on a very young-looking Hungarian on the main drag. She was probably 18 or 19. Before agreeing, I told her that I could only do it if she had water. I couldn’t have sex unless I had a drink of water. I was dehydrated from drinking all week, all day, and walking around. My mouth was dry. She was very eager in getting me inside.

She led me down a complete flight of stairs to an unfinished basement. It was big, but dank and musty. This place was a shithole. I had to drink water from a disgusting sink. I would’ve liked to drink more, but I stopped when my mouth wasn’t dry anymore because the faucet looked suspect.

All the other whores had a soft leather bench for sex, but this one had a cheap, little cot. She seemed exploited, but she was eager in trying to get me in the door. Oh well.

She started with killer oral. I got on top. I was inside her for no more than three pumps when she stopped me. She laid me down and started back with oral. I started thinking, what is this shit? I paid for sex, not just oral. What would be my recourse here? There’s no customer service department or Better Business Bureau for Red Light District sex workers. Who’s going to stand up for consumer rights?

Oh well, I let her do her work.

She gave me what may have been the best blow job of my life. She used this cool trick when her hands got tired – she tried to dig her tongue as deep as possible into the dickhole and wiggled it side to side, up and down, round and round. Very nice.

I had already paid for the hour and ended up needing it. She didn’t return to sex, but definitely earned her money. I’ll never forget how hard she worked on that thing. After finishing, she held her hands out like she couldn’t move her forearms at all.

I kinda felt bad as I was leaving, thinking about all I’ve read about prostitution from Eastern Europe. Especially in Russia and Ukraine, women are kidnapped and forced into prostitution. That’s ultimately how I met a good Russian friend of mine – she’s cute and her parents feared she’d be forced into prostitution so they sent her to the States. I wouldn’t think those types would be here in Amsterdam where it’s legal and regulated. But why would she be in that shithole when all the other girls had nice lairs? But if she were forced, why would she try so hard to get me in the door? Who knows?

These are the memories of my Amsterdam whores.

Jump to European City, Argentine Women, BA Nocturnal Culture, Food: BA is for Carnivores, Language: Argentine Spanish, Tango!, or Conclusion: Buenos Aires Doesn’t Suck.  Be sure to check out my photo post Buenos Aires in Pictures.

European City

While I certainly planned to see BA someday, I was never eager to see it.  I’d heard they consider themselves more European, they’re snobs, etc.  I’ll say that the Argentine people were much more friendly than I thought. In fact, all the Argentines were absolutely good people.

The city has a noticeable European feel.  There are people walking around with blond hair and blue eyes.  Taxi drivers don’t make small talk.  Most of the buildings are taller than three stories.  In fact, many are more than ten!  I’d say Argentina is to Latin America as UK is to Europe.  Technically yes, but not really.

Different countries have terms for different kinds of people.  Peru has cholos.  Colombia has paisas.  Argentina has their own cute little term: porteños.  Those from the port.  That is to say, those people who came off a boat.  Italians.  The Italian tradition of Buenos Aires is unmistakable.  The food, the architecture, the music, the dance.  One Argentine joked that Buenos Aires is more Italian than Rome.

I had to take a picture of this taxi driver’s ID card.  Look at this guinea!  Look at that face, and that name! LAGOS OSVALDO PASCUAL.

Fittingly, we listened to tango as he drove me to Palermo

Argentine Women

An American friend who spent a lot of time throughout South America told me that he thinks the Argentine women are the most beautiful in the world.  Specifically, he thinks the Spanish–Italian mix creates drop-dead gorgeous women.  After I got back to Colombia, he sent me an email asking if I agreed with his take on the women of Argentina.  Here is my reply:

They are hot. VERY HOT.

Also definitely more of a European cut than the rest of the continent. However, I am generally attracted to all physical types and I have come to value personality most (no, I’m not kidding). And these Argentine chicks seem to be a little colder, a little more liberal / hip / indifferent than the typical sweet / sensitive / passionate Latina. I prefer the latter for love and life.

Don’t get me wrong, the Argentine women that I met have been sweet and seemed interested enough, but nothing like Brazilian, Colombian, and Peruvian women!

Peace,

Colin

His reply:

I assume this is a long about way of saying you did not get laid in BA.

True.

BA Nocturnal Culture

I don’t know if there’s a more nocturnal culture than BA anywhere in the world.  The clubs don’t get going until 1am.  There are special clubs that are only open from 5am – 10am, obviously catering to the late night (?) partiers.  I didn’t see the club scene (I quit drinking again), but every day I woke up I encountered gringos just returning from a night out.

The buffet I ate at every day opened for dinner at 8pm and closed at 1am.  One tourist told me she was trying to eat dinner at 7pm one night.  She walked around for an hour before she finally found a place that was open.

I went to a tango show that ended at midnight.  Afterwards, I went to the buffet and it was packed.  That night was the busiest I ever saw it out of all five times I ate there – around 12:30am.  There were elderly people, grandmothers and grandfathers, families, kids.  Kids!  Below is a picture of the buffet after midnight.

Food: BA is for Carnivores

Argentine food is amazing.  It’s the best of both worlds: the European emphasis on quality mixed with the Latino emphasis on quantity.  I found a tenedor libre (buffet) by the hostel and ate there five times in four days.

Argentines eat a lot of meat.  I would like to know the average cholesterol level in the country.  Protein deficiency surely isn’t a problem.  If PETA ever succeeds in transforming the world to vegetarians / vegans, Argentina will be their last frontier.  Not Texas, Argentina.

I would start a typical meal at the buffet with a trip to the grill.  The chef has dozens of pounds of various meats cooking over an open flame: beef, chicken, steak, pork, ribs, chorizo, morcilla.  You can have as much as you want.  I would start with a plate of pure meat.  One portion of each (minus morcilla).  Cooked to perfection.

After my plate of animal flesh, I would go to a different station for a custom-made pasta.  In my four trips I tasted spaghetti bolognese, ham-and-cheese ravioli in a 4-cheese sauce, and spinach pasta balls in bolognese (twice).

After those two plates, I would hit the regular buffet of fried stuff, fish, Chinese food, etc.  Then I would go back to the pasta station for a custom-made dessert crepe.  I tried chocolate crème, banana, and dulce de leche crepes.  At this point in the meal, my taste buds would overwhelm my senses with so much pleasure that I would reflect on the deliciousness of the food and my good fortune for being in Buenos Aires.  After the crepe, I would have a bowl of ice cream – pistachio was my favorite.

Maybe an espresso afterwards if needed.

If you decide to get fat for whatever reason, Argentina is the place to do it.

Language: Argentine Spanish

Argentina is known for weird Spanish.  They pronounce ‘ll’ as a j-sound.  For example, most Spanish speakers pronounce the word ‘calle‘ as cah-yay.  Argentines pronounce it as cah-jay.  Ellos as ay-jos and so on.

It wasn’t at all difficult to communicate.

I bought a book in Argentina – El Loco Chávez.  It was based on a comic that appeared in the Buenos Aires newspaper for years.  The guy at the bookstore told me it was ‘very Argentine’.  (Yes, I’m reading a comic book.  But it’s a 300-page comic book in Spanish that features sex and drama so piss off, bitch)

In the book’s dialogue, I noticed something weird about their use of irregular verbs.  Many Spanish verbs are irregular in their conjugations.  Argentine Spanish completely ignores many of those irregular verb rules.  For example, they say ‘entendes‘ instead of ‘entiendes‘ and ‘decis‘ instead of ‘dices‘.  The Argentine people actually talk like that.  I didn’t put it together until I saw this crap in writing.  I’ve heard it’s a result of their mixing Spanish with Italian, which are very similar.

I wrote in an earlier post that either Puerto Rican or Mexican Spanish are considered the worst forms of Spanish in the world.  I had heard that but I’m not sure I believe it anymore.  I think Argentina may have a shot at the title.  It’s simply bad Spanish.  And that’s not debatable.  It’s fact.

But El Loco Chávez is a cool dude.

Tango!

I saw a tango show one night.  It was one of the best performances I’ve seen.  Tango is beautiful, sexy, sensual, sophisticated and classy.  I’m not sure which is a better byproduct of Buenos Aires’ Italian influence: the food or tango.  I’ve been listening to tango music ever since getting back.

Want to hear the music?  Check out this playlist.

Tango video:

Conclusion: Buenos Aires Doesn’t Suck

The city is beautiful.  The people are beautiful and hip.  The food is amazing.  Tango is very cool.  I kept thinking during this trip: Why didn’t I move to BA?

If you were to end up in Buenos Aires, you could do a  lot worse.  Pictures of the city here.

Obelisco

Obelisco is the signature monument of Buenos Aires located downtown.  Pics of the monument and the square.

Miscellaneous City Pics

Puerto Madero

Puerto Madero was the second port the city of Buenos Aires used but has since been outgrown again.  It is now the site of expensive loft apartments, restaurants, and office buildings.

Parque 3 de Febrero

Palermo

Palermo is the chic, expensive part of town.  Not that it’s the only expensive part of town, but it’s both expensive and chic.

San Telmo

San Telmo is the starving artist, hipster part of town.  It’s close to downtown so it also features historic sites like Casa Rosada (Pink House).

Apartment in San Telmo

I visited a friend of a friend who lived in San Telmo.  His apartment was so cool I took pics.

Here’s the story:

It’s a bright Saturday afternoon in December (’07). We were walking along a side street on the way back to our hotel — only a few blocks off the Ave. Julio 9 (main drag). Not many people around.

My wife walks a few steps ahead because of narrow sidewalks. Suddenly, we feel moisture of some kind rained from above. Just as suddenly, two people — a man and woman in their early 30s — appear. They’re conciliatory and explain we’ve been bombed by pigeons. From their pockets they conveniently pull handfuls of napkins and begin to wipe the stuff off.

It takes less than ten seconds for us to realize this is fishy. My wife spots the guy, who’s wiping my shoulders, reach into my back pocket with his other hand (I never felt it). She backs up and tells them we’re fine and to leave us alone. They’re surprised she speaks Spanish as well as they do, and the sharp tone of her voice stops their scam.

We make haste to walk away and they go the other way. Big nuisance, but it wasn’t threatening. And they got nothing, because I carried my money and passport in my FRONT pocket.

Back at the hotel, the staff tells us, yeah, that’s an old scam on the streets of B.A., intended to create a diversion, and that it was probably Peruvians (apparently they consider those pesky Peruvians their main source of minor crimes). And as two older gringos, we were prime targets.

Turned out the pigeon poop was actually cheap cooking oil mixed with dirt. According to hotel folks, the Peruvians walk behind their marks with plastic ketchup dispensers they use to squirt the “poop” into the air to fall on their victims — then come to their “rescue.”

Applicable Life Lesson: keep any valuables in a place where pickpockets can’t get at them.

Word.

The Border Incident

I took a bus from Arequipa to Tacna, a pueblo on the Peruvian side of the Peru-Chile border, and arrived around 3am.  Collectivo taxi drivers sell trips across the border.  I was solicited the second I exited the bus terminal.  I asked how much and the guy replied “30 soles.”  I agreed.

We walked two blocks to his early-80s model Chevy Caprice and I put my suitcase in the trunk.  The driver returned to the terminal to find more passengers.  I noticed a small sign on the windshield advertising “Tarifa” for 20 soles or 4000 Chilean pesos.  Hmmm…

After five minutes or so, the driver returned with two women.  After he went back to the terminal to find one more passenger, I asked them how much they were paying.  15 soles each.  Hmmm…

I found the guy and asked him when we were leaving.  Right now, he replied.  I told him I’ll pay 20.  He agreed.  About an hour later, he found a fourth passenger and we left the terminal.

After a half hour drive, we arrived at the border before 5am.  It was closed.  The driver shut off the engine, pulled his hat over his eyes and went to sleep.  There was nothing to do but wait.  I watched the sun come up and realized the terrain was nothing but a sand / dirt combo.  Nothing green as far as the eye could see.  Mountains to the east.  The Pacific Ocean was somewhere out of sight toward the west.

The driver woke up around 6:30.  He asked us for our passports, DNIs, etc. and went to work with Chilean paperwork.  When he was doing mine, he realized I didn’t give him my Peru tourism card.  When entering Peru, they give you a card stating the date you entered and the day you have to leave (30, 90, 120 days, etc.).  I can’t think of any real purpose this card serves except as a way to charge foreigners the lost card fee when they leave the country without it.  I have forgotten my card and had to pay before.  I still had mine, but forgot to bring it on this quick excursion across the border to Chile.

I told the driver that I don’t have my card but it’s not a big deal.  They charge $10 or so to foreigners without that card and I’ll have to pay it.

Our car was 5th out of 15 – 20 cars in line, but when the office opened everybody pours in and finds a parking spot.  Then they literally run into the office to clear Peruvian authorities.  It’s a race to get through customs, I assume so the taxi drivers can be the first to fill their taxis with return trips to Peru.

So we’re all running as a group and we stop at the first desk.  The driver tells me to give him the money that I should pay.  I made a big mistake here, partly due to lack of sleep and partly due to not having run this drill before.  All I had was a S/. 100 bill.  I gave it to him.

When we got to the Peruvian customs agent, he quickly ran through each passenger’s documents, stamping each one.  When he got to mine, he noticed the lack of tourism card and looked up at the taxi driver.  The driver’s hand shot across the desk inconspicuously and met the agent’s hand.  The agent nodded and stamped my passport.

We finished the process and continued running outside, where the taxi driver met us with the car.  While driving to the Chilean checkpoint, I asked the driver for my change.  He gave me a stupid face.  I already knew what had happened and I was fucked.  He bribed the customs agent my 100 soles (or maybe a smaller bill of his if he really got over on me) to overlook my lack of tourism card.  However it went down, he bribed the agent to not charge me the fee I was willing to pay anyway.  In effect, I paid 100 soles to avoid a 30 soles fee.

I started my Chile trip angry.

Chile, Pinochet, and the Chicago Boys

I took a taxi from the Arica bus station to the Plaza de Armas and immediately noticed how economically developed Chile is compared to Peru.  Chile is the economic shining gem of Latin America, and has been since the 80s.

Former President and General Augusto Pinochet was guilty of various human rights crimes, but he was responsible for one inarguably positive reform in Chile: free-market economics.  After taking power via a bloody coup, Pinochet designated as his Ministry of Economics a group of Chilean students (the Chicago Boys) who studied under Milton Friedman at the University of Chicago.  This team implemented various free-market initiatives that resulted in the Miracle of Chile, in which Chile was and still is distinctly more prosperous than the rest of Latin America.

That difference is evident as soon as you cross the border from Peru.  Arica is a city of roughly 300,000 – about a quarter the size of Arequipa.  However, a walk through downtown would have you believe it were at least the same size.  There are both a McDonald’s and Blockbuster Video, neither of which exist in Arequipa (people rent legitimate copies in Latin America???).

There are high-end restaurants, where fries come with a burger.  The servers put branded squeezable bottles of ketchup and mustard on the table, as in the States.  There are boutiques.  In Peru, there are informal markets where you find anything you need, and these informal markets are in Chile also, but this small coastal town also features several boutiques – stores that specialize in a certain kind of merchandise.  A brick-and-mortar, legitimate store which specializes in only home furnishings, or sportswear, or shoes.  This kind of business seems exclusive to only developed nations or large cities.  Since Arica is a city of only 300,000, I guess Chile fits into the former.

I didn’t get a photo of the several-block shopping area just off the Plaza.

The verdict on Pinochet is generally negative in the Western world.  In the US and Europe, if someone was a ruthless dictator, he was a bad guy.  In Chile however, I found that he enjoys a mixed legacy.  As a new friend, Sonia, explained, the country is divided in half concerning Pinochet.  According to another new friend, Diego (a blue-collar Chilean), Pinochet was a horrible leader.  At the museum on top of El Morro, there are dedications to Pinochet.  Chile is very proud of their military, which has decisively thumped every neighbor it’s gone to war with (including Peru a few times).

The Chilean People

I was never eager to see Chile because of what I’d heard.  Chile and Argentina have more of a European influence, less of a Latino character. I heard they were pretentious. I found the opposite to be true (in Arica anyway).

I was having a few beers my first night on a patio in the central commercial district.  At a table next to me sat two beautiful girls and two young men.  They invited me to join them.  I did.  Sonia, Niko, Patricio, and Pablo were some of the nicest people I’ve ever met.  We drank until late in the night at a few different places.  They were students at the local university.  We met the next day for lunch on their campus and they showed me around.  After lunch, Pablo had to split but Sonia, Niko, and Patricio accompanied me to the top of El Morro, the mountain overlooking Arica and the port.  We took a ton of pictures together.

One thing struck me strange about this group.  I assumed they were two couples.  But by the end of the second day, I learned that each one of these four friends had a significant other, but nobody was each other’s significant other.  Their significant others weren’t part of the group.  Kinda cool.

On my second and last night, I went to the same place for a couple beers.  A group of three guys invited me to join them. They were already pretty boozed up and couldn’t keep up with me. They were in a blues band together and I insisted they check out some authentic acts.  I wrote down Junior Kimbrough, RL Burnside, and T Model Ford.  Diego emailed me recently that he loved Junior Kimbrough (my favorite too).

I was pleasantly surprised with the friendliness of Chileans and came to the overall conclusion that ¡chilenos = buena gente!

La Represión y Daniel Menco

On the Universidad Tarapacá de Arica campus, I took pictures of the murals decorating various buildings.  Most of the murals were statements against La Represión, or the supression of the student voice by police.  Sonia protested that she didn’t agree with the message of the art.  She feels there’s no such repression (it should be noted that Sonia was also a vocal enthusiast of Augusto Pinochet and knew who the Chicago Boys were).

In May 1999, several UTA students organized a protest which turned violent.  In their efforts to gain control, the Chilean police killed 23 year-old UTA student Daniel Menco.  His image was featured in the murals and is a martyr for the left-wing cause.  Click here for his Wikipedia page in Spanish (click here for the Google translation).  I told Sonia it doesn’t really matter if I agree with the cause.  I still like the art.

Below are a couple video dedications to Menco.  The first features Rage Against the Machine “Testify” and the second, over Perfect Circle’s “Judith,” features images of the campus murals being painted.

Pictures

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Honorable Mention: Mata Rangi

There is a seafood processing district in the mouth of the port.  I ate twice at Mata Rangi, the coolest place.  The Menu Turistico features a seafood soup with bread followed by fried fish fillets, rice, and tomatoes.  ¡Excelente! These plates are in the pics.  There was more seafood in the soup than liquid.  My server estimated there were 4 – 5 kinds of shellfish in that batch, but it depends on the day.  I sat on the patio over the water.  Afterwards, I took a short boat tour of the bay.  Must-do if in Arica!

I travelled to mainland China to meet Jason, a Chinese-born fraternity brother from America.  I stayed with him at his parents’ place in Ganzhou. In my 1000-page China edition of Lonely Planet, this city of 600,000 isn’t even listed in the index. It was a five-hour train ride from Hong Kong.

Jason picked me up at the train station. After a few minutes of catching up, he suggested we go to the red light district of Ganzhou. “What?  Red light district?”  He couldn’t be serious.  Jason and his friend wanted to get massages with happy endings and suggested I do the same. I refused. Jason told me that was fine but I would have to wait until they finished. I preferred not to do this either. Jason explained the other services you could get, one of which was to shower with the whore. “The shower sounds alright,” I said.

The “day spa” looked like a plush hotel with decorative carpeting and chandeliers. A woman in a traditional Chinese silk dress greeted us and showed us into one of the rooms. In the hall, porters wearing maroon suits with little hats were carrying silver trays. The room I was escorted to had mirrors on the ceiling, porn on the television, and glass walls around the bathroom which contained a massage table.

Jason and his friend negotiated with a man in a black suit, who spoke into a walkie-talkie to summon “the selection.” A few chicks walked in wearing black and purple lingerie covered by a see-through gown. Jason told me that most of the A-team was busy but maybe I would like the B-team. I picked one.

The fellas left and told me they would get their massages while I was in here. The whore went to work. She stripped herself and me and then led me to the massage table in the bathroom. I was hosed down and massaged. Rather than using her hands for the massage, she rubbed her tits all over me and then her ass. She dried me with a towel, and then led me to the bed for a more legitimate massage, followed by more of the boobs and ass.

While lying on my stomach, I felt saran-wrap being put on my feet and thought, “What the fuck?”  She licked the covered bottoms of my feet, which I assume is something Chinese people like. Then a porter brought two cups with hot and cold water. The chick sipped the hot water, then licked and kissed my body. This was followed by the cold, which tickled me. The wheels were in motion. I fucked her. I am now officially a dirtball.

I spent a few days in Ganzhou. I ate with Jason’s family including uncles, aunts, and cousins. There was definitely a hierarchy. Men sat down to eat first while women brought food from the kitchen. The women didn’t sit down until everything was ready. Children weren’t allowed to sit at the table. The men drank liquor; the women did not. Weird things they ate included turtles and lamb’s ears.

The second night in Ganzhou, Jason and I met some of his friends at a club. The place was pretty crowded but everyone was sitting down. Jason said that things don’t pick up until people get drugged up. He told me that weed was hard to come by, but “king” was normally done in clubs. It is an inhalant and stimulant. Sure enough, after an hour or so, the dance floor was full of Chinese people dancing as if they were at Woodstock and Jefferson Airplane was playing “White Rabbit.” I followed Jason into a hole-in-the-ground toilet stall and we snorted some of the powder. It was pretty stupid, much like weed. Lights were more prominent and I had to concentrate to walk in a straight line.

I sat at a table with a Chinese bird. She was an absolute dime whose English name was Abby. She was studying international trade. We hit it off and exchanged numbers before Jason’s friends told me it was time to go. Jason asked me how it went with that girl. Well, I explained, we exchanged numbers and I would call her tomorrow. Jason informed me that things worked differently in China and that I needed to act that night – ask her to come eat with us, then take her to a hotel.

Jason sorted it out in Chinese over the phone. She met us at this barbecue place with two of her friends, a man and woman. Everything was going fine until the couple started to argue. They both stood up yelling. Then the man landed three open-handed right crosses on the woman’s face, the first one snapping her head a good 6 inches. He slapped the shit out of her. The chick grabbed her face, spit in his direction, then threw two bowls from the table which missed and shattered on the wall. Holy shit!

I looked around at others for clues on how I was supposed to react. Everyone just looked but said nothing. Trying to revive our conversation, Jason said to me, “Tell Abby about the fraternity.” All I could say was, “He slapped the shit out of her!” The man yelled at the woman to get in a cab and Abby followed. Thanks a lot, ASSHOLE, for ruining my chance.

The third night we went out to karaoke. Karaoke in China involves renting out your own private room to get drunk and act like assholes. After ten minutes, the manager walked into our room with eight women. “Pick one,” Jason told me. “No, not that shit again,” I replied. He explained these girls are on the menu but not whores.  You can order women as drinking partners, or company. They play drinking games with you and sing songs. Jason ordered two. Those chicks kicked the shit out of me in the Chinese-dice drinking game we played.

Jason and I went to Shanghai and Nanjing for a few days. In Shanghai we went to a bar where two chicks swarmed me right when I entered. The amount of attention they gave me seemed completely unnatural. “Let’s be honest,” I told them. “You have an ulterior motive in talking to me.” The chicks admitted that they worked for the bar and it was their job to drum up business by getting men to buy drinks for them. “Now will you buy us drinks?” one asked. I agreed.  She asked for a Malibu.  ”Too bad. You’re getting Jameson.”

I decided I was going to drink these little Asian chicks under the table. I alternated between shots of Jameson and Southern Comfort. Eventually they stopped asking for drinks. I actually hit it off with one of them. I convinced her to come back to my hotel which led to a drunken session of rough sex. I think the chick stole my blue stocking cap with red snowball afterward. I woke up naked, hung over, hatless, and read a text message from Jason that said “you are heinous.” Jason busied himself that night by using one of the call-in hookers advertised on the map handed out to tourists at the information center.

The second day in Shanghai I had food poisoning. Jason borrowed 200 RMB for more whores.

On the last night in Nanjing, Jason and I got pretty drunk. I was talking up one chick for most of the night and decided to swing for the fences: “Help me find my way back to the hotel.” To which she replied, “I don’t think so. You are going back by yourself.” And I came up short.

American Food

Before baggage claim, diarrhea set in. I thought it was the altitude change but Steve suggested it might be the water. I’ve been drinking bottled water for nine months (Peru water isn’t drinkable). I drank a lot of tap water during my layover in Atlanta, which is drinkable but rich in chlorine. The chlorine may have made me sick. The diarrhea continued at home until I tried to drink through it. I had five drinks before I went to a nice Italian restaurant for a family dinner. Then a few drinks with dinner. I puked in the restaurant toilet before leaving for my welcoming party.

I felt sick but had to hang around and greet people. George took me outside in hopes that getting high might make me feel better. I puked again. Then I smoked his joint with him. I felt better. But I couldn’t drink and went home around midnight.

I thought I missed food in America, specifically comfort food like pizza, wings, and cheeseburgers. Every time I tried to enjoy this stuff, I couldn’t eat much. It didn’t sit well. I had a general digestive discomfort the whole week in America. At a sports bar, I ordered twenty wings. I quit after five or six. I could feel the oil and butter churning in my stomach. Another day I ordered a pepperoni pizza with my kid brother.  I couldn’t finish it.

Fast food was the worst. One night after a bender, my brother Ryan offered to treat me to my choice of fast food. I told him I didn’t want anything. The thought of it was gross. I ate some anyway. My last day, I woke up at my buddy John’s house. I borrowed his car and tried to eat like I used to, blowing $13.64 at Burger King. I ate the Double Whopper with Cheese first. It didn’t sit well. It didn’t even taste good. I picked at the chicken tenders and Spicy Chicken Sandwich. I barely touched the fries before throwing it all away.

One day I was hungry at George’s house. He invited me to anything. I looked for fruit. There were a half dozen apples that looked old, except one. It was bright red without a blemish. I picked it out and washed it. I noticed its unbelievable girth. I stared at it in disbelief. It was so fat and flawless and red. Fruit’s not supposed to look like this. Especially the girth. George noticed me staring at it. “It’s on steroids, muthafucka. Just eat it,” he said. I ate it. Better than fast food.

Wal-Mart

Before moving to Peru, I detested Wal-Mart. Not for the common reasons like their encouragement of offshore outsourcing of manufacturing, their role in globalization, or alleged union-busting activities. I didn’t shop at Wal-Mart because I regarded their products as inferior. I bought a suitcase that fell apart in less than a year. And the people there (customers and employees) aren’t pleasant to deal with or even look at.

Wal-Mart was one of the first places on my list to pick up some standard items that aren’t available in Peru. Within a few hours of landing, George picked me up and we were at a Wal-Mart.

My perspective had changed. Wal-Mart seemed great! Look at all this nice stuff! And these great prices! I even caught myself admiring the clothes! The sheer bigness was awesome. I wanted to take a picture from one side to capture the grandiosity and show it to Peruvians. I could’ve spent all night in that place. I went back twice in that one week. After nine months of my new life in Peru, the inner-elitist inside me is dead. Long live Wal-Mart!

The Porn Star

After going to Wal-Mart the first day, George and I went to his house. I got depressed by his Christmas tree, baby things, and general family setting. I told him I had to get out of there. Take me to a bar. He told me there were no cool bars around. I told him I had to get out of here and have a drink.

We went to the nearby dive. Upon entering, I immediately regretted the choice. There were a half dozen middle-aged barflys already drunk at 5pm. A couple rednecks. No music. The bartender had white hair. Welcome to Missouri. They had Busch on tap. Whenever a place has Busch on tap, I order it to be sarcastic. We started with a shot of well vodka and a Busch draft. Yeah!

Completely out of place with these overweight, ugly people was an absolute stallion. Tall, slim, big breasts, beautiful face. She had her two kids in the bar throwing darts and playing with the television remote. I commented to George, “Mommy has a couple more in her.” He agreed. Then I recognized her from school! In fact, I had a huge crush on her in junior high.

She made eyes at me in the bar. One time she met my eyes and suggestively opened her mouth. We started talking to her. Without acknowledging the crush, we identified who we all were and how we all knew each other. I asked her what she does now and she replied “Nothing good!” She later told us who she works for, a guy we went to high school with.

George knows the guy and mentioned what he does now. He used the term: “websites.” George asked about her husband. She said they met on a “photo shoot” but they were now divorced. She went to fetch her parents, who were some of the middle-aged barflys. I asked George which one of us he thought she wanted. He replied, “Both. At the same time. On camera.” His friend, who she works for, manages a porn website.

She came back and drooled over how I live in Peru to her parents. Her mom asked if it’s a different lifestyle here. I told her it was.

George and I had three beers and two shots. While he was in the bathroom, I got the porn star’s phone number. All week long, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Every day in St. Louis I awoke to manually relieve myself with her on my mind. All I wanted for Christmas was the porn star. I didn’t call her while I waited for a giant pimple on my cheek to go down. I called her on my last night, a week after she gave me the number. She was at the mall with her kids. She told me she’d call me back when she figured out “what was going on.” I knew she wouldn’t call. I stopped thinking about her and my thoughts went back to Milagros.

Christmas in America

Christmas in America reminded me why I had turned Scroogish in recent years. I wasn’t Scroogish in Peru because they haven’t commercialized Christmas like America has. America inundates you with red and green, and Santa, and terrible Christmas music. In my opinion, the word “terrible” isn’t necessary because “Christmas music” implies terrible.

In Peru, the Christmas flavor is Jesus-focused. Nativity scenes are the most common public display of Christmas spirit. There is no red and green onslaught of bad music, heinous sweaters, and over-enthusiasm to turn people like me into Scrooges. No urge to yell at society: “Shut the fuck up with this!” And to the kids: “There is no Santa!”

A Doomed Friendship

In my first post to this blog, I describe the trouble I started to get into in St. Louis and how my friend George is usually involved. We have a long history of drinking and getting reckless. I was reminded that it’s better if we live in different parts of the world.

We hung out Monday night. After lifting weights all day, we went to my dad’s so I could get dressed. I realized I had a shirt I’d meant to give him the year before. I got the shirt from a Jews for Jesus group and it read in big, blue letters “JESUS LOVES YOU” inside a large six-pointed star on front and back. It’s an inside joke because George has lost all religion and, at the time, he used to sarcastically say “Jesus loves you” before hanging the phone up.

He loved the shirt and vowed to wear it that night at the bar. I said I’d wear my FUNKADELIC t-shirt if he wore the JESUS LOVES YOU shirt. The FUNKADELIC t-shirt features a topless black woman in a thong. Her bare breasts are the first and only things you notice. Without a word, we clapped hands in agreement.

An hour later, we left George’s house with his gay roommate Jon and Jon’s seemingly closeted lover. We were going to a suburban sports bar to meet his girlfriend, her friend, my brother, and several of George’s coworkers. I looked over from the passenger seat to see him smoking a joint in his new JESUS LOVES YOU shirt. He turned down the full-blast gangsta rap to say, “I hope somebody tries pushin’ up on my gal so I can bust ‘em in they mouth.”

While George may enjoy hurting others, it really isn’t our intention when we go out. I see our behavior as our profound need to defy convention and express the fact that we’re different. So that’s why I got the idea to cheer for the Bears once we arrived at the full-house Packers bar during Monday Night Football.

How sad is this mostly male, all green crowd wearing Packers jerseys and hats banking their happiness on the athletic performance of a group of men who don’t give a damn about them and play in a city hundreds of miles away! So we loudly and enthusiastically cheered when the Bears made good plays and I strived for the volume and tone of Eddie Murphy in Coming to America during the scenes at the St. John’s basketball game (“IN THE FACE! YES!”) and the Black Awareness Rally (“I AM VERY HAPPY TO BE HERE!”).

There were absolutely no attractive women in the place except the server, who we promptly annoyed. George’s Girlfriend showed up with her short, fat friend. I could tell the kickball-shaped friend liked me and I decided to keep away. We ate wings and drank beer. We loudly cheered for the Bears. I spanked some other fattie several times. We ran into a few high school acquaintances. Some heffer of a Bears fan (who filled out her extra large sweatshirt quite well) came over to meet us. At one point Heffer and Kickball stood facing me, begging attention, from opposite sides of George and Girlfriend. Decisions, decisions. I chose beer.

In the fourth quarter, Girlfriend had to leave to pick up their baby from the babysitter before ten. She took Kickball with her and told me to make sure George left soon. The game went into overtime. The Bears won with a field goal. We went wild. Then left. George sped and screeched out of the lot in the fortunate absence of suburban police. He spent $90 at the liquor store.

We took our booze back to his house where the baby slept upstairs. Girlfriend and Kickball patiently waited for us in the kitchen with Jon and Closeted Lover. Ryan showed up later. We got drunk and smoked several joints. The general recklessness when George and I get together is so contagious that Ryan opted to get high – something he never does since being a helpless marijuana addict (if those exist) in high school. Jon and Closeted Lover went to bed – Jon in his room and Closeted Lover on the couch. Fighting I assume?

To Girlfriend’s appall, George brought up the subject of Kickball’s large breasts. He analyzed them for some time. Girlfriend went to bed angry. George kept talking to my annoyance. Why couldn’t he just go to bed so I could have sex with Kickball already? Then he redeemed himself. George took his shirt off. He had been on a bodybuilding phase of packing on mass which, for white guys, means getting a little fat to put on lots of muscle. He pinched the fat from his stomach in a demonstration. He squeezed the fat on his chest to create an illusion of boobs.

Ryan and I laughed uncontrollably. He told Kickball that his fat was delicious and she should touch it. He moved closer and tried to touch it to her face. She shied away into my shoulder. Under George’s 235 solid pounds added to Kickball’s great weight, the chair broke. The whole kitchen erupted in even more laughter as the weed, alcohol, and food spilled onto the floor.

I walked to the living room and woke up Closeted Lover. I explained that he couldn’t sleep there. He had to sleep with Jon. A straight man needs to smash a fatty on this couch so he would have to sleep in Jon’s room. He sat up and agreed, but he needed a minute. I returned to the circus in the kitchen. Ryan was gathering his things to leave. I didn’t notice Closeted Lover go back to sleep on the couch. The circus laughed and drank for a little longer while I massaged Kickball’s large butt cheeks.

George and I noticed Closeted Lover sleeping on the couch and sprang into action with the silent cohesion of an elite military force. George grabbed his legs while I grabbed his arms and we hoisted Closeted Lover off the couch and started for Jon’s room. He was not too heavy for strong guys like us but we still managed to accidentally drop him as soon as we cleared the couch. He landed on the hardwood floor with a thud. He realized his situation and retreated to Jon’s room.

I grabbed Kickball’s hand and sat her down on the couch with me while Ryan left and George went to bed. I was soon naked with Kickball’s pants off (she was shy to take her shirt off). We made out and petted and I spent an hour or so trying to rise to the occasion. I was too drunk and she was too fat for me to perform. Thank God. Thank God she left so I could sleep in peace.

I felt horrible when I woke. George and Girlfriend woke later. I told him that he and I can’t live in the same city. Too dangerous. We can only do this once a year. He didn’t understand. They took me home.

There are many guys who live crazier lives than us. But we have goals. Despite the impression this blog may give you, I have been calm since moving to Peru. I only drink twice per week. George has settled down, drinking even less than me and focusing on the gym. He has four kids by three women. He likes his current girlfriend and wants to keep her. I don’t want to be the negative influence that ends that dream. Plus, I have my own priorities in growing up. I have some kind of great career to realize. Jail time, serious injury, and STD’s don’t fit into the equation. So George and I simply can’t live in the same city because all those would be inevitable. He agreed later in the week.

American Opulence

One key difference between America and emerging markets is the amount of stuff people have. Big TVs, big cars, computers, DVD players, Wii’s, iPods, big domeciles, big refrigerators full of food, and lots of US dollars. More materialistic Americans would have a hard time making a life in a place like Peru.

I must admit that I thoroughly enjoyed working out at George’s gym, Lifetime Fitness, located in the affluent suburb of Chesterfield. He landed a job selling gym memberships at what must be the nicest gym in all of St. Louis. While St. Louis is a second-rate, nothing special has-been of a city in America, I doubt there is any gym in all of Peru or most of Latin America to compare to Lifetime Fitness.

The experience was a stark contrast from the two gyms I frequent in Peru, where all the equipment was manufactured in the seventies or eighties. It is thoroughly filthy and rusted. Lifetime’s equipment is state-of-the-art and virtually untouched. We started our day lifting weights (chest) and ran into Ryan Howard doing agility training. Ryan Howard plays first base for the Philadelphia Phillies. He was the 2006 MLB MVP and 2008 World Series champion. He is from St. Louis and works out at Lifetime. George says Albert Pujols also works out there every day.

After hitting the weights, we went to the gym’s restaurant where George treated me to some after-workout fuel. A glutamine- and creatine-enriched, chocolate-banana protein shake with a barbecue chicken pizza (all-natural chicken, whole wheat crust, and low fat cheese). Then I joined a pickup game of full-court basketball before taking a dip in the swimming pool with water fountain.

I changed in their locker room with complimentary towels and oak lockers, bathing in their private showers. I didn’t take advantage of the hot tub, steam room, sauna, racquetball, squash, rock climbing, salon, or massage options. There were countless other amenities in the plush, Wal-Mart-sized gym (150,000+ square feet). I assume the monthly cost of membership is higher than my rent. Click here to visit the website. Only in America.

Things I Miss

Family and friends – obviously. It will be hard to see everybody.

Pizza, buffalo wings, burgers – food is generally better in Peru, but sometimes I miss the greasy comfort food that America does best.

Schlafly Pale Ale – first and foremost this beer, but I miss all the American craft brews.

Pilsner Urquell – Heineken is the only European brew available in Peru. I miss the others, especially this one.

Budweiser – the old stand-by. The world’s best-selling beer is not available in most of South America.

Fast bartenders – bartenders in Peru are worse than those in Europe.

The Science Hip Hop Spin – KDHX Friday nights (St. Louis, MO).

The Roots reggae show – follows the Science Spin.

Delmar Lounge – I’ll close it down at least once.

Weed – there is marijuana in Peru but I don’t buy it and am never around it to smoke it. In the STL scene, I will certainly be around it and certainly smoke it.

Things I’ll Bring Back

CDs – about 300 in the complete collection.

Boxing gloves and wrist wraps – these were on the list before the KO incident.

Jersey-cotton bed sheets

Iggy Pop t-shirt and my Clinton 92 t-shirt

Hugo Boss swimming trunks – January is beach season in Peru.

Small kitchenwares

BOOKS – I embarked on an Amazon spending spree because English books are expensive and hard to find in Peru. The list includes:

• Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
  
• The Time of the Hero – Mario Vargas Llosa
  
• The Dubliners – James Joyce
  
• Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov
  
• American Pastoral – Philip Roth
  
• Underworld – Don Delillo
  
• The Tipping Point – Malcolm Gladwell
  
• The New Paradigm for Financial Markets – George Soros
  
• Snowball: Warren Buffett & Business of Life – Alice Schroeder
  
• Google’s PageRank and Beyond – Amy Langville and Carl Meyer
  
• On the Campaign Trail ‘72 – Hunter Thompson
  

I landed at MIA around 7am, but couldn’t check into my hotel on Marco Island until 3pm.  Saturday was my only free day.  So I decided to check out South Beach until 1pm before driving a rental across the state.  I had breakfast at Jerry’s Famous Deli – four whole wheat pancakes for $9.95 – which was my most expensive meal in months.

I played in the ocean for a couple hours.  The water is warm, which is nice, but it’s also filled with floating debris.  Not human trash, but marine plantlife.  Seaweed and other shit. I may be a sissy but it’s creepy when stuff like that touches you in the ocean.  I don’t know if it’s the season or if this is a constant plague of South Beach.

South Beach is a popular destination among Europeans and topless sunbathing is tolerated.  I’d read this but forgot, so I was surprised at the first topless woman I saw.  Then I saw more.  Very cool.  After swimming and walking a mile or so up the beach in search of topless women, I had lunch.  Roasted chicken pizza: roasted chicken, mixed greens, black olives, hard-boiled eggs with light caesar dressing on whole wheat crust.  Delicious.

Miami is a beautiful city, but the beach culture has absolutely NOTHING on Southern California.  I’m spoiled for having lived in Orange County for a year, arguably the best beach culture in the world.  Around South Beach you see lots of ugly people, fat people, old people, corny Midwesterners, etc.  Not so much in SoCal.

Miami has better scenery than LA.  The architecure of tall, light colored buildings on the backdrop of water and / or palm trees beats the sprawling, flat concrete that is most of LA.

As opposed to LA corniness, I enjoyed Miami’s excellent radio stations for the drive through the Everglades to the other side of the State.  In what may be the biggest swamp in the world, signs line the freeway advertising airboat tours and alligator shows.  I knew there were gators and snakes and other nasty animals in the Everglades, but I was surprised to see “Panther Crossing” signs.  I didn’t know panthers live in the swamp too.

I got to Marco Island around 3pm and checked into my room.  Marco Island is a section of swank isolated from Naples by a thirty-minute drive.  There isn’t much of an industry on the island outside of hotels.  They’re designed so you never have to leave the grounds.  I stayed at the Marco Island Marriott Resort Golf Club and Spa.  It was exactly as it sounds.  A photo is at the bottom of this post.

After checking in, I went to the beach and played in the water for a while, only because I wanted to say that I played in two different seas in one day (Atlantic Ocean and Gulf of Mexico).  Not many people can say that.

While this was my one free day, I still had some errands to take care of.  I had to drive to Naples for a Target and I wanted to see the Hispanic sections at some local drug store chains.  AI got some more gifts for my Peruvian friends.  For Miguel, I bought peanut butter.  For my roommates, I bought a six pack of Red Hook ESB and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale to show them that America makes good beer.  I bought a book for Karen (English books are hard to find).

I’d planned to have dinner at the beach in Naples, but was disappointed to see it was all residential.  Naples has no beachfront scene with bars, shops, and beach culture.  A shame.  I did find 5th Avenue, which isn’t far from the beach.  5th Avenue is a retail district of posh bistros and high-end shopping.  Not what you expect to see at the beach.  Lots of people with white hair.  5th Avenue prompted me to dub Naples, FL “Tommy Bahama Land”.

Tommy Bahama is a ridiculous men’s clothing brand with a tropical theme.  “Tommy” is about as gringo as names can be and “Bahama” implies beach / tropical.  The typical Tommy Bahama garment is a Hawaiian shirt.  In my opinion, if you’re going to wear a Hawaiian shirt, it should be a cheap, light cotton piece of shit, preferrably bright red or otherwise loud and ugly.  And it should only be worn with shorts and flip flops.  While drinking.

Tommy Bahama, on the other hand, puts a high-end spin on the Hawaiian shirt, incorporating fine fabrics and earth tones while retailing for $40 or more.  And the sorry bastards wear it with a belt, light khakis or even white pants, and penny loafers.  Disgusting.  I used to see the Tommy Bahama section in department stores and wonder to myself: Who buys this shit?  Answer: Naples, FL.

While the night was young, I realized that tonight was my only chance if I wanted to have a few drinks at my swanky beach resort.  At a liquor store, I bought a half gallon of Burnett’s blueberry vodka ($12.99), lemonade to mix, and a bottle of Chartreuse ($49.99).  I’d never seen Chartreuse in a liquor store.  I love that shit so I decided to bring a bottle to Peru.

At the hotel, I headed down to the pool with my half gallon of vodka, lemonade, glass and bucket of ice.  I realized I was in America again and that this strange land has fascist rules.  I’d probably be breaking these rules with all the booze so I kind of hid all my stuff as well as I could and gained access to the pool undetected.

There was one other couple in the huge pool, which had islands in it with giant palm trees shooting up and fountains sprinkling water into the pool.  The pool staff had a thatched-roof hut next to the pool and I situated my booze out of their sight.

I drank and swam and looked at the stars and the ocean and palm trees.  I thought to myself that, for the first time coming back to my country, this was not a bad way to do it.  Around the time the pool was to close, I hid from the pool staff.  They didn’t see me as they placed “Pool Closed” signs by the entrances, locked the doors, and left.  I drank and swam for another hour or so.

At some point after the staff closed the pool, I noticed the “Pool Rules” sign.  Again, being an expat who prefers Latin American culture to my own country’s, I marvelled at how many rules there were.  The sign was huge and full of bulletpoints and words.  I was breaking four rules:  No night swimming, no food or drink in pool area, no glass allowed in pool area, and people under the influence of alcohol should not enter the pool.  Lame!

The next morning, I headed to a local diner and had a Jalopeño and Cheddar cheeseburger with fries.  I prefer fries from Peru, but burgers in Peru are terrible.  I don’t know what they put in the patties, but they’re funky.  And they’re never a half-pound.  So I planned to have a classic American cheeseburger with fries.  The Jalopeño and Cheddar burger fixed the craving and then some.

The convention technically started with dinner that night and included meals throughout the duration of the show.  That night’s buffet featured steak, chicken, mahi mahi, potatoes, rolls, salads, and a cheesecake spread for dessert.  There was an open bar included.  What a shame that every night had an open bar but I had to wake up at 6:30am.  Plus, I didn’t want to make a drunk idiot out of myself with so many prospective buyers around.  So I didn’t drink.  The convention organizers also had two masseuses giving complimentary massages, which I did indulge in.

I spent Monday and Tuesday pitching my products to the various buyers attending the show.  The registration fee was astronomical, but I had the undivided attention of every attending buyer for twenty minutes each in my own show room.  The big draw was the companies attending on the buyer side – many household names of giant chains that any American would know.  Ironically, I did very well with those giant companies attending while not generating much interest in the small- to medium-sized chains.  All the giants are chasing the exploding Hispanic demographic and jockeying to become their store of choice.  All the small to medium chains weren’t interested as the shipping costs of smaller purchases would kill their margin, or because they didn’t have much of a Hispanic clientele and they didn’t feel the products would sell in the general market.

I wouldn’t call it culture shock since this is my culture, but I did notice a difference in American business.  It goes along with the cold gringo culture how abrupt and direct people can be.  I was scheduled twenty minutes with each and every buyer at the show.  Some uninterested buyers left my room inside three minutes.  In Latin America, there’s a process which places importance on relationship-building.  Even if a buyer can tell he won’t buy anything, he’ll talk with the seller for a while and act interested and be nice and build a rapport.  Maybe even leave the window open for a purchase he knows will never happen.

I couldn’t care less and wasn’t insulted at all by the Americans who ended their meetings abruptly, but they probably would be seen as insulting in Latin America.  Not all uninterested Americans left that quick.  Some wanted to ask me about Peru.  Some industry veterans stuck around to give me advice – I was one of the youngest people at the show and the only youngster who came alone.

I didn’t miss American food much, but I got a well-rounded taste that weekend.  The Monday lunch buffet was a philly cheesesteak bar with fries and onion rings.  Monday dinner was prime rib and roasted turkey with pasta, potatoes, rolls, and a sundae bar.  Tuesday lunch was a taco bar with beans and rice.  I missed Tuesday dinner’s steak and lobster because I had to drive back for my flight out of Miami.  I ate at a Cuban restaurant near the airport.  I’m glad to be back with Peruvian food.

Socializing with Americans was OK despite the open bar I didn’t take advantage of.  I got along with some people.  But for two meals, I found myself choosing to sit with three girls from a Mexican company.  I guess I wanted to speak Spanish, and I find Latina women easier to talk to.  And they were hot.  I made buddies with one guy who was about my age from San Francisco who liked my Tommy Bahama Land analogy.

I don’t own a camera so I have no pictures of all the beautiful scenery of South Florida or my spa resort.  All of the images from my solo trip are for my memory banks only.  I do have this pic of the hotel from the convention website:

Marco Island Marriott