I'm standing in the back garden of a nice looking house in a suburb of the northern Brazilian city of Boa Vista. It's approaching 9am, it's hotter than it really should be at that time of day, and I've just removed my shorts, when the back door swings unexpectedly open, and a smartly-dressed lady in her twenties gives me the kind of look you'd probably give someone if you found them half-dressed in your back garden. To add insult to injury, this lady is clearly an employee of the Venezuelan Consulate, to whom I will very shortly apply for a tourist card permitting me to enter the Bolivarian Republic via its land border with Brazil. I'm not sure that a view of my boxer shorts will have helped my case.
Ao once again I find myself caught with my pants down in an inappropriate South American situation. This time, however, I fear I may have provoked a major diplomatic incident. In my defence, I can explain. Having arrived at the Consulate straight from the overnight bus from Manaus, hoping to get my visa in time for the noon coach to the border, the large and burly looking security guard at the front of the building took one look at me and shook his head. Apparently, despite the searing heat, the Consul would not admit me to the premises while wearing shorts, and I must immediately put on a pair of long trousers before attempting to enter. It was suggested to me that the garden at the rear of the property would be the best place to facilitate the quick change. Unfortunately someone else clearly tipped off the consular officials as to my presence, one of whom emerged to greet me at precisely the wrong moment. Oh dear.
Amazingly this rather major faux pas seemed to provoke nothing more than mirth on the part of the unfortunate victim. In many respects I was more disturbed by this response than any of the other possible reactions - a woman laughing at you while you are undressing is slightly off-putting to say the least. (No, I've still not got used to it...) Anyway, my semi-naked form was clearly no big deal for the Venezuelan consular authorities, unlike other details of my application. For some reason, I'm not sure exactly why, I was slightly economical with the truth regarding my occupation. Not wishing to explain to the Consul himself (I was, by now, thankfully clothed appropriately) that I am in fact unemployed and homeless, I instead rolled back the months and suggested I might work for Credit Suisse. With hindsight it's fairly obvious that this was an error. While most countries in the world would much rather admit a (supposedly) moneyed and (apparently) respectable bank employee than a feckless wandering youth, the Socialist Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela would I suspect be the exception. A series of pointed questions about what exactly I do (did) for CS followed. Realising my error, I immediately began downplaying my importance in greasing the wheels of global capitalism (not exactly a difficult proposition given the truth), much to the scepticism of the mustachioed official.
Luckily, however, at that moment a very attractive young Brazilian lady entered, apparently looking for a visa herself. Immediately the consul lost interest in me, and invited the hot young Brasileira to his office for a "personal hearing". Shortly afterwards, my visa was granted, and I left as happy as I was surprised. As I walked down the street, however, a voice called to me - it was the original lady to whom I had, ahem, exposed myself. Apparently she'd forgotten to give me some necessary paperwork and had rushed after me to rectify her error. I thanked her before looking at the green leaflet in my hand. 32 pages of warnings and condemnations of Sex Tourism. I guess she had a point - if I had exposed myself in the Venezuelan Embassy who knows what else I might be capable of?
