Are We Really That Different?

Fruit. Sweet, Sticky, Succulent tropical fruit. The tropics send the North a freighter full of Mangoes simply out of pity. It`s their version of global charity --- no human shall be relegated to apples and oranges. But the rest: the spiky reds, the star shaped bright yellow ovals, the radiant purple teardrops & the rainbow of others; they all stay. The “third” World may be a pillage point for cheap labor, but they´re not that stupid. The White countries can feast on economical computers, allegedly designer influenced clothes, and outsourced customer service. But the fruit stays.

Since Frosted Flakes & Pop Tarts don´t exist in South America, a good morning routine is to grab yourself a freshly squeezed mug of juice. It may not be as healthy as a Trans-Fatless Anti-Oxidant heavy General Mills concoction, but it sure tastes yummy.

One morning, on a quest for a new juice shack, I stopped at a window ornamented with a box of herbs. They made a ring around a basket of tropical fruit, and a large sign, stating: AFRODISIAC. I wasn´t positive on the Spanish translation, but I took a guess. One large house special juice, Please.

As I waited for the Serum, a table full of young guys heckled me.

“(translated from Spanish)After you drink that, you need yourself a woman¨”

“(misunderstanding the translation)Thank you. I enjoy trying new juices.”

“(in American Gangster English, untranslated) Bro. My boy be askin´ if you got yoself a woman here.”

10 A.M. A juice bar with a table full of guys drinking beer. And a tattooed musclehead straight out of the Latin Kings bestseller, “How to make your son into a badass GangBanger, YO.” I had to join this conversation.

Apparently, the juice bar boozers, were part of a new wave of American Exiles. They had proclaimed themselves, THE DEPORTEES. Because that´s what they were. In the United States overly successful War on Terror, ALL residents who were not born in the U.S are subject to deportation for committing a felony. EVEN if they served their time.

Now, there are many people who would instinctively say, “Get em outta here. No good bums. We´ve got enough damn immigrants. We sure as hell don´t need no more convicts.”

But how about the falsely convicted. After years of public exposure, it´s a well known fact that the U.S. judicial system is far from accurate. Or those who actually served their time. Or those convicted of drug crimes. Which happen to be a majority of the American Prison Membership.

I smell a harangue. A short one. An opinion stated as fact. The illegalization of drugs, as promoted most heavily by the USA, is the number one source of conflict in the world. Every single militia/terror group, from Indonesia, to Afghanistan, to Colombia, survives – flourishes, off the high prices that illegal drugs command. This prized group would also include the menacing gangs of North America. Without illegal drugs, the inner city gangs that ravage the American Inner City would be fighting over girlfriends in a Church parking lot, instead of shooting each other (and the children who have the audacity to leave their home and play in the street) in the endless battle to control the local drug trade.

Politicians have spent decades brainwashing the public on the dangers of illegal drugs. While Lung Cancer & Alcoholism steal more lives then a decade of illegal drug related deaths. The idea that legal cocaine will metamorphose the public into a zombie band of killer addicts is absurd. The majority of human beings value their sanity, their health, and their families. For many people, a cocaine hangover will keep them powder free for life.

And why do the wealthy countries of the World have illegal drug use rates that far exceed those of the drug producing countries. I can walk down the street right now in Peru, and get a gram of cocaine for $2 (alright, c´mon on down and get some). As can every local, yet outside of a dive bar, one would have a tough time finding a coke addict here. Does the real problem lie within a broken American Values System? Is America always looking to punish? Is that because it takes a lot more time to ask questions, and admit that most problems are more complex then a jail sentence? The USA has the highest incarceration rate in the World, and yet nothing beneficial has come from the War on Drugs. Although, I´ll admit, some really cool commercials have been created.

So, if the U.S. penal system is designed to punish and release with a second chance, why are people being deported who have served their time? Every day in the Greatest and Most Free Country in the World, fathers and daughters are separated in the name of terror. Daddy sold 10 grams of coke. Served five years. Lived in the States since he was eight. Been out of jail three years. Has a job. No further arrests. A wife and two kids. And one day he finds himself signaled out as an enemy of the Holy Nation of America. Locked up indefinitely, with only his street smarts to keep him from being raped by one of the many lifelong penitentiary residents, now chromosomally transformed. Drained of his life savings, fighting extradition, he finds himself back in a country he hasn´t seen in over 20 years.

“Bro. Bro. Check this out. You know they got some fine ass ho´s here. 6 bucks. And no tips. Bro. These fine ass bitches could be models in America. I ain´t playin´. You got to see this place. Sometimes, I just watch them ladies take it off. No tips, muthafucka, can you believe it. And if you want yourself some, 6 bucks”

He was C-Rock. And he didn’t seem to care about the societal failings of his former country. Life was cheap here. And he would adapt. I was intrigued by the El Dorado of Hot Latin Women, but my new buddy proved more curious, for now. A cross-cultural specimen in society´s affect on the individual.

I had spent the previous day wandering through a trio of villages, located two hours into the countryside of Southern Ecuador´s Andes. My mission started off as a simple rural journey. The usual coterie of market browsing, storeowner conversations, and streetcorner observations. Then, from across the narrow colonial street, I heard “Hello. How are you” I responded in Spanish, trying to avoid any misconceptions that I was a dumb gringo, even though I was a dumb gringo. Five minutes later, another heckle floated my way, “Hey. Welcome. How are you doing?”. Most people in non-tourist Latin American towns do not speak English. Something was a bit off in this place. Maybe everyone was part of some CIA relocation project. Or, more likely, simply knew a handful of English.

Then a large SUV, a very rare sight in rural South America, barely missed hitting me.

The window rolled down. Hey Brutha. How da fuck are ya? How da fuck you end up here?

Uh….ok. Its worth a shot. Yo brutha. Yoose from Brooklyn, yeh?

Close. Queens. Five years. Turns out, I didn’t discover a CIA refuge, but rather the starting point for a rural exodus to the USA. An estimated 80% of the town men were working in New York City. Good town to have an affair in.

A series of conversations ensued. And a general consensus was shared by all:
1. They all preferred to be in their home countries, with their customs and their people in the street. The life here was more friendly, and more tranquil.
2. They didn’t feel America offered more freedom, and many said they actually felt South America seemed more free (although, since many went over illegally, this could explain that sentiment)
3. They felt America offered much more economic opportunity, and the money they could save in America went much further in South America. (Hey, that’s my excuse)

So these rural Andean towns were experiencing a building boom of new homes. And a few more SUV´s. And people who liked to speak English.

For the new American Congress: The much anticipated Immigration Plan
1. Allow an enormous increase in Temporary Workers. 5 years.

2. Each worker pays taxes including a small amount that pays for the return plane ticket in 5 years.

3. Part of the tax money derived from temporary immigrants educates them on the benefits of Saving. Special incentives are offered from banks with higher interest rates to encourage the saving. Both increasing trust in the banking community (something most new immigrants do not have) and boosting the capital domestic banks have for investment.

4. Another education program would teach the importance of re-investing savings in the native countries. The only way to eventually halt the brain-drain of developing countries and to guarantee political (safety) stability is to build domestic economies. Returning Ex-Pats are a tremendous source of this re-investment.

5. Each departing Temporary Worker gets a framed photograph with a cardboard cutout of their choice of celebrity.


Clearly, this is rather basic, but the theme is obvious. America is a well of cash for those willing to work. And there will always be jobs that most Americans refuse to take. And a line of foreigners ready to slave. But these people really only want a more comfortable life for their families. More stuff, to be precise. Since food and housing are cheap, even by local standards in most developing countries. The majority of Illegal Immigrants would go back and be with their families. Sure, some would get addicted to Wal-Mart and Slurpees, but the others would take their new American zest for innovation and market tropical slurpees in their native hometowns.

And now, I was dealing with another type of Hispanic-American. Why were gangbangers a rarity in most South American towns? Even the kids that looked liked hippies and metalheads seemed to still show respect. How did C-Rock go from an obedient 8 year old kid to a drug dealing gangbanger covered in tattoos?

The Deported had an answer. Good. Because a great societal divide was about to be revealed. “C” felt the value system was different among the American Immigrants (the newly arrived). Each family in the neighborhood had different values and different customs. And the families always felt they were alone. They weren’t part of an established neighborhood with a history of family and neighbors --- the usual system in the world that keeps respect and order in most towns. And many times, the kid had one parent emigrate with them, and that parent was working all the time. And there was no extended family to watch over the kid, so the kid went to the street and joined up with his other friend in the same situation. And the problem grew from there.

To prove how much the streets of Miami corrupted C-Rock (I didn’t make his name up), his first month back in Ecuador shows some insight.

The majority of people in South America are quite friendly, and street fights are not a common sight amongst the sober. One evening, C-Rock heard some guy call his friend a LOBO – which literally means “wolf”. And can be construed to be slightly offensive in a slang manner. The heckler kept shouting “LOBO”. C-Rock approached him, and with one punch, put the LOBO shouter on the ground. Turns out the friend being heckled has a twin brother, who won some Reality TV SHOW (the horror of reality tv has spread this far). His brother´s name on the show: LOBO. And most people frequently mistake him.

This kind of irrational behavior is typical of American inner-city males. C-Rock admitted he was a product of his old environment, but he was trying to change. He may not be drinking juice, but at least he was in the juice bar.

“C” became a pet project for me. I embarked on some kind of inter-cultural anthropological study. We spent more time discussing life in the two countries, and plans to bring his daughter to come live with him. But mainly, he kept rhapsodizing about the Strip Club from Heaven.

After countless dead end “meetings” with conservative local females, I thought a parade of fleshy sensuous Latina women was well deserved.

I descended the worn green carpet stairs with the utmost enthusiasm. I was about to be privilege to some sort of local secret. A little nirvana where open minded attractive women went to flaunt their blessed gifts. The kind of place horny men from around the world spend a lifetime of wasted dreams on.

The lights were bright. Cheap patio tables full of men sat around. A small bar in the corner. No strip pole or stage. Damn, the lights were bright. And forming a semi-circle around the peeling linoleum floor stood eight women. In various stages of false pregnancy, wearing clothes their kids could barely fit into. Each woman carried a weapon – a roll of toilet of paper.

We pulled up wobbly plastic seats under the blitzkrieg of lights. And watched the circle of women jiggle their wares and flaunt their Charmin´ Two Ply´s. I was waiting for some kids to run out onto the floor, asses dripping in shit, while the slutty mummies wiped away the poo and the crowd went wild.

“Bro. I swear to you. Its not normally like this. Really. If you want to kill me, you can. Bro. Really. I don’t know what happened¨”

So the next hour was spent watching the Toilet Roll girls get picked up and brought to one of the dozen rooms that surrounded the alleged dance floor. I felt bad for the one girl who no body picked. Poor girl. Blubber hanging over her mini-skirt and a roll of toilet paper stuck on her left hand.

Then there was the girl with two rolls of toilet paper. What did she do?

Amongst the fecal obsessed brothel, one beautiful woman lurked. A tall, thin, bronzed beauty with a red mini-skirt and knee-high white leather boots.

“Bro. Bro. You better stick that shit. She´s all yours. Cause if you don’t jump on dat shit, I´m taking her”

There was something about prostitutes that always turned me off. I respected their job. Thought they were a necessary part of humanity. Hypothetically fought for their legalization. But there was something sexually unattractive about sleeping with a woman who just slept with the guy with the fish scraps on his mustache. I lived near Amsterdam for 6 months, and managed to avoid the lure of the RED LIGHT.

And here I was, being peer pressured by my new buddy. There has always been the sense of uber-pride in men when it comes to a conquest. Whether man has taken over a new country, bought a new car, or screwed his neighbor´s wife – that pride is there.

As a person who prides himself on trying new experiences, why not fuck the cute girl with the toilet paper. Its just a little slip and slide. Everybody does it right. No lies. No hang-ups. You don´t have to feign a relationship. No failed promises to call later. No emotion. The oldest profession in the world, go on, help yourself, and take a dump when your done. She´ll clean you.

But the girl was popular. Every time she came out of a room, another man tapped her teepee roll, and off they went. The place was closing, and the masculine taunts were growing.

As I left my broken patio chair, I thought I should live it up. If I´m going to pay for it, I should really PAY for it. And orgy with 5 women would only set me back 30 bucks. The cost of entry to a strip club in most American cities. And I could invite the girl no one ever picked. I wouldn’t actually pork her, but Id let her stand there wrapping the other girls in her toilet paper. Maybe I´d wink at her. Give her a thumbs up. Let her know everything is going to be ok.

Do you give a pick up line to a brothel worker? I asked the white boots mamma what her favorite color was. She only took her wad of ass wiping paper and pointed to a room. Fairly stern for a skinny girl. I tried asking her opinion on fivesomes, but the Spanish translation came out to, “You suck her, she eats you, I want to eat some too, then she sucks your friend with the paper roll who ….” She cut me off. Either I was in with her or she would go off with another desperate loser.

The room was much like the residences I choose for temporary lodging. Clean. Boring. Small. But with lots of mirrors. The bed was made. Only a twin size bed. No time for cuddling.

Shit. This was it. The moment to lose my virginity. She slowly removed her satin red mini-skirt. I coyly asked her if she did this often. She ignored me. Then motioned for me to come closer. She unbuttoned my jeans, and pulled them down to my ankles. I took off my sneakers. Never an erotic move, but certainly a comfortable one.

I stood there. Tan faced pasty body. Naked. And started laughing. A trickle at first. Heh-heh. And then it unleashed itself. I couldn’t get the toilet paper out of my head. All those women and their goddamned fuckin´toilet paper. And the groups of men sitting around patio tables and bright lights. And the knowledge that there was no way I could have sex with this girl. I finally understood why intimacy was so important.

She was staring right at my midsection and crying with laughter. What? Just cause I laugh, you gotta laugh. Have you never seen a white flaccid, really flaccid, uncircumcised penis before? Apparently, a naked man laughing with a small cock is reason for a hooker with a roll of toilet paper to laugh, as well.

So, there we were. Two strangers. In an intimate setting. Coming together for a spontaneous romance. Laughing. And then her vagina began to talk to me. I should use the toilet paper to clean her. So I laughed harder. At the talking vagina. She probably stopped laughing at this point, but my delirium would not stop.

She seemed upset. I wasn’t paying her enough attention. I looked at her clock. I had only been in there 8 minutes. I needed to kill at least 10 more minutes, and a hard-on was the last thing I could count on. If I left now, all the locals would laugh at how incompetent the Gringo was. Afterall, they were right outside the door. Like some highschool party, and all the first time drunks line outside the laundry room closet awaiting the results of 7 minutes in Heaven.

And in the unaroused nude, my lady friend became my latest interview subject.

She had only been doing it 6 months. She was tested weekly. Everyone absolutely had to wear a condom, but they had to at least be hard. She made more money then anybody she knew and hoped to support herself for years doing it. The men were mostly respectful to her, and most were actually not cheating on their wives (allegedly). She didn’t know what taxes were. Her favorite color was Red. I could leave in peace. And I didn’t even ask for a discount. A reformed Jew. Well worth the 6 bucks.

“Bro. What I tell you bro. You fuck that shit. Real good, huh? That’s what Im talking bout. You gave it to her, gave it to her good.”

“Yeah. It was so good she had to bite down on that roll of toilet paper to keep her from screaming”