Airport Stories Part II

In the wake of 9/11, we've all noticed heightened security scrutiny at airports, and we're all now pretty much accustomed to performing the ritual dance of removing shoes, belt, diapers and genital piercings at the security gate of any developed nation's airports. Presumably this is to screen passengers who try to smuggle a pair of tweezers aboard and pluck the pilot's eyebrows to the extent where he is blinded by the bright sun of the stratosphere and sends the plane into an irreversible death spiral.

Then there's the practice of 'frisking' which I've always been personally opposed to. I'm not really comfortable with a man putting his hands between my legs and groping my inner thighs, even if it is in the name of security. Then again, if attractive young ladies did the job, guys would probably strap small decoy items to their thighs in an attempt to get a more thorough pat-down, resulting in delayed flights and general travel chaos. In any case, for the sake of security I hope that friskers have a keen sense of touch and a knack for lumps that shouldnt be there. They should certainly have full senses in both arms. They should certainly have both arms. They certainly shouldnt be amputees, as much as I want amputees to have fair access to good jobs.

One guy who certainly shouldn't be a frisker in this age of terror from the skies is an amputee currently employed at Detroit Metropolitan Airport as... a frisker. Yes, thats right, of all the able-bodied potential friskers in Detroit (a city with an official unemployment rate of 30%) a man with a prosthetic right arm was given the responsibility of physically checking people getting onto flights. I had to rub my eyes as he patted down the left side of my body with his motionless prosthesis, which was about 4 shades lighter than the rest of his skin (it was probably fitted to him during the winter). I spent the flight musing as to how the hell a guy with a plastic arm could be employed to feel for potential bombs and weapons. Was it in fact a super sensitive probing device developed by the CIA? Or was it just affirmative action taken to a new extreme?

In Papua New Guinea (PNG), security check procedures are rather improvised. Tourists are issued 3 month tourist visas on arrival in PNG. When I landed at Jackson's Field, the country's only international airport, I was immediately confronted with a single long line for foreign citizens. After about an hour in line I reached the desk, where a very stern looking, very square woman placed a little sticker in my passport, stamped it, and waved me through. I was then confronted by an even longer line, where everyone, including local citizens, had to submit to a rigorous customs check. Here, we were searched for contraband, flora and fauna that could potentially harm the island ecosystem, and of course, pornography.

Security Desk at Kavieng Airport, New Ireland Province, Papua New Guinea

The line moved as slowly as the languidly rotating cieling fans overhead. As we crawled along, I had time to appreciate the colorful local advertisements for tinned tuna and beef crackers, apparently the country's favorite snacks. In my semi-delirious state, I giggled to myself and elicited some preemptivly suspicious looks from the security personel. Bear in mind it was about 6 AM, as I had been on the overnight flight from Hong Kong. After what seemed like an age, it was finally my turn to put my stuff up on a table and have it rummaged around in. The fellow doing the rummaging had a real primitive look about him, like a tribal elder who was now trying his hand at a minimum wage bureaucrat's job in the city after one too many run-ins with cannibals in the jungle. It was a look I would later see in many of his fellow citizens, mainly those from the highland areas, a look of deep set, dull eyes and a slightly agape mouth.

The custom's agent proceeded to take everything out of my bag and plop it on the table. Underwear was held up and examined in the light, books and magazines were leafed through page by page to make sure they didn't contain any racy imagery. Then he came accross a bag of gifts for my friends in PNG, which had been bought during my recent stay im China. He pulled out a large golden box covered in Chinese characters, opened it and removed a bag of dried green leaves, looking painfully like a big fat bag of cannabis. He shot me a look that the high priest with a dagger would give the sacrificial victim on the altar.

'Whats dis?'

'Oh, thats tea from China.'

The look of suspicion intensified. He opened the bag up with his knife and felt around, picking up some leaves and crushing them between his grubby fingers. Even more disbelief and consternation flashed across his face. He grabbed a handful and put it up to his nose, taking in a long, deep breath through his flared out nostrils. Then, in a moment that could best be described as: Welcome to PNG!, he put his lips to the leaves in the palm of his hand, scooped up some leaves with his tongue, munched them for a few seconds and then flashed me a wide, betel nut stained grin. 'Yeah, its tea!' He said, stuffing the rest of the leaves back in the bag and waving me through.

One fellow who should have been checked more rigorously for marijuana at the airport is a Mr. Kinman Chan of San Fransisco. He's the kind of airport freak that frequent flyers dream about and can only hope and pray to someday meet. I quote from a recent news article:

Kinman Chan had a really bad flight. The airline passenger blames pot for dropping pants on his flight from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. In addition to dropping his pants on the flight he also attacked some crew members and had to be subdued and the flight was diverted to Pittsburgh. Chan claimed that he ate double strength marijuana cookies for a medical condition which was not disclosed.

He's now facing up to 20 years in jail for interfering with a flight attendant's job. In hindsight, Mr. Chan probably would have appreciated a more stringent security check.

Airport Stories Part I

Airports belong in that category of places that includes Starbucks, IKEA, McDonalds and the internet. You know, the places that have lost all but the faintest semblance of local flavour and customs, thanks to globalization or some such thing. You can walk in and follow the same steps to get where you're going, whether you're in California or Calcutta. But what makes airports unique is that they're the great mixing places of people from all walks of life from around the world. Within any given international airport, you can find people coming from or going to any corner of the earth, in varying depths of jetlag and/or sleeping pill induced stupors.

Whenever I'm travelling long distance and have a few hours to spare at an airport between flights, I like to head to the bar (or nearest equivalent), have a beer and start a little thing I call weirdo watch: looking out for interesting characters to make the time pass a little more quickly. Amongst others encountered while on weirdo watch, I've met Mexican lesbians, Korean 7th Day adventists and a couple of Swedish coworkers returning from a 3 month stint on an oil-tanker in Saudi Arabia. The latter were getting drunk at 6 AM at Frankfurt airport, with the noble justification that this was the first chance they had to enjoy ice-cold draught lager in over 100 days.

Sometimes airports reveal surprising things about countries. I once spent a couple hours at Manilla's Ninoy Aquino airport in the Philippines. I didn't set foot outside the complex, but if the airport's employees reflected the demographics of rest of the country, one could easily surmise that the vast majority of Filipino males must be gay. Upon leaving the plane, a couple skinny men with bug eyes and plucked eyebrows hopped up and down and greeted passengers with 'Welcome to the feeleepeeeens!' Perusing the airport shop for some snacks, a young man in make up and a tank top approached and recommended the dried papaya, licking his lips. 'It's super, I eat it all the time.' As I drank a local San Miguel Brew in the lounge, Filipino x-factor blared on a huge tv from the 70s, rigged up on a rickety looking ceiling bracket. A handful of male airline workers on a break sat beneath, mouthing the lyrics and casting their misty eyes up at the latest budding star, a young man in tight jeans. Some stewardesses and cleaning ladies congregated in another corner of the room, looking glum. After my short visit to the country, I have a little more understanding for why so many women have decided to leave and work abroad.

But sometimes confirm one's suspicions about a country. A layover at Paris' Charles De Gaulle airport confirmed that oft repeated sterotype: French people are arrogant bastards. I was hungry and looking for some tasty French cuisine, but the three hours I had between flights didnt allow me to venture into the city. I decided to enquire at the info-booth.

'Bonjour, do you speak English?'

'Sometimes.'

'Can you help me?'

'Maybe.'

'I'm looking for a good place to eat. Where's there a nice restaurant around here?'

'For you? You... go to McDonalds, it is that way, ten minute.'

Asshole. Eventually, I found an outlet of a local steakhouse chain called Hippopotamus, where I had a half decent porterhouse. A funny name for a place serving beef, non?

Incidentally, I was once asked my own opinion on the best place to eat at an airport. While walking to my gate down the main concourse at Detroit Metro Aiport (the new McNamara Terminal is the finest place in the city by the way, which isn't too tricky) I was confronted by an obese woman with her fat kids. With a look of desperation in her eyes, she demanded:

'I need FOOD!'

This was slightly startling. She wasn't exactly starving. I asked her what she meant.

'Look, I've got a 45 minute flight over to Milwaukee, and I'm gonna get a bag of peanuts. Me and my kids can't wait that long! I need FOOD!'

Inspired by my French experience, I suggested McDonalds. Her eyes lit up and she demanded to know where it was, then thanked me profusely and waddled off with her plump little family.

Vietnamese Snake Meat Extravaganza

In the Summer of 2008 I found myself in Hanoi, Vietnam's steamy capital city. In Hanoi, French colonial legacies of fine dining meet the South East Asian attitude of 'If it moves, eat it!' Hence, there's some pretty wacky stuff on the menu, and its all painstakingly prepared.

It seems every aspect of Vietnamese life revolves around food. Every square inch of flat land in the countryside has been dedicated to rice cultivation. Rural women spend all their waking hours tending their crops in the electric green fields, covered from head to toe in silk gloves, masks and hats to avoid any sun rays penetrating their ivory white skin. I was told this is so that nobody suspects they are a peasant rice farmer - apperantly only they have tans. In the city, every street corner in the city features a lady in silk pajamas is squatting over a steaming vat, ladling out steaming bowls of pho, Hanoi's famous beef broth. This is served with noodles, fresh herbs and plenty of chilis, and is delicious.

My two Vietnamese friends from college, Katy and Phuc Minh Nguyen (what a name) happened to be in Hanoi when I visited. Unsurprisingly, they both wanted me to try their favorite Vietnamese dishes. Katy insisted on trying cuisine from Hue, a city in southern Vietnam. This features a lot of peanut sauces and a curious deep fried rice pancake that you fill at the table with shredded meat and bean sprouts, sort of like a taco. Minh, on the other hand, had something else in mind.

His dad and cousin picked me and my mom up from our hotel in the city and we started driving out of town, crossing the Red River on a rickety old steel bridge buzzing with a swarm of mopeds. We soon got off the main road and found ourselves on the winding lanes of Le Mat village, essentially a suburb of Hanoi . Its famous throughout the nation for one thing: snake meat. We stepped out of the car into a beautiful courtyard and made our way up a winding, engraved wooden staircase to a terrace with a roof but no walls.

"Most restaurant in Le Mat too touristy. This one only for Vietnamese," said Minh as we climbed the steps. Stacked up on shelves all around, the tongues of king cobras pointed at us from jars and bottles in which they were pickled in a yellow liquid.

We sat down at our table and took in the strange atmosphere. Conversation wasn't exactly flowing, as Minh's dad and cousin spoke about 3 words of english between them, and our Vietnamese wasn't any better. Before long, two waiters came. Instead of menus, they brought a writhing burlap sack, a bottle and a funnel. One waiter opened the bag, while the other reached in and deftly pulled out a hissing King Cobra, holding it out for us to inspect. Minh and his family sat emotionless, and his father nodded slightly, never altering his Brahma cow-like facial expression.

"Its a good one," said Minh. "Plenty of meat."

Our scaly little friend barely had time to stick out its tongue before the other waiter removed a small dagger from his pocket and plunged it in the serpents neck. They both moved the bleeding snake over the funnel and one began squeezing the blood from its main artery into the bottle, while the other milked the venom from the fangs directly onto the tile floor. The Nguyen family watched the macabre spectacle as calmly as ever. Public displays of emotion are frowned upon by Vietnamese society, which values integrity and 'keeping face' above all else. My mother also seemed to have adopted a passive expression, but this was probably induced by the petrifiying effects of shock and horror.

Soon, the blood was all drained and the beast stopped writhing. The butchery wasnt over yet though. The knife was now jabbed into the snake about 1/3 down its body, and a beating heart was pulled out and placed in a shot glass. Another small organ (I was later told it was the pancreas) was also extracted and placed in the bottle. The shot glasses were placed on the table and filled with blood from the bottle. Being the oldest non-Vietnamese male at the table, I got the glass with the thumping heart.

"You must drink it! Shows respect for our cuisine." Without thinking too much about it, Iheld my breath and took the whole sanguine concoction down in one gulp, appreciating that my esophagus doesnt have nerve endings that might cause me to feel a moving reptile organ bandying around in my guts. The snake was taken to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, the barrage of dishes started coming out. First off was snake soup, accompanied by a dish of crushed, lightly fried snake bones for sprinkling. Then came the garlic snake springrolls, followed by dishes flavored with ginger, chilis, lemongrass and coriander. Everything was prepared in the most delicate, manner and was delicious, with one glaring exception: the snake meat.

Snake meat, for those of you who have never tried it, tastes like a cross between boiled white fish and a rubber hose. With every chew, you hope to unleash some semblance of favor, but to no avail. Were it not for the yummy sauces and seasonings on all the dishes, I may have vomited the slimy stuff up. Of couse, Minh and his family waxed lyrical about the delicious meat and benefits to male sexual function. His father kept smiling at me and making small punching motions in the air with his fist.

I felt slightly woozy for the remainder of the afternoon. Perhaps some of the toxic venom (which remained on the floor throughout the meal) turned to fumes and wafted into my nose. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but I wont be ordering snake meat on the menu anytime soon.

Getting a driver's license in St. Louis

Now that I had a car, all I needed was some insurance coverage and I'd be ready to roll. Pretty straightforward, right? I'd just mosey on down to the AAA office a few doors down from my place and walk out with an affordable little package 10 minutes later...

'Hi. I'd like an insurance policy for my new car.'

'Uh huh. You got yo' license wit you?'

I pulled out my Greek liscence. If you didn't already know, 21st century Greece issues drivers licenses that are actually 6 fold-out pages. There's a front page, stating in all 79 official EU languages that the document is in fact a driver's license, lest there be any doubt. The next page contains some vital stats, including my father's name and a passport photo stapled into the corner. Then theres a couple pages with pictures of vehicles, an X next to a family sedan and lots

of stamps and signatures. The whole thing is pastel-pink and looks like a cross between a desert menu and a cheap Russian wedding invitation.

'Uh huh. You got yo' license wit you?'

'This is my liscence. It's Greek.'

'Uh huh. Hang on.' He turned around and shouted into one of the back offices: 'Hey TAWANDA! I got a guy here wit' a, um, Roman drivah lisence. Do we accept dem?'

Despite his impressive knowledge of the ancient world, it turned out that my friend at AAA couldn't help me get insured until I presented a valid US license. And so, my quest to become a legal driver on the mean streets of St. Louis continued, taking another inevitable turn towards

the ghetto.

This time, my destination was the North Side License Bureau, conveniently located on the North Side, the most hotly contested turf in St. Louis' raging gang war. I hailed a taxi and told him where I was going. The driver, a forty-something year old black man named Marvin, turned around and looked at me like I told him I ate a double-decker shit sandwich for breakfast. I explained my predicament. He started driving, passing by some kids splashing around in a gushing opened fire hydrant.

'Damn, its HOT! And when it gets hot in this city, niggas go CRAAAZY! I can't even have a goddamn FAN anymoh!' He pointed to a defunct mini-fan secured to his mirror, its power cord dangling on the dashboard. 'Mothafukas at the

cab company took out ma cigarette lighter. Say

they got a goddamn No Smoking Policy. I don't even smoke! Now I ain't even got nowhere to plug in, I feel like ima MELT!'

I sensed that the logical conclusion to Marvin's rant would be to drive the cab off a bridge to alleviate his overheating. I tried to change the subject:

'How long've you driven a cab for?'

'Oh 'bout three years now. I was in the army for 20 years. Stationed in Germany.'

'I used to live there.'

'You ever fuck a German whore?'

'I left when I was 11.'

'You lived in Germany and you ain't ever fucked a German whore? You some kinda fairy? Ain't no straight mothafuka ever lived in Germany who ain't fucked a German whore. Woo WEEEE

did we have fun over there! Go into Frankfurt and fuck 3 BITCHES A NIGHT!'

Evidently, the rumor that Europe is some sort of child-sex haven has made the rounds in St. Louis.

'So you came back and started driving a taxi?'

'Nah I drove a schoolbus for a while, but I, uh, I lost that job.'

What a surprise. We pulled up outside the License Bureau and I paid the fare.

'I sure hope your white ass knows what its doin in this part of town!'

So did I. I entered the building and once again assumed my role as token-white-guy, which by now I was getting pretty good at. I told the receptionist I was here for the written test. She said I could take it whenever I was ready, and handed me a book to study. I sat down and leafed through it. The exam room looked more like a teenage pregnancy consultation clinic than a license bureau. 16 year old girls sat taking their tests while their 30 year old mothers bottle fed the baby at the back of the room. Boys in do-rags twirled their pencils while looking at the ceiling

for their answers.

After a cursory glance through the study guide, I reckoned the test would be pretty easy. I'd been driving for at least 3 years already, and had already passed a driving exam in Greek. How tricky could it be in my native tongue? I collected my exam booklet from the receptionist, sat down and began looking at the multiple choice questions:

'How many hours after an accident do you need to contact the police to file a report?'

A. 1 B. 4 C. 8 D. 24

'What is an acceptable air pressure for tyres (psi) on a passenger car?'

A. 10 B. 20 C. 30 D. 40

'How many blue cars were registered in south-eastern Missouri in 1994?'

A. 530,023 B. 709,144 C. 801,229 D. 1,742,892

And so on. Damn. This was NOT the kind of test I could just breeze through. No wonder Tyrone and DeShawn looked so confused. I looked up at the clock. 2.30PM on a friday afternoon, and the place closed at 4. I had a sinking feeling that I'd have to repeat the whole ordeal the following week. Another wheel-less weekend loomed.

But just when I thought all was lost, one of the little fatherless babies at the back of the room started to cry. The grandmother stood up and brought the wailing infant over to the test-taking mother. It was then that I realised I still had the study guide on my lap along with my other paperwork. With all eyes on the mother loudly scolding her baby, I had full, uninterupted access to all the answers!

As the screetching continued, I ticked the right boxes and I brought my exam up to the receptionist.

'Ok, you got 29/30. Good job. Take this over to officer Dicks. She'll conduct your practical test.'

Before I even had time to chuckle at her name, officer Dicks was towering above me, all 6 ft 6 inches and 300 pounds of her. One of her eyes looked down at me as if to burn a hole through my head, while the other roved, probably looking for testicles to crush.

'Lets go out to your car,' she bellowed, as if to say: 'Hurry up you punk, its friday and that means two for one box-lunch specials down at nasty Louise's dyke shack!'

Once we were buckled up, Ms. Dicks demanded a full display of my dashboard knowledge, prodding every symbol and button conceivable, expecting a full explanation. 'Whats this? Whats that? What happens if you don't defog the rear windows? What if your blinkers dont work?'

'You go get them repaired?' I ventured a guess.

'WRONG!' She screamed, marking a big red X on the practical exam checklist. 'You stick your arm out the window and indicate which direction you're going to turn!'

She rolled down the window and began to demonstrate. Her biceps bulged inside the blue fabric of her uniform. As she bent her elbow veins on her neck and forehead began to protrude.

I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, driving down the seemingly endless Kingshighway Boulevard. Officer Dicks bashed the spedometer and reminded me in her usual friendly tone that the speed limit was 20 mph. I'd read about psycho women cutting off male-gentalia and flinging them out the windows of moving vehicles, but I never thought it would happen to me. Now I was beginning to wonder.

Perhaps thanks to my racing pulse and electrified nerves, I put on a sterling driving display. Parallel parking, reversing around corners - you name it - I pulled it off perfectly. This seemed to annoy Officer Dicks even more.

'Well, I'm gonna pass you this time. You're lucky I let that blinker mistake slide, maybe I'm just in a good mood 'cuz its Friday.' God help the students on Monday was all I could think.

Buying a car in St. Louis

Q: Whats the difference between living in St. Louis, Missouri without a personal motor vehicle and living at the bottom of the ocean without scuba equipment?

A: You're much more likely to get shot, robbed or raped living in St. Louis.

I look back on my 3 months in St. Louis as an endurance test, an exercise in the limits of my boredom tolerance and ability to avoid gunshot wounds. I had the misfortune of finding myself there thanks to an internship with a major international engineering firm, which sounded like a good idea at the time I landed it. My research of the city prior to arrival was skeletal, I just giddily packed my bags and hopped on the next flight over, eager to experience life in the states again after living in Europe for 13 years.

I quickly discovered that St. Louis was the the worst city in which to have this experience. It's is located about as far away from any item of interest as is physically possible on the North American continent. The muddy Mississippi flows by, separating St. Louis from its aptly named neighbour to the east; East St. Louis. Like a child at a family reunion sheepishly steering clear of his crazy cheek-pinching great aunt, the river moves quickly, trying its best to avoid excessive contact with the city. Apart from a soulless core of half empty skyscrapers and a giant steel arch, St. Louis spreads out for about 50 miles to the north, south and west. This dire patchwork of ghetto and cookie-cutter suburbia is sprinkled with creepy stip malls and is stiched together by dilapidated 6-lane highways. This was once a proud, bustling city, but when Chicago became the rail hub for westward expansion in the late 1800's, St. Louis lost its national relevance and its long decline commenced. It now seems to have comfortably settled into a pattern of decay.

I was too busy meeting colleagues and getting briefed on the job for the first few days to notice what a dump I was now living in. But come the weekend, I had ample time to explore. Aside from a couple bums fighting over a 2-dollar bill, the empty streets surrounding my 'downtown' accomodation were entirely devoid of life now that the weekday office workers were off duty. Prospects of finding excitement in outlying areas were equally slim. St. Louis' one and only metro-line linked the airport with downtown via a series of park-and-ride stops in the suburbs. Great. The thrill of being in a new place quickly wore off and I realised that any nuggets of gold in this bleak city would have to be discovered by car.

Part I

Scanning through the local classified ads, my eye was immediately caught by BUFFORD'S DIRT CHEAP AUTO SALES, 5 miles to the north of my place. This sounded like just the place to suit my need for wheels on a $1000 budget. After a 40 minute wait, I hopped on what may have been the city's only bus. A cursory glance at my fellow passengers led me to conclude that I had about twice as many teeth as the rest of them combined. A 500 pound white man lay slumped in the handicapped seat, drooling on the floor. Two young black women at the back said: 'Uh uh' and 'He be workin' it', over and over. Never wanting to miss out on a chance for small-talk, I struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He'd been clean for a few years and now coached a christian-negro-little-league(!) baseball team on which his son Melvin was a star player. His most memorable quote on the subject of substance abuse was 'mmm, that shit felt so good when it hit yo' head!' He was bemused by a cracker like me on a bus in St. Louis. I explained that I was hunting for a car so I wouldn't have to make such journeys in the future.

Outside, the highrises abruptly gave way to a landscape of alternating decrepit single-story houses and empty lots on which houses used to stand. These had long since been destroyed by authorities wanting one less place from which crack could be sold. I now found myself in Baden, North St. Louis' version of hell on earth. I have a feeling the neighbourhood is aware of its plight and one day, when no one is watching, will drown itself in the Mississippi. Next to one bus stop, a man lay half on the street and half on the sidewalk, face down. The scene didnt improve when I got off the bus. A trio of gangbangers dressed all in green walked by and commented on 'that white piece of shit'. I checked the address I was looking for and made my way down the street, passing a stripmall in which the only open business was a drug testing clinic.

After 5 of the longest minutes of my life, I reached Bufford's, a crumbling house on a corner with about a dozen suicidal looking cars in the front yard. I entered and found 3 morbidly obese guys watching TV. I told them I was looking for a car for about a grand. They silently stared at me for about 20 seconds, then the fattest and oldest of all (no doubt Bufford himself) reached down into his overall's front pocket and pulled out a couple keys. He flung them at me and said 'check out dem two blue buicks out front'.

Car #1: 1988 Buick Le Sabre, $800

Pros:

-Probably the most stolen car in the midwest.

Cons:

-Slashed Seats.

-Trunk didn't close.

-No windshield wipers.

-No reverse gear. 'Its aight,' said Bufford when he finally came out, 'If you got a friend with you he can jus' get out and push you back when you gots ta park.' I guess to cope with life in Baden, he'd developed a superhuman sense of optimism.

Car #2: 1993 Buick Riviera, $750

Pros:

-Blue

Cons:

-Amongst others that could fill a small booklet, the lights didnt work. Bufford's advice: 'Well you jus' shouldn't drive dis one at night, dats all.'

I thanked Bufford and told him I had to be on my way. He gave me his card and told me to call him up if I needed any more info. Yeah, like: 'Hey, Buff, whats the best way to remove blood stains from trunk upholstery?' Sensing that death or serious injury was imminent if I returned to the spot where I got off the bus, I headed down towards the next stop. On the way, I passed another car lot and spotted the only other white guy in a 10-mile radius, putting an outrageously high price tag on a rusty chevy van. These cars were in an even sorrier state than Bufford's, if that's possible.

'You got anything for about $500?' I asked.

'Uh, well hey man I just work here part time, but come back next week and ask my boss, you'll probably get a bargain since you the first guy who ain't a nigger who come by here in years!'

I figured another trip to the 'hood would probably be the last trip I ever took, so I decided to give this one a miss too. I returned to civilisation empty handed but with all my bodily organs intact. Some brief online research soon made it clear that I was now living in officially the most dangerous city in the United States, with 1/40 people finding themselves victims of violent crime each year. Undeterred, I vowed to continue my hunt for wheels the next week.

Part II

I raised my budget to $2000, figuring that anything less than this amount would get me a deathtrap-on-wheels. Looking around online, I found a number for a used car dealer in Arnold, MO, about 30 miles south of the City. I dialled, it rang:

'Hullo?'

'Yeah hi, is this mike? I'm looking for a used car for about two grand.'

'Oh yeah hey listen I'm just tryin to fix up this goddamn mothafukin piece of shit jet ski that I bought at an auction last week but it wont start dammit! Anyways, why are you calling again?'

'Err, I'd like a car for 2K'

'Oh yeah I got one of them - its red. Why don't you tell me where you live I'll come by and show it to you.'

And so begins the story of Car # 3: 1996 Ford Escort Coupe, $2000, and more entertainingly, the story of Mike, the used car dealer. I've encountered some thoroughly grimy people in the past and had been expecting for Mike to be a grimy guy, but even I was shocked by his level of depravity. He pulled up to my place and got out of the car - a shiny red little coupe with no visible scrapes, scratches or bullet holes. 'Take her for a spin,' he said, getting in the passenger seat.

I hopped in and immediately noticed an inappropriate amount of exposed hairy thigh. Mike was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans tailor made for easy access ball-scratching. He was also clutching a jumbo sized Styrofoam soda cup between his filthy fingernails, from which about half of the contents had spilled on his wrinkled t-shirt. I tried to keep conversation to a minimum, thinking it best not to give him reason to open his mouth. Now there's bad breath and then there's this guy's breath. This guy's unique aroma would make Filipino street dogs howl. Thank god it was a hot day and the car didn't have working A/C, so there was no excuse not to have the windows down. But even going 80 mph on the highway, each breath brought tears to my eyes. Luckily, he wasnt a terribly talkative guy. He asked me where I was from and I replied that I'd lived in Greece for a long time. He shrugged.

The car handled alright, the lights, reverse gear and windows all did what they were supposed to do, and I figured the stink would fade after a couple days. I decided to take the car, so we drove down to his 'office' in Arnold to sort out the paperwork. Unsurprisingly, he worked out of a trailer, which he also lived in.

'Can I use your bathroom?' I asked, stepping into the sauna-like caravan.

'Yeah just go round back, and don't piss on any of my stuff.'

I walked around to the back of the trailer, passing a few tyreless cars on blocks and a jet ski that looked like it had been gutted by a pack of ravenous wolves. No wonder the thing didn't start. I did my business and came back in to find him looking at online porn. I cleared my throat rather loudly.

'Oh hey man. You took me by surprise. So uh, you're from Greece right?'

'I lived there for a while, yeah.'

'How old you gotta be to have sex over there?'

I scratched my head. '15 or 16, i'm not really sure?'

'Well lets look it up.'

He typed in www.howoldyougottabe.com and waited for the page to load.

'Mothafukers, they're always taking this one down. This one should work though,' he said, typing in www.ageofconsent.com. Scrolling down the list of nations and states, he came to G. Sure enough, the age of sexual consent in Greece is 15.

'Cool, that's pretty young' He said, between slurps on his maxi-pop. 'But check out Yemen dude, they know where its at. They don't even got an age!'

'Wow. I learn something new everday. How 'bout that car now? I got $2000 cash on me.' I reached into my pocket and got out the envelope, not wanting to spend any more time discussing child rape with a used car dealer in an oversized tin can oven.

'Alright man, I'll just get you your deed.' He rifled through a stack of stained, crumpled papers on his desk. 'Shame you're not a chick, we could have did some 'creative financing' in my other office!' Pointing to his bedroom, he winked and grabbed his crotch. Mike's trailer was starting to make Bufford's Dirt Cheap Auto Sales look like Buffingham Palace. I shuddered and signed the deed.

'Now if you live in St. Louis, you better park your car under a bright light. Them negroids steal tyres like flies steal shit.' I couldn't blame the whites and blacks in the city for not associating with each other. Both groups were best avoided.

I said my farewells and pulled out of the yard in my newly purchased car. As I started to drive off, he came up to my window. 'Dude, if you wanna see some young poontang, theres a big ass pool a couple miles down on I-55. I drive by there everyday and I'm all like: is she legal?' I hit the gas, excited to have my own means of transport but mainly relieved to have escaped the grime den with minimal mental scarring.