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Forever Foreign is a series designed for Substack. The stories come out every Tuesday, accompanied by a related cultural psychology or sociopolitical article every Saturday. Each story stands alone but holds more weight for those who follow my parents’ adventures from the beginning.
Cocaine Visas
Fall, 1983
Hazelnut brown designer salon chairs, gold-framed mirrors, a freshly waxed red and white checkered floor, and in contrast to the luxury, us.
For months, we’ve been sleeping on our boat's wooden benches, wearing the same three pairs of clothes, surviving off bananas and fish, and although we’re in no need of more, we welcome the comfort our two friends provide.
"I heard that you had some heavy-duty toilet experiences in Nicaragua,” says Pablo as he walks toward us with two glasses of wine, his obsidian eyes twinkling.
He hands us the wine with a flamboyant graciousness. Ludo steps out from the back room and skips towards us. He gives Catalina three kisses on the cheek and then wraps his arm around Pablo, his mayonnaise white skin and screaming blue eyes fitting into him like Yang to Yin.
“Dat ik het vliegend schijt kreeg,” says Ludo.
We both laugh at his Antwerp expression, which loosely means the flying liquid shit.
"He almost died, really!" says Catalina. "And then we had to travel to Costa Rica with a fever—they almost refused to let us enter the country. And now we need a new Visa, pronto.”1
"We will find a solution, don't worry," says Ludo.
“Tengo una solucion,” says Pablo. “Her name is Rita.”
The crossroads linger in the air.
"She’s from Cuba but works closely with the president—she knows how to cut lines through the red tape.”
I feel we’ve already taken the turn, although the words haven’t been spoken. The choice beyond my conscious awareness falls into the pit of my stomach. But it’s not the unknown that scares me; it’s the feeling of having been here before.
“That lady can navigate life with sass, class, and a little extra cash,” Ludo says, cutting through the molasses of eternity and allowing us to speak.
"Is it illegal what Rita is going to do? And how much will it cost?" asks Catalina, using her pragmatism to file the unexplainable.
"She isn't exactly the poster child of being legal," laughs Pablo, but in the reality of Central America, she navigates the rough seas pretty well. And don't worry too much about the money, Catalina. There’s a currency stronger than the dollar.”
Rita
Her wary eyes sift through the crowded bar. She cannot hide the emerald orbs behind a lack of makeup. As the bartender brings her a tamarindo, I take her moment of ease to approach. I’ve never seen such freckles dance across toffee skin.
“Are you Dona Rita?
A smokey voice answers: “Please, not Dona, just Rita,” she says, shaking my hand. “You must be Luca, right? I thought you’d come with your wife?”
“That was the plan, Rita, but Catalina had to go to the university for a job interview.”
“That’s a shame. I was looking forward to meeting a European woman.” She scans me with a smirk. “But you will do. Have a seat.”
She wets her lips with the tamarindo drink, closes her eyes, puts a cigarette in her mouth and lights it with one swift movement. She blows the smoke towards the ceiling, giving me a full glance of the fine golden chain with a catholic cross.
She pulls out her purse—more of a briefcase, actually—and takes out two passports.
“Y voila, your passports with two new immigration visas are good for two years.”
I open the passports and scan my fingers along the stamps to check that what I’m seeing isn’t a dream. Yet, the thickening air tells me it’s anything but.
“How much do I owe you, Rita?”
“Listen, guapo, I did it for free. You only have to pay El Raton, who works in that building over there, where he spends his miserable life in a tiny room with a plastic table and no windows. He hides behind a pile of unopened documents and old playboys whose pages are stuck together. You get the picture?”
“I think so.”
“Eighty US will do.”
Her directness contrasts her subtle summer dress and freckles that play with her smooth skin.
“Thank you, Rita.”
I follow Rita’s gaze. A man in white pants and chest muscles bursting from his marine blue T-shirt struts towards us.
“There you have my Cuban Toy.”
“Que bola Rita,” he says, kissing her on the mouth. His eyes shoot, ‘She is mine’ before extending his hand for a well-gripped handshake.
“This is Luca. He and his wife are good friends of Pablo and Ludo. They have a yacht in Puntarenas.”
Yacht? Why is she bringing up the yacht?
“Something for you, Carlos.”
“That’s cool. And what are you doing with this yacht? Fishing?”
The crossroads in the air have disappeared. The road is all there is.
“No, we organize day trips in El Golfo de Nicoya.”.
“Tourist trips? Really? You need a boat to fish or to transport cargo, Luca. You don’t wanna spend your time with those middle-aged white dudes. Lemme me tell ya, it’s like a comedy show, I swear. They are all into golf and numbers. And those God-fearing freaks are all dead-set jealous of their son-in-law who apparently can fuck their—”
“Take it down a notch, mi amor,” interrupted Rita, but enjoying it all the same.
“Since he left Cuba, he’s been trying so hard to follow the American dream, Luca.” She places her hand on his thigh, her pinky grazing his crotch. “Pero el siempre sera el chico de la calle de Santiago. Ni siquieria un brazo lleno de Rolex cambiara eso.”
She tenderly brushes her fingers against his cheek and emits a soothing purr, calming him down.
His childlike charm struggles to mask his constantly shifting states. Every movement flirts a line between whimsical and madness.
He kisses her fingertips, and his eyes turn misty.
“Sorprendamos a mi vieja” Carlos says suddenly. “Next week I have to go for business to Miami.”
“Dona Rosa cocina la mejor comida Cubana y estará encantada de conocer a usted Luca,” says Rita.
Miami? Dona Rosa would love to get to know me…
“What kind of business do you have, Carlos?”
Before Rita can interrupt, Carlos answers in a very casual way:
“Cocaine.”
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How my father almost died during the Nicaraguan revolution celebration.