Green IslandCandy in Argentina
March 27th 2010 04:27
she never lost her head, even when she was giving head
Candy came from a nice middle class family in Canada who traced their ancestors back to Scottish and Swedish stock. Her father was a dentist with his own small practice and her mother was an amateur dramatist. Candy’s sister, Mia, was a few years younger and still at high school. Despite all these advantages, Candice, or as everyone called her, Candy somehow got derailed for she never fulfilled her middle class promise. She turned her back on her family’s idol, respectability, and ran away. And in true Candy style, her rebellion wasn’t confined to a few months dossing around in BC. No, Candy was a young woman capable of far more serious transgression.
She went to a casino in Vancouver and withdrew $15,000 from an ATM and then she fled the country with no intention of paying back the money. For her family Candy fell off the face of the earth. It wasn’t until she reached Japan that they heard anything of their oldest daughter beyond the occasional email.
Of course Candy didn’t go straight to Japan. She hadn’t even considered the country when she got all that money in her young hands. No she wanted to go to South America and India. She had heard there were great party places out there where nearly anything went and drugs and a bed for the night were cheap. That’s what Candy was up for.
Candy was a party girl. It seemed she was born to party. Her looks and her reserves of energy made her suitable for flirting and dancing and drug taking; just as some men with iron in their muscles and hate in their hearts seem born for war.
Candy was 21. She had just scrapped through university. Her natural brightness and knack for sleeping with the right professors had been her mainstays in her struggle to not get kicked out of higher education. She could smell out an important fact like a pig could a truffle. She could also use her clear blue eyes, pretty face and tight little arse with clinical precision when events were conspiring against her. Candy didn’t have many female friends – women, obviously, had a habit of dismissing her as a tramp and feared for their boyfriends when they were around her. Candy in her weaker more self-reflective moments regretted this situation. In her lonely twilight moments she sometimes remembered not remembering something. She sensed this was vital but could not get any further, and besides, she was usually too drunk at this witching hour to be stern with herself. Instead, she went through a series of boyfriends handsome and popular, dealers and deviants, those who interested her and those she couldn’t say ‘no’ to. Fidelity had been impossible. She had come close but some weekend stupidity and potent pharmaceutical cocktail had normally conspired to make her abandon her deeper feelings for the dubious gratifications of fucked up fucking. Her only persistent friends were a couple of gay men she met at college. They loved to party and fuck, and they too were caught in an endless tug of war between love and flings. Whatever Candy did never seemed to shock her homosexual buddies. Candy liked that. Everyone else, especially her parents, seemed to judge her badly but not gay Teddy and Anil.
And so it was that shortly after graduation she grabbed the credit card money and ran. She bought a new rucksack, a stack of contraceptives and a sturdy pair of boots and went to say her goodbyes. Professor White who had done so much to help her pass out of college with a semblance of a qualification and all for charity and a quick blowjob tried his best to reason with her. Even Teddy and Annie were far from convinced about the wisdom of becoming a fugitive from the law. She ignored them all and spent her last few days in Vancouver buying drinks and es in bars. Candy preferred the anarchic but shallow bravura of fair-weather friends who pretended to admire her daring but really just wanted free drugs and the kudos of being around the girl who everybody noticed.
On a miserable autumn day she left Canada. She was re-routed in Washington Dulles and eventually stepped out onto the tarmac of Buenos Aires in Argentina.
It seemed BA was made for a girl with looks and devilry in her spirit. She soon picked up a fair amount of Spanish as she pursued her agenda of having a great time while spending as little as possible. She knew that it would be many years before the credit card and college debts would be forgiven. She had no more safety net. Only her wits and blonde hair blue eyed-ness were going to keep her going.
Candy started out doing the hostel circuit. There was no shortage of portenos and gringos to scab drinks and lines from. She soon realized that the average clean cut backpacker was not so clean cut given half the chance. Like her they were mostly middle class, but unlike Candy, they were hesitant to take a chance. They wanted to experience the thrill of ‘real life’ – the football violence of Boca Juniors and the infamous marching powder of South America – but they were reluctant to plunge in and grab the experience without someone holding their hand.
In Lemon House Hostel she met big Pete from the UK. He was burly and tattooed all over. He was vague about his past but he was happy to let people think he had done prison time.
After a couple of all night drinking sessions Candy approached Pete. She came straight to the point:
“Hey mate; can you score me some coke?”
He looked at her through bleary hung over eyes. As his eyes roved her pretty curves his grumpiness seemed to dissipate. “Sure, why not? How much do you want?”
“I need an ounce. And I mean a real ounce. Not 25 under weight and over cut wraps.”
Pete laughed and scratched his bristly shaven head with a hand that had a dragon snaking down to the fingers.
“And do yer have money for that?”
“I can give you half now and the other half next Monday.” Candy said quietly.
“Well aren’t you the little Pablo fucking Escobar? What’s in it for me? I’ll be the one takin’ the risks gettin’ the stuff. Ever seen a BA gangster, love?”
“No but I’m looking at an English one. I’m offering you two things, Pete: a business opportunity. We can both do well out of this. I’ve seen you drinking all night. You are obviously snorting and spending lots at the bar. I’m sure you could do with cheaper gear and beer money. The other thing I’m offering you is my friendship.”
Pete’s pierced left eyebrow rose a fraction. He scratched his stubble as he stared fiercely at Candy’s blue eyes.
“You’re an int’restin’ lass. I bet you’re not even 21 years old. How about this? You want some gear on tick. How about you give me some friendship on tick and then I’ll go and get you your coke?” That hangover was all gone.
“How about you get the coke and a private room here and then we can address the friendship question.” Candy was feeling intimidated by the 6 foot 4 working class thug, but she bit her lip and tried to keep her nerve. All great plans demanded a sacrifice. She had been eating up her 15 grand stake in life and she needed a cash injection to keep her plan alive. She never wanted to go back to Canada.
“If you’re fuckin’ wid me. I’m gonna fuck yr up. Lass or no lass. Yr unnerstan’?”
With that Pete went to his dorm bed and snored away for 10 hours. Nobody was going to tell Pete to stop snoring.
Candy killed time on the internet. She sat at a row of computers next to two other girls wearing pretty flip flops and clean white halter tops. On the table between them lay their digital cameras and Lonely Planets. They were obviously travelling together. No trippy travels for these two. They were straight out the book of clichés. They worked furiously at the keyboards as they chatted about restaurants, tango shows, volunteering and itineraries. They uploaded photos, studied Facebook, updated their online blogger journals and scoured backpackinargentina.com for a suitable place to stay in Cordoba. Candy paused for reflection. Why wasn’t she like these two lovely bright things? She was lovely and bright too.
Ah fuck that. Candy googled: “How much for an ounce of cocaine in Buenos Aires?” Nothing useful. Internet - what over-rated shit. Why bother travelling with a laptop and spending hours zoned into the free wifi? Instead Candy checked her email: just pleading concern from her mum and dad. She sent her mum a quick mail telling her she was still alive then she sent a longer email to Teddy and Anil.
Candy left the two Princesses to their perfect journeys and headed out to the main plaza. As she walked to the American Express Office she passed a long procession of protesters. They wanted better pay and shorter working hours. They thought banging drums and marching around the streets would get them what they wanted.
After changing $500 she wandered into a big state building with huge roman columns and a pointed roof. It turned out to be a church. A soldier stood guard next to the gilded remains of a liberation hero. It seemed that Jesus was taking second place to the liberator of Argentina. Two things struck Candy as she wandered about the Cathedral. Why was Church and State so intermingled? And why give that much of a fuck about your country? What had Argentina given to all these fat old ladies dressed in black that seemed to live for the dim interiors of churches? And how was Argentina helping all the homeless families that permanently camped out along Julio de 9? It all seemed irrelevant like Facebook and soccer fanaticism.
Catedral Metropolitana
Candy turned on her heels, surreptitiously felt the bulge in her money belt and headed back to Lemon House Hostel.
After dinner Pete got up and had a shower. He saw Candy in the bar but chose to ignore her. He asked for some change at the bar and went out.
Twenty minutes later he returned and signaled Candy to follow him to the empty pool room.
“Right. It’s set up. I need 740 pesos from yer. The other half I’m stumpin’ up. While I’m out you get the room. You can pay for that since I’m doing the leg work.”
Candy was in no position to argue over a few dollars. She pulled out a bundle of notes from her money belt and counted off the pesos, making sure no one could see her from the bar. She smiled and gave it to Pete. She then drew in close to him and pressed her young body against his beer belly and whispered: “Be careful, yer fucker.”
Pete laughed, grabbed her arse and pinched it. She yelped and jumped away. Pete was already heading for the door.
It seemed to take forever for Pete to return. It obviously crossed Candy’s mind that Pete had simply taken her cash and done a runner. Had she over-estimated her charms?
Pete entered the bar and ordered a rum and coke, as he lifted his left hand to light his fag she saw it was wrapped in a bloody rag. He didn’t look rattled but he did look grimly far away and definitely out of place amongst the nice backpackers nursing their cheap beers. Once he had his drink and signaled for it to be put on the tab he turned to look at Candy sitting on a low sofa behind him. She got up and walked to the newly acquired private room and she knew he was looking at her backside as he followed.
In the room he checked the door was locked and then took out a small package and put it on the bedside table.
“Do us a couple of lines then love. As yer can see I picked up a scratch. I might need a bit of er...medical assistance. Don’t suppose yer got a sewing kit? That wop was a right fucker.”
It seemed mighty odd to Candy that she was required to play the maternal caring role. Normally it was somebody who had to look after her because she had gotten all fucked up on something. She gingerly unwrapped the plastic package and beheld the awesome sight of a big bag of coke. She then carefully scooped up a bit with an old library card she had bought along just for such contingencies and repackaged the mother load and put it in the drawer in the table. She then quickly crushed and lined up the powder and sucked up a line and offered the straw to Pete. As he bent down eagerly for his line Candy slipped out the room.
A few minutes later she had returned with a borrowed sewing kit and savlon. As she helped him out of his clothes and pushed him into the bathroom she heard his story. Seeing Pete’s limp penis made Candy less frightened of the British roughneck.
“That fucker tried the fuckin’ note switching trick on me,” Candy had no idea what that was, “I wasn’t going to let him palm off a few duds on me to let him make more on the deal. Then he pulled a knife. The fucker. A bit of handbags and then the deal was done. Don’t trust these fuckers.”
Candy cleaned the long gash along his palm and fiddled with the needle and thread. Pete was in his shorts and attempting to feel up Candy and get another line on the go at the same time. Eventually she got the needle threaded and began sewing the ripped edges of his palm together. He grimaced and quit his molesting hands.
When it was over she went to the bar and got two more rum and cokes. The illicit coke in her was really kicking in, she felt self-vindicated and not concerned about what was soon to happen.
Back in the room the inevitable happened: they drank and snorted and Pete got her clothes off. He didn’t kiss her and his idea of foreplay was spitting on his middle finger and roughly jamming it up her. Candy didn’t find Pete at all attractive but eventually she mustered up enough lubrication from within her loins to make the whole experience passing, verging on the acceptable.
Once that was out of the way, they could talk more at ease and enjoy the gear and the booze. They discussed cutting the stuff and the precautions they should take. They chatted about music and films and Candy told Pete about the casino ATM cash. He didn’t reciprocate with a resume of his crimes and misdemeanors.
By 3am the booze and blood lost had finally sedated Pete and he passed out on the bed. Candy had a shower, brushed her teeth, drew the curtains and squeezed herself into the bed next to Pete’s bulky splayed out body. She was far too wired to sleep. Unlike Pete she hadn’t drunk herself into oblivion. Instead she lay in the dark looking at the light growing along the edges of the curtain and schemed about her new life. Her thoughts raced forward, speeded down sidetracks and mastered the essentials of a hundred different weighty matters. All of the conclusions drawn were somehow forgotten in the exhilarating dash for the finishing line. She did circuits and circuits before forgetting that she was awake.
That was the start of a beautiful friendship. The next day Candy bought a pay-as-you-go cell phone, gave Pete her number and moved to another hostel where she got a job at the bar. The hostel owner was a young Argentine always doped up and weak for a pretty face. Candy flirted and easily got the job.
She then set herself up dealing to the backpackers. Never directly to the masses - she had an eye for finding a ring leader and rabble rouser. Just one tourist would come to her room and pick up several cut up wraps.
Her boss was happy because suddenly the tight fisted backpackers were dropping loads of pesos at the bar. The weekends were becoming profitable mayhem.
This went on for a couple of months. Pete would come by with a package every week or so, get his money and a shag. Sometimes he hung around, other times he zipped up and left. He had found a new dealer and was happier with the score. Things were going well for both of them.
Candy played it smart. She moved on to another hostel in a completely different part of town and again set herself up keeping bar and fuelling the backpacking parties.
And then one night Pete didn’t show. The bar was itching for it and all Candy could do was politely apologise. Where the fuck was Pete?
After a week he still didn’t show. Candy went to the hostel where he was staying and inquired about his whereabouts. This bought an instant reaction. The hostel owner was not pleased to see her. He took her aside and told her the police had been to collect his possessions. They had also searched all the foreigners at the bar. The owner was a straight-laced looking guy in his forties, but he was no mug. He explained succinctly to Candy that she was a fool to be doing what she was doing and that Pete was either dead or in prison. If she didn’t want the same thing to happen to her she had better leave BA. Candy suddenly saw the personal experience written on the face of the owner. He was not bullshitting her. He was being kind to her. The penny had dropped. Argentina was no longer such a playground for her and she saw that many Argentines live with the grim reality of violent crime and chose to turn a blind eye to the carryings-on of foreigners out of politeness, out of the hope that they would get their kicks safely and move on.
Candy’s visa extension was due to expire within a few days and she took this as a sign. She felt a little bit responsible for Pete, but she felt more responsible for her own safety. Her talking to by the Lemon House owner had been full of unspoken bluntness and concern that not even stupid her could ignore. She went to a travel agent and bought a plane ticket to Bolivia that same day.
So it was that she abandoned the boots that she had never worn and boarded a TAM flight to the highest capital in the world, La Paz.
Image of the cocaine crosswalk is from www.members.shaw.ca
The Candy and Shnade Chronicles:
Shnade Gets Drunk with a Serial Killer and Candy Arrives in Bangkok (Part 6)
Candy and Shnade Move On (Part 5)
Candy Trips in the Jungle and Shnade Trips Up (Part 4)
Candy Comes in the Jungle and Shnade Becomes the Man (Part 3)
Candy in Bolivia and Shnade in Hawaii (Part 2)
Candy in Argentina (Part 1)
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