Pick Up the Trash, Please

“I have a different view,” my wife said. “This is my country, and I see the problem differently.

“I live in Colombia now too, and I can prove it.” I laughed. “I got the exit tax receipt right here in my pocket. It’s gone up too. It used to be 63,000 pesos, and today, I paid 70,000. It cost more and more to be a Colombian and fly out of the country. A tourist gets a tax exemption and doesn’t have to pay.”

“Maybe you should not have married a Colombiana and got you residency visa,” she said.

“Well, maybe not, but I did, and my point is that now I have a right to express my opinion. I am just saying that I didn’t like the culture of indifference, lack of good service and trash everywhere that I saw in Cartegena and especially in La Boquilla. I have started to think about poor people and poverty like a Republican and  “los Ricos,” as you call them, who live on the north side of Bogotá.”

“I didn’t like seeing all the trash and lack of order in La Boquilla either. I just think the problem is more profound than you do,” she said.

“I hate that, after our trip to Cartagena, I’ve started  thinking like a republican, but I think the problem down there is really simple and has nothing to do with the extreme poverty of the people who live in La Boquilla.”

“La Boquilla has a lot of problems caused by no jobs, and the government is not doing anything to help. The government is so corrupt. They steal all the money,” she said. “You see Colombia through the eyes of a gringo—a rich gringo.”

“I’m not rich, but you’re right,” I said. “I couldn't see the beauty of Caribbean and the beach for all the trash. I just wanted all the people in La Boquilla to get up off their lazy butts and pick up the trash. I saw guys laying around in hammocks or sitting around playing dominoes next to piles of trash and plastic sacks and all kinds of other crap. I wanted to order them to get up and pick up the trash.”

“Well, I loved swimming in the ocean and seeing all the kites of the kiteboarders. The sunsets were beautiful. I saw  the problems in La Boquilla  as a lack of education and a problem of ingrained cultural indifference,” she said. “The government needs to do a better job, to instill civic pride, and maybe it will make a difference. People with little hope or prospects don’t worry about trash when they cannot even feed their kids.”

“Look, mi amor,” I said, “you are right. I agree that the problem is education. Their mothers should have taught those people to pick up the trash.”

“I was a good mother,” she said. “My son turned out to be the best.”

“Yes he did,” I said. “You taught him to take out the trash, at least most of the time.”

“I did a good job, and he is not lazy at all,” she said. “He has his master’s degree. I just read his thesis, and it was beautiful.”

“No, he’s not lazy, unlike the people down there in La Boquilla.” I said. “Those people live along side the most beautiful beach on the Caribbean, and they have trashed it out. As soon as you come off the beach all you see is people sitting around on piles of trash.”

“I was concerned about the health of the people and all the street dogs—about the human and animal side of the problem,” she said.

“I want to go back. It is the best beach for kiteboarding in all of Colombia. I just don’t want to see all the trash. I want the people to get off their lazy asses and pick up the trash and make their town beautiful. It’s got nothing to do with poverty and everything to do with lazy.”

“David, you are obsessing.” She laughed. ”Get over it. Relax.”

“Well, I want you to write a letter to the La Boquilla chamber of commerce and tell them to clean up the town, to get organize, and to get busy with picking up the tons of plastic sacks before I go back. I want to kiteboard and suntan on the beach and don’t want to see trash everywhere.”

“Stop it, David.” She laughed. “You are stressing yourself out.”

“Well, I mean it.” I laughed. “You remember when we were walking on the beach, and all those guys came running out of those run down and terrible looking restaurants that lined the street next to beach and tried to sell us lunch every five minutes? What American would eat in a place that looked like it was falling down, filthy and littered with trash—terrible?”

“It’s time to go through customs.” She laughed. “Have a good trip back to your clean and organized Florida.”

“I wanted to tell them what to do, how to make their places inviting, and how to make some money. I wanted to tell them to clean their places up.”

“I think they are calling your flight, David.” She laughed again. “You need to stop thinking about trash and La Boquilla.”

“I don’t want to go,” I said. “I don’t want to leave.”

“You’ll be back in a month, baby,” she said.

“I don’t want to go,” I said.

“Come back when you want. I’ll be waiting for you, and I’ll get Colombia all cleaned up before you get back I promise. I love you,” she said.

I looked at her long and hard. I did not want to board my flight and fly away from Colombia. We hugged goodbye, and she turned and walked away. I stood for a minute and watched her walking toward the exit.  I turned and made my way toward the uniformed woman who was checking passenger’s Id’s and the immigration officers waiting in their cubicles beyond.

I didn’t look back again, but I wanted too. I would be in Fort Lauderdale at seven pm and in a different world and a different life. I didn’t want to go.

Would You Loan Me Money on This Business Plan

“Tell me why Daddy Hinkle's needs a “All In One” marinade again. I don’t think I got it the first time you explained it,” she said."You need to make a good business plan, and make it interesting too."

“Well,” I said, “all our distributors have been asking for a liquid marinade that is affordable, and that has the same great flavor of our two part marinades, and that works just as great too, so I made one.”

“You made one?” she said.

“Yes, I combined the O’riginal dry with the liquid and formulated a new Daddy Hinkle’s All In One Marinade,” I said. “Of course, I had to change the O’riginal dry formula. I took out all of the paprika for example because we didn’t need it for color any more. The same for the soybean oil and the anti caking stuff—there were several changes.

“Several changes?” she said.

“Yes, of course, I could not just dump a jar of the O’riginal dry into the 10 ounce bottle of the Liquid. I had to start fresh,” I said.

“Start Fresh?” she said.

“I did. I made a basic seasoned tenderizer first—water, salt, garlic, onion, and papain, then, I added soy sauce, vinegar, some olive oil, sugar, and citric acid. After all that, I put in some guar gum to make the marinade a little thicker.

“You made it a little thicker?” she said.

“Yes, I did. I wanted all little pieces of onion and garlic to be suspended evenly throughout the marinade and not fall to the bottom of the bottle.”

“How did the marinade work?” she said.

“I loved it.” I said. “You pour it on, rub or fork it in and let the meat warm up to room temperature. I used it on some chicken breast and grilled them on an electric grill. They were delicious. What I liked best was that there was no more guessing about how much liquid or dry to use. You just pour about an ounce of the new All In One on a couple of pounds of any kind of meat, and voilà. It’s easy.”

“You are going to call it Daddy Hinkle’s All In One?” she said.

“Maybe, look at the label I made for Florida.”

 “It’s nice, but you designed a label just for Florida?” she said. “I don’t know how that is going to work. What if you want to sell in Texas or Illinois, or in any other parts of the country?” she said.

“Well, I want to start with the Old South Florida Marinade for the Florida market—principally to sell to Publix. I can get a co-packer down there in Florida, and have it bottled down there and sell direct to Publix,” I said.

“It’s nice, but…,” she said.

“After I get going in Florida, I can offer the All In One to KeHe Foods and label it for the Texas and even the Chicago market. Look at the labels I did for Chicago and Texas.

"I think it is going to be hard to sell it if you do it that way. I think one label would be better. Why not just call it Daddy Hinkle’s All In One?” she said.

“I don’t know why not, but the idea of changing the  marinade to suit the taste and labeling it for different markets appeals to me. Of course, you are right, it would be easier to have one label and sell the same marinade everywhere."

"I am always right." She laughed.

"Yes you are," I agreed. "We could also do different labels for different types of meat instead of for different markets. We could make an “All In One Marinade” label for Chicken, and for Steak, and for Pork, and so on."

"That's not a bad idea," she said.

"It's not,  but I like the idea of starting with a marinade for the Florida market that works on all kinds of meat, and that works especially great on fish. I really want to sell to Publix and bottle the marinade in Florida. I even want to put ‘Made in Florida for Daddy Hinkle’s’ on the label.”

“Well, you have some big ideas.” she said."Your business plan sounds like a story from your book, A Life Uncharted. I hope it all works out."

“Me too,” I said. “I think starting with Publix in Florida is a good idea, because think how many people come to Florida for vacations and also spend the winter down there. When they go back home, they will want to buy the Old Florida Style Marinade back home too.”

“That is a good point. Maybe you’re right,” she said.

“Hope so.” I laughed. “There is a first time for everything.”

"When do think you'll have it ready to go to market?" she asked.

"Maybe by this summer. There is a lot to do."

"Well, good luck and let me know when you have some available. I'll test it out." She laughed. "If I live, I'll recommend it to everyone."

Size Doesn't Matter

“How did an old, ugly gringo like me get a tall, and slender, and extremely exotic and sexy woman like you?” I said. “You’re not a blonde either, which surprises me too. You’re not even American.”

“Cierto. Tuviste suerte, Vaquero.” She laughed. “You were lucky for sure, Cowboy.”

She was right. I was lucky to have a woman that was an exotic mixture of races--Spanish, Black, and Indian. She is Colombian, and my marriage to her made a column I had just read more poignant for me.

“I just read something by a black woman,” I said to the Colombiana. "A woman named Jessica Bennett."

“Was she beautiful,” the Colombiana said.

“I don’t know. Miss Bennett addressed the problem black women have finding a husband. She wrote about how maybe black women might want to consider marring a white guy.”

“I married one.” She laughed. "A gringo."

“Yes you did. Jessica wrote that she doesn´t believe that successful black women should feel guilty about abandoning the pool of black men and broadening their horizons.”

“Well, I don’t either,” the Colombiana said.

“She also quotes Stanford law professor Ralph Richard Banks, who takes on the black middle-class in his a new book, Is Marriage for White People?: How the African American Marriage Decline Affects Everyone:  black women who are out pacing their male peers to a degree more pronounced than in any other racial group.

“I wouldn’t marry a Colombian again no matter what color his skin was,” she said.

“Good," I said. "I have not read Mr. Banks´ book, but I see the problems beautiful women of color face daily in finding a suitable man not only in America, but in Colombia too. I´ve no doubt that a well-educated black woman has a much easier time in today’s job market than a black guy with a high school education or who dropped out.”

“I wouldn’t marry a dropped out,” she said.

“Miss Bennett quotes from Mr. Bank's book that twice the number of black women graduate from college as do black men,” I said. “He asked also controversially what black woman wants to marry down?”

“I don’t think marrying a gringo was marrying down,” she said.

“Maybe not. I am not saying that marrying a well-educated white guy is a better solution,” I said. “I say just pick out a partner that offers the best possible qualities for a long-term relationship.”

“I know why you picked me, David.” She laughed. “It wasn’t because I’m a great cook, even though I am.”

"Of course it was because you are a great cook,” I said. “Sex had nothing to do with picking a beautiful exotic woman!”

“You blush when you are lying, David.” She laughed.

 “Well, from an old white gringo’s point of view,  a well-educated, self-assured, tall woman like you is very desirable.” I laughed. “The problem is do you find an old white guy like me attractive?”

“Well...,” she said looking me over.

“The point Jessica and Mr. Banks make is that middle class, well-educated black women should consider marrying a white man, even if we can’t dance.” I laughed. “You do find me attractive don’t you?”

“I’m still looking you over.” She laughed. “You’re not too bad.”

 “I find tall and slender women attractive, and tall and slender black women even more so. I like the way they look. I like their almond shaped eyes. I like their hair. I like the color of their skin especially the café con leche color of your skin. I don´t want them to be white, to look white, to act white. Strong, black, good looking, well educated, tall, slender, sexy, and exotic women do not intimidate me. Well, not too much!” I said.

“You think I am beautiful, and sexy and strong,” she said.

 “I do. What I like about being with a none-white, none-traditional strong self-reliant multi-racial woman like you is that my life is a lot bigger for sharing your cultural and racial differences,” I said.

“What did you say?” she said.

“That you are beautiful,” I said, “and that I like the challenge of measuring up to your expectations of commitment and promise that you hold me too.”

“You better.” She laughed. “Or I’ll kill you.”

“I am lucky to be here in Colombia with you, and I know it. I look back on the little safe middle class white man´s world that I had before I met you, and I see it for the little boring play golf on Sunday life that it was,” I said.

“I am glad you are here in Colombia too,” she said. “I am glad I took a chance on a white guy. Dancing isn’t everything, and size doesn’t matter. At least it doesn’t matter to me. Should it?”

“Size doesn’t matter?” I said. “The size of what?”