In an obscure corner of the Port of Miami, a floodlight haze surrounds a huge tiki hut, where two men from a faraway land sit at a picnic table and contemplate their so-called lives. Directly before them tennis players swat balls on an illuminated court and nearby, dance music blasts from a set of speakers at a party on the wooden deck of the Leiv Eiriksson Center for seamen. These South Asian seafarers -- one short, one tall, and both with thick black mustaches -- are accustomed to being on the margins of good times. They live in a unique form of servitude that they have escaped for the night. Although they speak freely, they want to remain anonymous. "Give us French names," says the short one, with a laugh. Call him Jacques; his cohort shall be... More >>>