Blanquita

Revelation. I am white. No shit. Men of Chitré have made that very clear. No, they don't call me "blanquita." They call me "mi amor" and tell me, "I love you" when I walk past. It's like when you go running, and you pass a house with a dog in the fenced in back yard. It's fenced for a reason--the dog has this natural tendency to chase and bark at things/people that pass. That's what it’s like when I walk past a restaurant or some group of men here. I get hisses, whistles, mi amors, que bonitas, and I love yous. Once in a while a "vamos a mi casa." It’s not because I'm anything to look at, other than white. I have worn make up three times in the three weeks I've been here. I wear my hair back in a ponytail and a headband holds my hair off my enormous forehead. I took a picture one day when I passed a particularly obnoxious group of what I was wearing, but for some reason my computer is rejecting my camera today. Description, though, is cargo-esque green shorts to my knees, a beater tank top, my satchel bag, sandals, sunglasses, and the aforementioned hair-do. No makeup. Hot and smelly. Everything any man ever dreams of. Today I am working in the NIDA office. There is a restaurant across the street. Having eaten something fishy (or something) last night, I needed to get food to replenish around lunch, and decided to walk to the store. It may have been my hunger, the fact that I don't feel the greatest today, the heat, that it was truly more obnoxious than usual, or any combination of these, but when the dogs barked, I took the liberty of lifting that pretty little finger of mine. (I have seen Amanda do the same, and given the time of day I didn't feel it was too risky.) Public Service? Well, I think it would be one if someone could tone down the machismo half a notch.