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“I tell you what,“ says Franzblau. “If these guys knew how many of these girls are thinking about sticking a knife in their back while they’re having sex with them, they’d be amazed. Forget amazed. They’d be staying home.“
But they don’t know, so they keep coming. Who cares what the tourist board says? The hotel clerks, the bartenders, the cabbies—they’re all part of the fantasy, all in on the hustle. No one looks at you funny down here if you want to get a girl for the night or just for an hour. No one calls you a loser if you pay to get laid.
There’s a tico named…well, forget his name. He used to be in the business of taking horny gringo dollars, used to manage a club, and he doesn’t want to piss off his old boss. Then again, he’s not too happy with how this is all turning out for his country. “Remember Bush, the first one, when he said the New World Order’?“ he says. “In the New World Order, we’re the playground.“
Grab a cab at the airport, and even if the driver speaks no English he’ll say, “ Chicas, sí? “ and he’ll know you understand. Tell him you want to go to a club, and he’ll drop you off at a strip joint like the one the tico used to manage, and he’ll collect a thousand colones from the club owner for delivering you. Americans, the tico says, are like “Attila, you know, the Hun,“ but they’ve got dollars. Pay the cover—ten bucks, including two drinks—and watch the show: strippers, then a live lesbian act, then $2 lap dances, then an amateur act…all in an hour and, damn, it’s only a Tuesday night. Resist the hard sell for a private dance in the back, two bucks a minute, six minutes minimum. Then quit resisting. Follow her into a bland room with a wastebasket full of tissues and Wet-Naps. “Tip enough,“ the tico says, “and they’re all hookers.“ Want to take her out of the club? One-fifty to the house, one-fifty to her.
Maybe the national economy doesn’t need the money, but the club does. The girl does. The cabbie does. The maid changing sheets at the Holiday Inn does. The tico ’s friend who runs a local tanning salon does. Eliminate prostitution, that friend says, and you eliminate 60 percent of his clientele. No, better to keep it legal, keep it out in the open.
Just don’t talk about it too much. For all the bravado, for all the Web chatter, for all the Attila swagger, the gringo whoremongers are exceptionally shy. The guys in the bar don’t want to talk. Be a nosy stranger, ask an obvious question—“Whaddya doin’ down here?“—and they’ll give you a stare that’s either blank or surly. The ’mongers who brag so loudly on the Internet don’t use their real names. Even the out-of-business tico club manager would prefer not to have his name in a magazine no one in Costa Rica will read.
“You know why?“ he says. “Because you’re touching the darkest part of the human soul. You do this in your own country, you’ll have shame.
On the immigration forms American Airlines passes out on its flights from Miami to San José, in fine blue print just below the usual blocks for your name and passport number and address, there’s a curious line in both Spanish and English: “The penalty for sexual abuse towards minors in Costa Rica implies prison. Law #7899.“
When you get off the plane, there are posters taped to each of the kiosks where the immigration officers stamp your passport. They show the large, sad face of a teenage girl and, smaller and down in one corner, a pair of white man’s hands poking out through what appear to be the bars of a prison cell. “Her soul torn to pieces,“ the text reads, “and you…behind bars.“ Farther on, next to the door out of customs, there is a life-size cardboard stand-up of a tico —a cabbie, presumably—holding a sign. “Dear tourist,“ the sign held by the sign says. “In Costa Rica, sex with children under 18 is a serious crime. Should you engage in it, we will drive you to jail. We mean it.“ Finally, in the cabs that line up outside the terminal, there are versions of the same sign, again with “We mean it“ underlined with a red slash.
Welcome to Costa Rica, where it is illegal to rape children. Where it is necessary, in fact, to remind every single tourist entering the country that it is wrong to rape children.
The reason those signs are posted, of course, is that Costa Rica has a reputation as a place where you can rape the kids, though it’s rarely put that bluntly. Pedophilia? Okay, yes, agreed: It’s very, very bad, and Costa Rica, like most developing nations, has suffered its share of foreigners preying on its kids. But read the signs again: “under 18“ is in bold for a reason, one that is more demurely referred to as having sex with underage prostitutes, the estimated 5,000 to 10,000 teenagers in San José alone who’ve yet to reach the legal age of consent. Considering that the UNICEF study of young prostitutes found they turned their first trick at the average age of 14, it’s a huge problem.
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