Finding A Believer, by L. Ron

The new president of Bolivia ran a campaign built around supporting the coca growing industry. And unlike the winner of the U.S. 2000 election, he was elected by the majority of voters. Which means.....Bolivia should become the Amsterdam of South America. For cokeheads. I´ll take the roasted chicken ceasar, light on the onions, and an eightball of that Bo-Lee Blow-Bo you have on special.

The landlocked (thanks to the joint generousity of their brotherly neighbors > Chile & Chile Minor, peru) AndeanAmazonian nation is renowned for its large welcoming indigenous population, jaw dropping & dropping further scenery, and unbelievably low prices. They absolutely will not be undersold. Despite this fine triumvirate of nomadic hobo paradise, I wanted to find out what the people thought of their new Chief Commander Coca. Would he simply pose for opportunistic photos in the coca fields, or was he prepared to open up those large Indian nostril cavities and snort his country´s fine product until his deviated septum fell off into his morning bowl of quinoa & beef hearts.

Sorry to disappoint you gawky gringo, but our president only supports the beneficial use of the coca leaf, and not its chemical derivative, Cocaine. Apparently, the coca leaf can cure everything from upset stomachs to solving the unsolvable crisis of Allah & his loyal guardians battle for hot market real estate. The coca leaf has been used by native people for thousands of years, and is still used today to ward off hunger for Bolivia´s legion of underpaid workers. But, what about the mountain of bananas on every corner, surely there is enough food that they don´t have to chew bitter leaves all day? Hey, back off buddy, the coca is our national crop. And the 20 billion tons of overproduction that the nation can´t consume, I assume that will just become fertilizer to grow more bananas. That´s not really our concern.

Evo Morales. Its hard to find someone here who doesn´t love the guy. South America´s first indigenous president. He´s spent his life fighting for worker´s rights. No connections to big business, and actually his first move as President was to nationalize the Petroleum industry, and share the profits with citizens rather then balding foreign CEO´s. He cleverly initiated this controversial progam on May day, a national holiday and worldwide day of worker´s celebration born in the U.S. that the caring government of America decided to move to the first Monday in September so that Macy´s could sell off its overstock of Docker´s khaki shorts, both traditional and new capri style, and therefore reward hard working laborers with an opportunity to spend their credited money on clothing that they can wear in 9 months. God Bless America. Please.

This Evo dude is unlike most politicians. Because he doesn´t seem like a politician. Which means he seems honest and capable of an erection. And he´s given hope to a population that´s been perpetually screwed since Pizarro first landed his entourage of pig lickers nearly 500 years ago. The people of the street have immense faith in this man behind the Coca. Yes, it was used for Coca-Cola. That´s how good the raw shit really is. Señnor Morales is attempting to bring socialist (of the none hammersickel variety) tendencies back to a nation that is continually raped of its natural resources by foreign enterprises. Sounds legit. But somebody must hate this guy besides the Fruit of the Doom wearing stiffs at the U.S. State Department. Rich people. I had to befriend a member of Boliva´s elite society. Not an easy task considering the population of Jupiter has more residents. The mission morphed. Coke using people who don´t support a Coca loyalist. Get the doctorate ready.

The Brasilian embassy introduced us. She silently occupied my starboard side. Long, dark, sultry Latin hair. Back straight. Tall heels glimpsing athletic calfs and a lickable birthmark. So, do you come here often? Alexia chuckled, a delicious little chuckle, until she asked me to repeat what I had said. Are you a rich coca using chick who hates socialists? Huh? Oh, I said, My name is .....(editor´s choice) . Alexia was awaiting her Brasilian babysitting certificate that she was due to obtain after a two year stint in Brasil, presumably winning the Rio de Janeiro 24 hour Don´t Drop My Baby While You Samba Contest She hoped the officially sealed paper would help her land her dream job as an American nanny. ´I think they call it, Opair´, she said excitedly. Maybe I was meowing up the wrong pole, cause rich people shouldn´t want to take care of other people´s kids. How Gross!

Then her mom showed up. And my pessimistic wonderings were quickly suffocated. Botox had apparently made its way to Bolivia. As did routine chest augmentation. Her excitement over her plastic surgeon brother, and positive vacation experience in Boca Raton only cemented the trading floor speculation. To protect her identity, I´ll call her BoBo.

Alexia and I left the embassy entranced in a deep intercultural exchange.

I really liked to live in Brasil. They are more fun then here in Bolivia.

Yeah, they´re fun, but you´ve got some good people here in Bolivia.

Yes. Yes. This is true. But I really don´t like the men here. Or there. You can not trust them. Really. You can not. They always lie. And have many womens.

That´s terrible. American men aren´t like that. You should probably look for an American man. Or Greenland. They are also nice.

I not know Greenland. But that is my idea. I don´t like Latin men. Yes. Yes. I think an American man would be nice.

I´m American. You saw my passport.

Yes. Yes. I know. And the women. Brasil women are also so crazy. Really. They sometimes want compete with mens. They always have so many men. I don´t like.

Many Men. Wow. That is....that is, that is not nice. What kind of woman does that? You know, I am going to Brasil next week. I’ll have to investigate more.

What?

Alexia treated me to a fine meal of 15 cent salteñas, Bolivianized empanadas. She seemed unopinionated over the Presidency. But she was a budding feminist, and claimed the movement responsible for desperate child craving, relationship salivating, workaholic 42 year old women was spreading to her corner of South America. The days of a male dominated society were over. And she bought me a 15 cent empanada to prove it. Alexia would prove herself as an expert baby handler in America, warding off concerns over the baby´s skin difference with the dexterity of a stain removal salesman. She would then ride that feminist high to Brasil, where she would professionally guide beach seeking tourists to southern Brasil´s best shores. She may even give massages, she noted later. So WHAT? Were you a wealthy brat who hated populists? I´d have to wait for an answer.

I enthusiastically told my new Norwegian friend, a by-product of VikingVodka lust, that we would be meeting two gorgeous women for a night out on the town. Like a good Norse, avoiding the gates to Valhalla, he smiled a big fat CHEESE. I didn´t mention the ringleader was a feminist.

Me and No-Whay were told to take a bus to the south side of the city. My South Side conjures images of the inebriated kids of plumbers running over black babies with their 1978 Trans-Am. This South Side proved that feminism wasn´t the only degenerative American concept to spread down to Bolivia. We were in the suburbs. As frigid and souless as a Whispering Pines near you. And just like Uncles Sammy´s suburbanites, the wealthy of La Paz love their McMansions.

Alexia´s friend was none other then her mom, BoBo. And our hot double date was a drive through La Paz´s forgotten wonderland, Coca Bluffs. The tag-team of We Have This and We Have That went back and forth showing us empty streets and large stores perfectly mimicking America´s fine dining pantheon of Applebee´s, Friday’s, and the Olive Garden.

As they fought each other to point out the latest Starbucks-esque coffeshop, I felt some relief from the affects of Globalization as I looked over to see No-Whay biting back his laughter. Apparently, Lief Erricson´s descendants have really sanitized Outer Oslo.

No stray dogs. No street vendors. No city noise. No colonial architecture. Only a monolithic monstrosity of cement and tinted glass. The apartment had that familiar sign of third world wealth.......immaculate fake antique furniture, a generic Whispering Coca Pines layout, and random adornments of brass and gold. And, well, of course, a servant. But were doing her a favor? What did her people do for her?

After a 45 minute tour of every item in the apartment (that´s our older television from our dining room in the west wing, but we will get a new one), No-Whay and I were invited for a dinner table conversation accompanied by knock-off Chocolate chip cookies, and Coca tea. Ah-Hah!

The conversation started fairly banal, as we exchanged the typical exclamations of job, age, and social status. Then, I decided that my research project was being derailed, and a turn of talk was in order.

Simón Bolivar was a real hero. He seems to be the last great leader that South America had. He only wanted to liberate and bring the continent together

BoBo gave me a look as if I had just puked on her Chinese made Oriental Rug.
He was a Gay. A Gay.

What? Are you kidding me?

Alexia jumped in the fray.
Yes. Yes. He is a Gay.

So what, he kicked the crap out of those pillaging Spaniards. Who cares if he was getting his rod sucked up and down the Andes?

What. I don´t care. He was a Gay.

I couldn´t believe what I was hearing. And the normally Barbie like BoBo was pissed. And then a moment of silence followed as No-Way and I gave awkward glances. Then, to shatter our converational disbelief, Alexia piped up:
A fag. Is that right, Mom, He is a fag.

A faggot, dear. He was a faggot.

Yes. Yes. He is a faggot.

Darling, He is dead. Remember to use the past tense.

Sorry. Yes. He was a faggot.

Berlitz was test piloting its new How to talk Hip with Your Kid in English series. But the onslaught of Gay hysteria night in La Paz would continue.

Well, what about Evo Morales, what do you think of him?

He is Gay too.

Yes, he was a Gay.

Really, he is Gay. Ask my husband. He is from Italy.

Apparently being from the great continent of Europe automatically bestows intellectual certitude upon its inhabitants.

But what about his policies, his idea to help the people, and the businesses.

He is no good. He will be like Castro. And we will move to Italy.

And least your not coming to Miami, we´ve already got enough arrogant commie hating assholes there.

I like Miami.

Figures.

And you know something, really, you know something, the ambassador of your country is Gay. And for Brasil and Chile too.

BoBo works intimately with the embassies in La Paz. I still can´t figure out if she is selling the coke or buying it.

So, we discovered that at least one member of the limited Bolivian elite are not supporting the overwhelmingly supported President. But only because he likes a little amyl nitrate with his coca and calls his wife, BoB.

The conversation only grew in character, as BoBo continued to demonstrate the value of a South American private school education.

Be careful in Brasil. It is very dangerous. Too many blacks. Really. It is bad. Especially in the north. Really. They are bad people.

Its ok. I live in a big American city with many black people. Its not a big deal.

And then, to the complete disbelief of all present at the table, BoBo launched into a ghetto black impersonation, despite the vacuumed face and strong accent. She left her daisy covered seat, and began to swagger across the large white tiled floor.
´Yo, my nigger, you need a ho. My nigger. I be a pimp, my nigger.

No-Whay and I were holding back the tears, but we had to get out of this place. We had enough of Rich Bolivia. Cause really, how much money do you need to afford real Chips Ahoys?

BoBo was proud. I do a good a negro. Yes.

Listen. What is worst? A black person or a Gay?

Black?

Gay. No Black. I agree with Mom. Yes. Black is worst?

Do you like Michael Jackson?

He has really nice voice. Yes. I like.

The taxi was on the way, and I never thought I would be so happy to return to an economically repressed trafffic clogged city.

The taxi is really cheap. So cheap, right. That is why I love my country. Really. Everything is so cheap. My daughter will come home from America and realize how cheap everything is. I can´t move from here. So cheap.

And with that closing line, my research project was or is, damn grammar, finished. The working class want to be able to say their country is cheap. The working class want a chance to have soulless towers in the sky, also. Maybe theyll avoid the brass, though. Its so 80´s. The wealthy don´t want to lose their cheap country. And if millions of people have to remain underpaid, and Gay Indian Coca supporting Hope Inspiring Presidents have to be terminated, then that is how the wealthy will keep it.

No wonder Ronnie Reagan was so popular in Whispering Pines, Phase I & II.