Breakfast of champions
Yesterday at midday, had you wandered into La Ranchera, you would have seen me perched at the bar awaiting kick-off in the Cologne-Arsenal game, Europa League, Group H. Arsenal had already qualified for the knockout stages – I have long argued that a spell in Europa rather than Champions League would benefit them – which may explain a youthful team sliding to a somewhat lacklustre 1-0 defeat. But it was enjoyable to see some English soccer, and there were pleasing passages of play. They have a great black kid on the left whose name I forget.
Shortly after hostilities commenced, an old Tico came in and sat at the end of the bar. He looked like an old ranch hand, appropriate for La Ranchera. Like me, he ordered a bottle of Imperial, the clean-tasting national lager. We exchanged pleasantries and had a short conversation in Spanish. He didn’t stick around, and we said our goodbyes. However, I noticed that he had paid 2,000 colones – about $4 or £2.60 - for his beer, and I was mildly concerned that the bar had doubled their prices. I asked the barmaid if this was the case. She replied,
No, he pagado el tuyo.
No, he paid for yours.
I asked if he was a regular. He was not. I had never seen or met him. But I think I know why he brassed up for a stranger’s ale. It was because I spoke his language.
Some of the Costa Ricans here, young and old, resent the gringos, although I do not qualify as a gringo, but as a straightforward Inglés. One of the reasons the Yanks rub them up the wrong way is that some of them have been here 15-odd years and don’t really speak any Spanish. And, when they do, they make absolutely no effort to replicate the attractive Costa Rican accent. I am not exactly on top of the language, but I am trying to learn and I think the old bandero saw that and that was his way of thanking me.
Now, it’s not all plain sailing for me. For the first time in almost two years in Costa Rica, I experienced my first little sliver of racism a week or so ago. I was cutting through past the soccer pitch, heading to La Liga, right opposite La Ranchera, for a quick cold one before afternoon chores. Two Ticos were walking in front of me, both about 60 years old and one walking a bicycle. I was happy to walk slowly behind them. I don’t like to push past people, and I never did it even in London, where rudeness and incivility abound. But one of the guys sensed my presence and they parted to let me pass. I said;
The larger dude said as I passed;
Él no es tu amigo.
He is not your friend.
I looked back at him, not with animosity, but just with my rather generous eyebrows raised, as if to say; a bit unnecessary, old son. He looked at me with an expression of mild dislike. Did I feel aggrieved? Far from it. I have experienced real racism.
A black guy, a big buck, set his Rottweiler on me in 1991 in Brixton, south London. The dog bit into my arm, I have the scars still and I felt her teeth grinding against the bone. He called the dog off. I think it might have killed me if not. He made it fucking clear that it was because I was the only white on his level of the infamous barrier block on Coldharbour Lane. I was dressy too, and a lot of blacks don’t like all that unless they are doing it. Of course, as the young people will tell you – in very loud, abrasive tones – that incident could not be racism because racism can only be a trait of those with power, or, in other words, white people. Sure, poppet. When a malevolent black man who hates you because you are white sets a violent dog on you, a dog deliberately made violent, and there is nowhere to run, who do you fucking think has the power?
We hear a lot about integration in Europe and Britain, almost always to do with Muslims and almost always concerned with a failure to integrate rather than integration per se. But integration is a complex process, and has as much to do with what you do not do as what you do. And what you do not fucking do is disrespect the natives.
I know several Yankees – and they are quite often queers, for some reason – who treat Costa Rica as one big restaurant in which they are sitting impatiently waiting for service. I often hear that Ticos are lazy, that they are dishonest, that they are rude, that they are disrespectful. My initial thought is always the same; Fuck off back to Denver then, bumboy. Or wherever it is you minced down here from.
You see, I believe that, if you choose to go and live in someone else’s country, then, Toto, I don’t think you’re in Kansas. The rules are not your rules, and you should show some respect. I know Yanks who have been here 15 years and they can’t really speak Spanish. Often, the ones who do have kept their broad accents. My Spanish is improving every day, and so is my accent. And that is because I wish to show respect.
I don’t believe in multiculturalism. I watched it destroy my home city, and it is destroying Europe. For me, the nation-state is everything because it is two fingers in the face of the globalists, the open-borders crowd, the progressives, the ‘liberals’ – although they are the most illiberal people on the planet – the Socialists, the SJWs, the students and all the other white wankers who like to feel good by having lots of jolly brown and black people around them, people who they don’t actually want to live near and don’t like, but serve as a sort of Boy Scout proficiency badge for anti-racism work.
Here is the crux of the matter. The globalist does not believe she is in someone else’s country. She’s, like, on the planet, you know? Where we, like, all live? Because we’re all, like, equal? We are not equal, sweetpea. Please don’t move abroad. Stay where you are. There is a running joke here that says if you wash up in Costa Rica, you are either wanted or unwanted. If you are an open-borders globalist, you are not wanted here. This is someone else’s country. Show some respect. Or stay home.