A young Brazilian man yelled frantically, "how much do you cost for the day?"  in Portuguese. My eyes darted about searching for the source of the sounds. I studied my periphery. My feet began to move faster, hoping to escape the insufferable noise. I sensed the cries were directed toward me, and I struggled to take no notice of it.  He finally caught up to me and jabbed his index finger into my shoulder. The poke provoked me to freeze. I caught a glimpse of the dirty fingernail which had clawed into my skin. My eyes traced the nail to the finger that it was affixed to, down his arm, and finally up to his neck and face. I turned, narrowed my eyes, and glared deeply into his. He repeated, "how much do you cost for the day?" My eyes moved toward Nick, my boyfriend, and attempted a look of pity, and feigned bewilderment. Should I have been confused? How could I be? I was being mistaken for a prostitute, despite my conservative post-work attire, and regardless of the fluent American English which had been escaping from my mouth. I was a working girl, just not the kind that could be purchased and used for sex. I was an English teacher, not a trick-turner. Unfortunately, it was difficult and ultimately worthless to attempt an explanation to the sex-starved Brazilian man. I was more concerned with Nick, who appeared livid, as if ready to roll up invisible fisticuffs and brawl with the man. I advised him against lashing out, assuring him that the consequences of a fight in the tourist-packed neighborhood far outweighed the satisfaction he would experience from breaking the man's nose. The Military Police are more than happy to fire their guns directly into an ensuing fight, paying little mind to whom might have been the instigator. I explained to him that in Bahia, and Brazil as a whole, interracial couples, especially where the woman is black, and the man is white, are often perceived as being involved in a financial accord. An agreement, by where the woman gets wined and dined by a gringo for a week or two, and the man is rewarded with sex, and by the looks of envy received for being seen with an attractive, scantily clad, young Brazilian woman. I attempted to brush off the situation as we walked away, as an incensed Nick loudly bemoaned the perception that he was a man who would need to pay for sex.

Living in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil has had far more benefit than detriment to me. As a former student of history, it had been my dream to live here. Salvador functions as the capital of the state of Bahia, was the first capital of Brazil, and remains the third largest city in the country. Nearly 80% of the population claims African ancestry. With these demographics, it comes as no surprise that the culture of Salvador is bursting at the seams with the sights, sounds and smells of Africa. The history of Salvador is rich, but this richness is matched by the sordidness of its past. For here was the epicenter of the slave trade for hundreds of years. The entirety of Brazil's north and northeastern regions remain the poorest in the country. Resultantly, most of the black population traces its ancestry back to slavery, and like the United States, the black population is disproportionately poorer than the population as a whole. Add to this, the gross chasm between rich and poor in Brazil, the caste-like situation of the poorest Brazilians, the complicated tax system (which in comparison makes the American tax-code seem as simple as checking ones e-mail) and the expense to the worker of joining the formal market (middle-class Brazilians work nearly five months out of the year just to pay their taxes). With these concepts in mind, it becomes comprehensible as to why so many Brazilians choose to join the informal market.

            The tourism industry in Bahia has boomed over the past few years. This has been a blessing for many Brazilians, vendors in the formal workplace, but particularly, those involved in the informal. These are the folks whose livelihoods depend on the money accrued during Carnaval, and in the consistently tourist-packed areas of Pelourinho and Porto de Barra. Vendors sell beautiful jewelry, clothing, various other trinkets, meals and snacks, men offer foot massages, and women offer to braid your hair for a nominal fee. A tourist can sit in a beach chair in Porto de Barra and purchase any souvenir they want (or did not know they wanted, like an ashtray held in place by a dead crab), eat and drink, without exerting any effort, for hours. But one of the most rapidly growing industries in Salvador involves sex tourism.

            Many return-tourists know that coming to the beach offers more eye-candy than most beaches in the states or Europe. Brazilians are known for their exotic looks and beautiful bodies. It is well-known here, that gringos come to Salvador in search of beautiful black women (sometimes men) to sleep with, or to spoil. Many times Brazilians view this as a "troco" (trade), and this seems to suit some just fine. Why wouldn't they allow men to pay when they have more money than they know what to do with? Others realize that while their minds may be sharp, their bodies are the best vessels by which to assure income. Sadly, others are sold or tricked into prostitution.

One problem is that like the situation I mentioned with the man harassing me in Pelourinho, black women involved in interracial couplings are often assumed as prostitutes. The second, is that as the frequency of sex tourism increases, so too does the reputation of Salvador as a hub for this appalling practice. I cannot count the number of times I have seen repulsive, drunken gringos loudly attesting their desire for two things: drugs and women. Men come to this city, treating it as their personal playground, a place to flash their money, and puff their chests out as the veritable winners in the game of colonialism. The offended locals, the immorality of the tourists' behavior, and the negative stereotypes that they reinforce about their own people are of little consequence to these gringos. Trying to place exploitation into any sort of hierarchy seems pointless when so many are suffering, but I would place the exploitation and whoring out of girls as young as 10-12 years old, at the top of this hierarchy of exploitation. For this is sexual exploitation fused with pedophilia, so deplorable and taboo most cannot fathom how men willingly pay to engage in these acts.  A fourth problem is that law enforcement begins to take little pity on tourists when they have legitimate problems to be attended to. Tourists are assumed to be rich and ignorant, and many folks prove the stereotypes to be fact.

            A friend recounted to me, a story where a group of young American men hired a group of prostitutes for the evening. When it came time to pay, the men refused, laughing at the women. The men assumed that because they were Americans they were, of course, superior and untouchable. The women retaliated by summoning the police, and explained that the men were withholding payment for the "services" they had performed. The police hauled the men off to jail, and let the women free. The men were finally released on a highly-gouged bail, had their passports confiscated, and were deported, told never to return. The "Ugly American" designation was invented for situations like this, the ultimate manifestation of American snobbishness and thick-headed pride, behaving as though the world is their oyster, one where opportunities for hedonism are limitless, but the people and places they distress are inconsequential.

This story had me rooting for the clever prostitutes, and applauding the typically deplorable work of the Military Police.

           During the past Carnaval, I witnessed a group of Swedes approach some girls, who were clearly working a particular corner in Porto de Barra. The men used the line "quantos e nome?" which, if translated into English, sounds not unlike the words of a caveman: "how much is name?" I assumed they were requesting pricing information from the women. Apparently the price was right, because a few minutes later the group of Swedish men and Brazilian working girls passed; each man paired off with a woman, walking arm and arm to their final destination, most likely a seedy hotel room on the waterfront. I could not help but giggle. The laugh was not at the expense of the women, but instead, directed towards the idiocy of the men, particularly their indolence in not even taking the time to perfect a three-word pick up line.

           While the men purchasing the prostitutes must be held accountable for their actions, they are not the sole purveyors of this quandary. Brazilian men buy prostitutes too, and women traveling abroad find attractive, young Brazilian men to buy for the night or week as well. But there is a reason why you see far more working girls in neighborhoods swarming with tourists, than in neighborhoods occupied almost solely by locals.

          How can this be changed? I am not sure. I do know that foreigners have an obligation to be on their best behavior when abroad. We are all guests, and we are certainly not special. The people of Brazil, and of any other nation, owe us absolutely nothing for visiting. They had been getting along just fine before our respective visits, and will continue to do so long after we depart for our home countries. We do, however, owe these countries which have been gracious enough to allow our visit, the respect to say, not hire prostitutes, and to refrain from obnoxiously seeking out illegal drugs.  I do believe that these elitist behaviors are exhibited by Europeans and Americans at a much higher frequency, surely a mark of our Eurocentric inability to process the notion that no, the world does not revolve around us. Since this call to action will most likely fall on deaf ears (if it even falls on one ear I will be surprised), all I can suggest is that those of us who pride ourselves on being responsible travelers continue to be, well, responsible.

I've got to get off my high horse now, get on the bus, and go to work!