Brazil Needs Mexicans

Brazil has a lot of problems and I think I've pinpointed maybe the biggest: no Mexicans.

Brazil is maybe the most diverse country in the world. Everyone looks Brazilian. Yes, even you. This place is filled with Germans, Italians and lots of Japanese. It seems you can find someone here from just about anywhere. Anywhere but Mexico.

Dani says she's never known a Mexican-born Brazilian. I've only met one Mexican tourist in my two months here. He was standing near me on the Metro, speaking in English. I now make a beeline to anyone I overhear speaking the King's. We struck up a conversation. I asked if he knew of any good Mexican restaurants in town. His eyes widened as he shook his head. He said he had been here less than a week and was already going into withdrawal.

I've mentioned this before, but there's basically no Mexican food here in Brazil. I've taken this for granted my whole life and now I am staggering in the streets for a decent burrito.

Mexican food is the best in the world. It's also the simplest and just about the only food I'm interested in cooking. Because of that, many of Dani's family and friends now look at me as a kind of expert on the matter, which I find funny. I've made guacamole for them. Dani and I have hosted a taco night.

At a recent gathering, I chopped up a few items and made a quick, familiar dish. I put it on the table and watched an adult woman take a bite and dissolve into paradise. She looked up at me and asked enthusiastically, "What is this?"

It was salsa. Just some tomatoes, onions and cilantro. Little salt, little pepper. Chips. Completely new concept apparently.

All the ingredients for delicious Mexican are here. Brazilians are just oblivious to the possibilities. I picked up a bushel of cilantro at the grocery store yesterday. Two inquisitive older women motioned me over to ask what it was. Come on, lady, you're 60.

I was hanging out with my American friend Nick the other day. He pointed out a Mexican restaurant as we passed by. It was the first one I had actually laid eyes on since arriving. I told him there was no doubt in my mind I would be there within 48 hours.

Saturday night rolled around and there I was. The results were as stimulating as a 0-0 soccer match. No chips and salsa at the beginning. A decent burrito, sure, but an enchilada filled with a cheese paste that made me sad to look at, let alone eat. Come on, not the enchilada, guys. That's the best one.

Of course there's more to this longing than just food. For  months I've contemplated writing about how moving here has altered my opinion on the dense issue of immigration. I've come to Brazil legally and worked damn hard to do so. Most other gringos around here come on a tourist visa and illegally overstay their limit. The parallels to the immigration debate back home are pretty clear.

But I abandoned writing about it because my world is nothing like the world of the average person trying to make a new life in America. The biggest difference is that no matter how this Brazilian journey goes, I've got a lotto ticket in my back pocket called a US birth certificate. It lowers the risk factor of living overseas by about 95%. I can always go home. Those souls trying to get a piece of the American pie, on the other hand, they're often betting all they've got.

In the year of planning leading up to this move, I had to prepare myself for almost any scenario. If I was unable to find work, I would need to teach English. That's something I had never done before, so I built myself a little resume. I took an online class and became a certified English as a Second Language teacher. I also volunteered one night a week for three months teaching English to members of my community.

Class was held at a middle school on Wednesday nights. The group was all adults from Central America, including Mexico, El Salvador and Guatemala. They worked blue collar jobs during the day at bakeries and construction sights. It was honestly my first experience interacting on a personal level with anyone from the non-English-speaking working class.

I came away from that with a new respect for them. They were some of the hardest working people I've ever met. They busted their ass during the day and gave up their nights to better assimilate themselves into our society. They did it to get ahead in the world and to have a little something to Western Union back to their school-aged children, some of whom they hadn't seen in two years. It's overwhelming to think about sometimes. I remember them often when I'm feeling pouty about reviewing my Portuguese flashcards.

I may not face the same plight as the average family emigrating from Mexico, but I have certainly gotten a taste of it down here. No matter your opinion on how to solve America's border problems, I encourage you to always show a little respect for our recently-arrived friends from the south. Legally or not, English-speaking or not, if they've made it to the Land of the Free, they've got a fight and drive inside of them that we could all stand a little rubbing off of. It makes America a better place. And I miss having that around me here.

And of course the food. Mexicans, if you're reading this, please come. There's a fortune to be made down here. They have no idea what a tortilla is. I repeat, they have no idea what a tortilla is.