Before I get to the video–a first for WorldofJuan–a short explanation. Tejo is the most awesome game in the universe–assuming you’re a mildly underdeveloped man (or woman) who likes to make things go bang in a slightly dangerous environment.
For those not familiar, Tejo is a Colombian game where you throw lead discs at an angled wall made of mud. Doesn’t sound so fun, right? It gets better. On the wall are packets of gunpowder. If you hit the gunpowder, it explodes (naturally). Wait, it gets better still. Tejo is free to play as long as you buy a case of beer. FREE…as long as you buy beer (which is pretty cheap in Colombia, fyi).
Now you’re ready for the vid.
(p.s. Jason & Jimby, I so wish you two were with me for this.)
Como estan mis amigos? I bet you thought that John gave me the slip when he left Nicaragua. He did, temporarily. But I have tracked him and Consuela to Bogota. And I will find them! I don’t care how long it takes or how big the city is or how many Colombianos I must threaten for information. It is only a matter of time. John thinks he is sneaky, but he is not. El es un hombre debil. (He is a feeble man.)
During my search I have been partaking of all the goodness Bogota has to offer. And, fellow Juanites, there is much on offer. Now, I see that John has posted here with his usual fear-mongering and misinformation. Don’t believe it. Bogota—and all of Colombia—is completely seguro. You could walk down the street dressed only in pesos and nothing will happen to you. The drug problem? Bah! It’s up north and totally under control. Street crime? Por fa-vor! Pollution? Okay, maybe there are demasiado taxis here but this is a busy place and the Cachacos (Bogotanos) are a people on the move.
Here’s are some other observations:
Entertainment is everywhere in Bogota, even at the streetlights while you wait in traffic (which you will, for approximately two hours every day regardless of when you travel). However, while you wait performers will juggle balls and flaming sticks, wave fancy flags, roll glass balls on their shoulders, etc.
Everyone has two first names here. Which is genius! I have been going by Juan-John, John-Juan or Juan-Juan. (I thought about just calling myself J-squared but it felt too “Jersey Shore.”)
A guy named Mockus in running for presidente aqui. I’m not joking (or mocking!). His last name is Mockus and he wears a chin-strap beard. He is the former mayor of Bogota and a university president. Once, when he was addressing an unruly crowd of students, he mooned them. It’s not my country and I have no business weighing in, but I really want this guy to win.
They have two forms of ruthless booze here. One is called aguardiente and it’s something like the bastard child of Sambuca and grain alcohol. If you drink enough of it, you can see God. The other is called chicha and it’s made from fermenting corn. If you drink enough of it, you’ll go blind. (Even the Bogotanos are scared of this stuff.)
The Candelaria is the coolest thing about Bogota. It’s the old colonial section of the city where all the action happens. I mean everything: food, drink, women, street crime, politics. Be sure to go here after 9 p.m. and carry a lot of cash on you. (That’s a joke, dummy.)
Bricks are super cheap here. Everything is made of red bricks. The buildings, the sidewalks, the cars, the mountains, dinner plates, etc.
I have never seen bigger beans in my life. They are fist-sized, especially the red ones. Same goes for the corn. Cobs here are as big as a house and served in a soup called ajiaco. If you come, bring your appetite.
The women here are the most voluptuous heaven-sent things that have ever blessed my eyes. I met her (see right) the other day in the Candelaria. We have a date tonight. Giddyup!
Because Bogota is at 8,000 feet and hemmed in by mountains to the east, the weather is unpredictable. Sometimes it thunders for no particular reason. I do the same.
Apparently there is a game here called tejo, where you throw lead balls and packets of gunpowder. Second only to my search for John and Consuela will be playing this game. If I do, I will post video here.
That’s all for now. I must resume my search. If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of Consuela (and, si, that pendejo John), please leave a comment here and I will follow up. I promise that no harm will come to you (or John) as a result of it. But I lie.
Hi people. And by that, I mean my ten or so dedicated readers. Sorry to have kept you waiting for yet another life-altering installment of my blog. I’m happy to report that I’m alive and well in Colombia, or rather, alive, which is good enough given the state of play here. Per the news in the U.S., things are as bad as they seem in this country. Paramilitaries roam the streets like dogs without owners. Kidnappings are as common as rainy days in Bogota (there is no sun here, fyi, only clouds and desperation). Also, because of altitude—Bogota is at 8,000 feet—people are always dizzy, which makes things even more unpredictable. You never know when someone is going to pass out. It happens while they’re walking on the street, pouring you a beer at the bar or even holding you up at the ATM (which is a sweet reprieve, when it happens).
As such, I’ve found religion. I know. You’re saying, How can this be, John? You’ve always been such a staunch believer in nothing? How could you suddenly switch over to Big D? (Dios, en espanol, not the Cowboys, Adam.) I found God because it’s the safest thing to do here—all the churches in Colombia are built underground. This is on account of Pablo Escobar and the attendant mayhem he spawned (read: stray bullets, bombings, Colombian neckties, old ladies shaken down for arepa recipes in the street). For those of you who don’t do cocaine, Escobar was the biggest drug dealer in Colombia in the 80s. The rumor is that he’s dead, but you know what they say about rumors. In the meantime, I’m taking no chances.
The church that I’ve begun attending is called the Catedral del Sal and it’s chiseled out of an active salt mine. This helps keep it a secret from Escobar and his people. (And yes it’s okay that I’m talking about it here—Colombians don’t speak English. None of them. They think all Americans are coke addicts (true), thus the problems in their country. They worry if they learn to speak English that they too will become addicted to cocaine. I agree.)
So here’s the only problem with attending church in an underground salt mine (aside from the relative proximity to the Devil, who I’m learning is always lurking). The walls are literally made of salt. And I like salt. I like salt on French fries, I like salt in oatmeal, on my mangoes, in my toothpaste. I sometimes eat salt straight from the shaker. You see where I’m going? How am I supposed to pay attention to the words of Big D (Dios), the ever-present threat from Big E (Escobar) and all the while resist licking the walls in the name of Christ?
Colombia is a very complicated place. It might take a while for me to figure it out.
Next week, I’m going to play a game where you throw lead balls at packets of gunpowder. It’s free as long as you buy a case of beer while you play. I’m hoping this will be safer than walking around on the streets of Bogota in broad daylight.
And so it went. Two months of blistering heat, knock-down wind, outrageous noise and a blizzard of beers. I’ve met amazing, hard-working Nicaraguans who’d rather eat dirt than make excuses. Some have welcomed Consuela and me into their lives, taught us about their country and language (the dirty words too!) and filled us with enough stories to write a trilogy. I’ve also crossed paths with fellow gringos, most of whom are decent and kind and a few who need to go home, sit in a corner and think about their lives before heading out into the world to represent their people. My crash course on life in Nicaragua is complete, the primer anyway. And now we’re out, me and Consuela. Next stop: Bogota.
Before I go, I figured I’d handicap San Juan del Sur for any of you thinking about making your way down here. So here goes, the first “WorldofJuan Best of” travel guide. As always, the information here is highly reliable, fact-checked and vetted by a team of experts. Trust it as you would your mother.
RESTAURANTS:
Barrio Café: Sorry Pozo and Calibri, but Barrio wins for all around awesomeness. Best breakfast in town, smoothies that satisfy like an orgasm, superior coffee (surprisingly hard to find in Nicaragua) and nightly fish specials made with sauce so good it might be laced with drugs. Only downside is price. Kinda steep, which is to say that you’ll pay $15-$20 for a meal with two or three drinks.
Pozo: If they were open on any type of schedule, Pozo would be #1. NYC-style presentation with local produce and reasonable prices. Try the “El Capitan,” a drink made with rum, muddled ginger and love. The wine list is good (read: there is one and it has more than a half dozen options).
Calibri: Was the reigning king in town for ex-pats until recently. Menu is a bit too eclectic for my taste (everything from pasta to curry dishes to seafood), which hurts the quality from dish to dish methinks. Also, they tried to blatantly overcharge us on the bill once, which was bunk.
BARS:
Republika: A relative newcomer in town. It’s a chill spot off the water and away from the insanity that comes with that scene. Bartenders are cool and friendly and did I mention that it’s less insane than the beachfront bars?
Iguana: I hate putting this one as #2 because it’s the over-priced, two-story gringo magnetron bar in the center of town. But when it gets hot, the second story catches the breeze and the food is pretty good (fish tacos, fajitas de carne res, best hamburguesa in town). It’s perfectly positioned to catch the sunset too. The drag is how expensive it is—oh, and the old gringos who bring local prostitutas there for drinks before closing the deal elsewhere (note: I’ve got no problems with the working girls—they’re doing what they gotta do—but I kind of want to smack the old gringos).
The Pier: This one makes the list because the bar sprawls out onto the beach with comfy chairs and a nightly bonfire. They do live music regularly too. The problem: it’s got a crazy vibe. Shit seems to always go down there. Fights, tension between Managuans and locals, locals and gringos, and the town bum/drug contingent pretty much lives right outside the entrance.
Best Sunset spot: Pelican Eyes Resort. Yeah, it’s up on the hill outside of town and the locals never step foot in the place because it’s outrageously expensive by any standard. However, there are three infinity pools and you don’t need to stay at the hotel to hang out and enjoy them as long as you buy a pricey drink or two.
Best Moustache in Town: Met this cat the other day. I could’ve sworn he had a cameo in Boogie Nights.When I asked him, he got all defensive. I think he thought I was hitting on him. Craziest part? He looks exactly like Consuela’s brother. Weird.
Best Spanish Language School: San Juan del Sur Spanish School. It operates out of Lago Azul, a restaurant on the beach. If you come down, ask for Elba, Jenny, Amanda or Irelanda as teachers. All are awesome. The only downside is a bit too political/inside to post here (hint: the management is, um, not cool). But the prices are. If you do a home stay plus instruction, it’s a killer value. Like unheard of cheap.
Shittiest Thing about San Juan del Sur: The stories you hear. To wit, Google “Erik Voltz” and decide for yourself. It seems like there’s attempted muggings all the time, too. However—and take this advice at your own risk—challenging muggers here (as long as they don’t have guns) is actually recommended. Most don’t have the heart to follow through. That said, about a week ago we drove by a guy who’d been stabbed in the chest outside Iguana Bar. No one seemed worried about it though because it was “local on local” crime. Go figure. Also, there’s a fair amount of drugs in town thanks to the trafficantes that move cocaine northward from South America.
2nd Shittiest Thing about San Juan del Sur: Crackhead local surfers. In their defense, they fall into it as a matter of livelihood. Most work for local surfing outfits that encourage them to hang out with gringo surfers and get them to go on trips sponsored by the companies they work for. To do this, these (mostly young) guys have to party with the gringos at night—and it’s the foreigners who usually get them into drugs.
Biggest Bummer Insect: Alacrans (scorpions). See example below. Found this baby in one of our bedrooms. We got him before he got us. So far I think his friends got the word that we’re not be messed with—but they’re pretty fearless as a rule. (You would be too if you were them.)
The Climate: Unlike us, do your research. March is crazy windy and April is like living on the sun. However, towards the end of April, in anticipation of rainy season, it gets so humid you begin to sweat after taking about five steps outside of air condition (of which there is very little down here). Like none besides the room you sleep in. (Canadians and northern Europeans—this place is not for you unless you surf.)
BEACHES:
Playa Guasacate/Popoyo: This ranks among the cleanest, most pristine and empty beaches I’ve ever seen. It’s actually odd to spot more than a handful of people on the entire beach (it’s about four miles long). You could bury a body here in the light of day and probably get away with it. It is a two-hour drive north from San Juan del Sur, but it is very worth renting a house up there for a few days. Five of us got a palace right on the beach for about $100 a night.
Playa El Coco:South of SJDS, this beach is smaller than Popoyo but no less private or pristine. It’s the favorite of most of the locals. Only 45 minutes (or so) drive south of town.
Playa Maderas: Not really the greatest beach per se, but it’s the heart of the local surf scene and definitely worth checking out for that alone. Beware of the size of the surf and the sting rays in the shallow water when it’s cold. Check out Playa Majagual (a 15-minute walk north from Maderas) for more privacy.
Beach to Avoid:Playa Remanso. I call this place “Robber Beach” because of its unfailing reputation for people getting held up at gunpoint there. NECESSARY EVILS:
Unceasing Construction. The biggest construction project in town was located 50 yards from our front door. It’s being done to expand the sewage capacity in town so it was hard to hate on it because it did so much good. That said, I feel like I could operate a backhoe at this point. When we leave, I’m going to hear large machinery in my sleep for weeks.
Crazy Crab. This is the biggest disco in town and where all the locals go to cut loose on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. But I gotta say: is it really necessary to blast music from 8pm to 4am four nights a week? Four…nights…a…week? Sadly, it was also located in spitting distance from our front door. That said, I can’t hate on dancing…but I’d like to.
Sketchiest Character in Town: Juan. If that prick says one more word to Consuela, it’s go time.
Greetings fans, friends and fellow Juanites. Today es una dia muy especial because I showed the ocean who was boss. Among my many, many skills is fishing. (No sorpesa, yo se.) It is not important where or with whom I fish. It does not matter if they are “biting” or “running,” if it’s early, late or the middle of the day. I can use lures or live bait, a rod or a hand line all with equal ease and success. I cannot say why this is. My theory is that the fish sense my presence and surrender. They could attempt to elude or otherwise ignore me, but the futility of that approach is obvious even to them.
I went out with Consuela’s brother and two of his surfista buddies. (He cannot tell the difference between me and Juan and he is from Hawaii so he is friendly—read: gullible.) The surfistas had good luck too—because I was there. We caught a dozen fish, mostly Amber Jacks. On the way in, I figured we’d want something more tasty for dinner, so I snagged an Atun (tuna). I would’ve tried to make it look hard, but why? That is not Juan’s style.
Consuela has been stand-offish lately so I am giving her space. In addition to being a superior fisherman, Juan is also sensitive and understanding and magnanimous and generous and all-knowing and por supuestohumilde. I would offer a list of John’s faults for comparison, but I sense my honesty about his weakness is why Consuela is cross with me. Apparently she still has a soft spot for the soft man. In the meantime, I will be patient, as that too comes easily to me.
I will be spending time with her brother and his surfista friends. Like me, they are real men. At least I think they are. Time will tell. I know they can surf, which is a good start but I will remain skeptical until I see them fight, drink a bottle of rum on their own or slay an animal that is capable of killing them. One of them killed an alacran (scorpion) in their room the other day. This would’ve been more impressive if he did it with his bare hands without getting stung. However, as he is gringo, I will give him some leeway.
One final note: there was another guy on the boat with us (see right). He neither told us his name nor spoke a word the entire day. All he did was smile really wide and drink our beers and nod at us like he was going to kill us when he got the chance. I liked this guy. He was my kind of people.
Greetings devoted followers, fanaticos and others who love to love me. Estoy muy emocionado hoy. Consuela and I just returned from an unforgettable trip to the island of Ometepe. I do not care that sometimes she thinks I am John—that pendejo!—because I got three days alone with the siren who is Consuela. Muy deliciosa!
First, the trip. Ometepe is an island with two volcanoes (three, if you count my libido) located in the center of Lake Nicaragua. One of those volcanoes, Concepcion, has been active since 2005 and could erupt at any moment (like my libido). The other, Maderas, is inactive (like John’s imagination). The island fulfilled a prophesy of the Aztecs, who, upon discovering it promptly paddled across the lake and killed everyone already living there. This was in 1952, I think. But it doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that the place is powerful and enchanted enough to encourage genocide. So there was plenty of magic left over for me and Consuela.
We stayed at Finca Venecia, a small hotel on the water near the Charco Verde reserve. It was simple and unadorned, like my love for Consuela. Our room had two beds (que triste!), air conditioning and a deck where we spent most of the first day relaxing and drinking Tonas. The next day we went to El Ojo de Agua and I watched Consuela float in the mineral-enriched water fed by underground springs from the Concepcion volcano. To say that it was the finest day of my formerly miserable life would be an understatement.
On day three, we climbed el Volcan Maderas. It was four hours on the way up, during which I had the privilege of hiking behind Consuela and admiring her beautiful and perfectly formed personality. Did I care that I was sweating more than a fat man locked in a sauna? No. Did it matter that I had to borrow a pair of oversized sneakers from our guide that gave me blisters that I will have for weeks to come? No. Do I think I had a minor heart attack on the way up? Maybe a little.
That night, despite the excruciating pain I was in, we celebrated John and Lorri’s four-year anniversario (four weeks for Consuela and me!). Despite the purpose of the celebration, it was otherworldly. For I could see in Consuela’s eyes that the love she has for John will be only half of what she will someday have for me. I am as sure of this as I am that John is a weakling gringo who is not nearly man enough for Consuela. Soon, it is inevitable that she will see this too.
Saturday was the saddest day of the trip. We came back to San Juan del Sur so John and Consuela could celebrate Consuela’s compleano (birthday). I was not invited, but that’s okay.
Feeling kind of sacrilicious today on the eve of Semana Santa, the big week-long religio-party mash-up that takes over Latin America starting tomorrow and culminates next Saturday. Sorry it’s been a while since my last post. This week, I’ve been going out and getting consistently more drunk every night in order to get my liver in shape for next week. I’m happy to report that I’m ready. Last night, for example, I did three consecutive Cana-bombs (a beer w/ a submerged shot of Flor de Cana rum, Nicaragua’s nectar of choice). It went well until the third one, when I forgot who I was, what country I was in and the purpose of my legs. I recovered a bit later, though my shirt and middle name disappeared during the black out. (I suspect Juan.)
Everyone says Semana Santa is a huge deal—and not just in San Juan del Sur. I’ll admit that I was skeptical at first. I’ve been to my share of parties, big and small. I know drinking (my old man was born and raised in upstate New York for Christ’s sake). However, when I saw a construction crew installing barriers to prevent cars from driving on the beach—with cement—I reconsidered. There also seems to be a massive influx of people selling: cigarettes, jewelry, fried chicken, hot dogs, whistles, t-shirts, fried plantains, ceramics, bags of limes and oranges, hammocks, sunglasses, beer, rum, cashews, Chiclets and themselves.
This brings me to the massive beachfront dancehall superstructure pictured at the top of this post. I’m rarely at a loss for words (and I won’t be for this), but my knees got weak when I first laid eyes on this, this big beauteous zaftig party girl. Forget for a moment that she’s built on sand and within the high-tide line (yup, that means the ocean will literally flow under her sandy moorings). My favorite part is the 50 or so beer fridges lined up next to it. So, stay with me, when they put 1,000 or so people on this thing (myself included) plus a sound system and lights and all the attendant electricity that it requires and the tide comes up and this thing buckles, we’re all either going to: 1) get electrocuted to death when this giant toaster falls into the bathtub; 2) get crushed in the stamped to escape the faltering structure or; 3) get trapped underneath it and drown at high tide.
And THAT, my friends, is a party.
Between this and the scorpions, I don’t know why none of my friends will come to visit.
One other housekeeping matter. I will be partying on my own in San Juan del Sur for Semana Santa. Consuela did not think it would be fun to spend our four-year anniversary amidst the throngs. I disagreed. We had a spat. She’s going to Ometepe Island with Juan.
Hola, Juan here. With Easter coming (and Semana Santa, the week-long celebration of God across Latin America), I want to make clear that this is a serious post. If John, el gringo idiota, were writing this he’d made a big joke of the whole thing (like last week). But not Jaun, porque yo tengo Dios en mi corazon (because I have God in my heart). And I want to thank Jesus y su Padre in advance of Semana Santa for many things. However, because I know that They are busy men, I made a list so They don’t have to read a long blog post.
Top ten things I am thankful for:
Tona, the best cerveza in the whole world. Please Dios, keep it cheap for the rest of my life.
Semana Santa . An amiga of mine said it was just an excuse for people to get drunk and drown, but You and me know it’s much more. There’s really great food and musica too. Oh, and church on Easter. (This year, I’m definitely going!)
Cruise ships. Because those gringos will buy anything when they come ashore!
Consuela. John’s girlfriend is like an ice-cold Tona on a hot day. Refreshing! With your help Jesus, she will be mine someday.
MTV’s Jersey Shore.Norteamericana chicas are muy loca.Pero Dios? Can you make sure they don’t get a third season? I think it would be too much.
La Policia. They are like an alarm clock in the morning when I fall asleep on the beach after too many Tonas.
Women. It hurts when they slap you, but you can stare at their culos when they walk away.
John’s razor. I borrowed it over the weekend and made un bigote fabuloso (an awesome moustache).
San Juan del Sur. There are many gringos here now, but I know You will start killing them if they overrun the place.
John. He is so pale and funny, sometimes it’s hard to continue hating him. Dios, please give me the strength to despise him always.
Juan is John. John is Juan, sometimes. It really depends on whether he's speaking Spanish, feeling frisky or otherwise under the influence of Latin culture. Oh, John is also a NYC dropout on the lam from 12-hour work days and overpriced six-packs. John/Juan is doing all this for love. He is following his novia (that means girlfriend in Spanish). She is not aware that she is his novia...or that he is following her.
Up Next:
The Ecstatic, by Victor LaValle
Don Quixote, by Cervantes
The Power and the Glory, by Graham Greene
The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol
The Cloud Forest, by Peter Matthiessen
Fathers and Sons, by Ivan Turgenev
Chronicle of a Death Foretold, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
