If you were to ask me how this Dominican guy, Juan, got to Israel or under what specific circumstances he fled the Dominican Republic, I honestly wouldn't be able to tell you the truth. He was more slippery than a goddamned bullfrog. But, in between the Spanish rants full of hyperbole, lies and ignorant, racist garbage, I was able to surmise a few indisputable facts about the man:
1. He liked women
2. He had a burning desire to make sure that you knew that he liked women
3. He was ambitious in his 'highly developed' strategies of arriving on EU soil
4. He was running from the law
5. He wore snakeskin boots
The other problem with this muchacho was that he couldn't speak a lick of English. Now, this is generally a problem outside of the Spanish-speaking populations of South America, Western Europe and the United States. Case in point: One day, about two weeks ago, back when I was still staying in the hostel, I was walking past the reception desk when I looked over at a scene that was developing. A latin-looking guy, about 5'4", with greasy, frosted hair, and a bad attitude (even for Israeli standards) was chewing out the Israeli receptionist all in Spanish.
"Como te dije, pana, quiero que me asegures de que si me quedo acá y si dejo mis maletas acá, que no hay ladrones en los cuartos que me las van a robar, comprende?"
The receptionist had no clue what this guy was saying. Even though Israel is known for having some of the best language teaching methods in the world and teaches English to every Israeli from 1st grade on, Spanish is not what would be considered a very high priority language to learn around here. So, needless to say, all the receptionist could do was look around for someone to help him and try to talk to the guy in English. Sensing that this situation had to be diffused somehow, I started to speak to the Dominican in Spanish. As soon as I spoke to him, he smiled at me like I was a picture of Hesús or something and calmed down a bit. After about 20 minutes of translating between the receptionist and the Dominican about everything ranging from whether there were thieves staying in the room they had assigned to him to what the spoken language was in Israel, the Dominican trusted the hostel enough to book one night there.
I, of course, had become his only outlet to the world, his only way of expressing his aforementioned racist and chauvanistic bullshit. And while I was quietly disgusted by what this individual was saying to me, it was nice to speak a little Spanish again - to feel a sense of self worth in the face to the brutal day-to-day blows that learning the Hebrew language inflicts upon my self esteem. But some of the tangents that this guy would fly off on were simply ridiculous.
One of the first questions he asked me was, "so, where do you get women?"
"Um, you might end up running into some Spanish speakers at the hostel. Maybe you could start something there".
"No. What I mean is where do you get the women?"
Pause. "Well, I don't know. There might be some bar around here that has some sort of side business like th.."
"What kind of women?"
"I don't know. I've never gone looking for whores".
As if I had cursed his mother or said I was gay, he stared at me with his eyebrows turned down like he couldn't believe what had just come out of my mouth.
He did eventually find his whores. He told me that upon entering a whorehouse that his Panamanian friend had recommended to him, he made the money sign with his hands and started humping the air, all the while making a confused face to convey the fact that he was asking a question. This seemed to work; however, he came back only half satisfied; the whore was way too expensive for his taste.
The straw that really broke the camel's back for my relationship with the Dominican was when he asked me if I would accompany him up to Haifa (a fairly large Israeli port city about an hour north of Tel Aviv by train) for a day. Suspicious, I asked him why.
"Well, I'd pay for your round trip transport, your breakfast, lunch and dinner if you walk around the port with me and try to negotiate with one of those cargo-ship guys for them to ship me to Europe as contraband. Do you know what contraband is, Joshua?"
I just stood up, shook my head and walked out of the room, leaving behind my old scheming Dominican friend to his own thoughts. Maybe he managed to make it up to Haifa and get somebody to jam him into one of those little barrels and ship him off to the EU. That's how I like to imagine it, anyway. A little, hot-headed, melodramatic Dominican guy cramped in some barrel waiting as patiently as he can as he makes his way to Barcelona.
