Kaydi Pyette / Ryersonian Staff

Filipe Leite in class at Ryerson.

In December 2006, my friend Christian and I went to Panama. One night, we went to a strip club, or “whorehouse,” as our cab driver called it. We wanted to drop by a dance club, but they were all closed, so we settled for the strippers.

Panama City is crawling with rich businessmen from all over the world because of the famous canal that divides the city and the Americas. This creates a very large market for prostitution.

The U.S. Bureau of International Labor Affairs says Panama is a big destination country for girls, primarily from Colombia and the Dominican Republic. They are trafficked for commercial sexual exploitation.

What I saw in that club is the reality of my Latin America. From Guatemala to my home country of Brazil, I’ve seen children born into a world of abuse and pain.

A world that offers no opportunity and takes advantage of those who are left starving.

I’ve seen those children grow up only to sell themselves for one more breath. Here the gap between the rich and the poor is much larger than the canal that cuts through this continent. 

Getting out of the cab, I spotted a sign that was very appealing. It read, “Open bar for American citizens only 20 dollars all night.” The only problem was that neither Christian nor I are American.

But after travelling through Central America for three months, you begin to realize that a “problem” here is never a real problem. In this continent a man can talk his way out of anything, especially if he has the cash to back up his words.

As we entered the club, which smelled of cigars and Jack Daniel’s, Christian and I declared ourselves Americans and showed the doorman our documents. Christian showed his Swedish student card and I gave my Canadian driver’s licence.

After starring at the documents, acting as if he understood what they stated, he passed them back and asked what we wanted to drink. We both ordered beers and sat down near the stage feeling like a million bucks.  Or a simple $20.

We were too busy pretending to be Americans to realize what was around us. Spread out in this dark and sleazy club were 32 girls (yes, I counted) walking around in white lingerie.

I can honestly say that I’ve never seen so many beautiful women in one room before in my life. They all had long perfect hair, their bodies were, well, Latin, and their skin was the colour of milky coffee. Every step they took was aimed at trying to get one of the rich, fat, bald European or North American men to call them over to their tables.

The walls were blood red and on the floor was a dirty black carpet. Several tables faced a small stage. The stage was closed off by a purple curtain that looked like something Prince would use to make a jacket.

All of the businessmen were wearing suits. I guess this was their first stop after work. They ordered bottles and bottles of champagne, as if they were celebrating a successful business deal.

Every half hour, one girl would appear on stage as the curtain opened. She would strip to a cheesy ’90s song while dancing around a golden pole. “Mamacita, show us your titas,” the men yelled in horrible Spanish.

As we drank our Panama beers, two girls came and sat next to us. I spent a lot of time wondering what drove these women to a table occupied by two 20-year-olds wearing the same crappy clothes they had been wearing for the last three months. Were they not able to smell the stench of broke backpackers coming from our bodies?

They told us all the girls were from Colombia. According to the gorgeous curly-haired Colombian who couldn’t pronounce Christian’s name, the girls come to Panama to prostitute themselves and send their earnings back home.

After the girls left (having realized we didn’t have $100 US to give them in exchange for pleasure), I looked around the club and thought about what they had said.

Businessmen from the First World who were exploiting this developing country’s economy were sitting at every table.

The sight was making me sick. Old, fat and disgusting men touching, kissing and whispering into the ears of these beautiful girls who have been forced to sell their bodies to feed their families.

I couldn’t understand how a human with a brain, and more importantly, a heart, could pay to sleep with these women. They’d once been little girls who dreamed of a better life for themselves and loved ones.

My sister Paolla is the same age as most of those girls. She too is a beautiful Latin woman in her twenties.

The only difference is she had the good fortune to be born into a middle-class family.

My sister was given the opportunity to grow up happy and healthy and attend medical school.

Every girl in that club has the ability to be doing something better. But, unfortunately, they have no choice. Worse yet, they are given no choice.

As the night went on, one by one the men asked for their bill, which included the cost of drinks and the girl they chose to take back to their hotels.

After paying, these men walked out with one, sometimes two girls, happier than ever, like they had just closed a big business deal.

The women in that club were nothing but meat to their rich customers.

As they sat and drank champagne with the men, they made idle conversation and feigned real feelings. They would look back at the men, lick their lips and smile as though they cared, or even understood what these strange men were saying.

There were no human connections made within those red walls. The businessmen were in there doing the only thing they know: business. It was a simple transaction of money for sex.