This piece was contributed by Christopher K, who was the big Bogota blogger before he was locked up in a Brazilian penitentiary last year. We have a correspondence and he sent this story in response to my posts about getting mugged in La Candelaria and Why I Hate Downtown Bogota. In my opinion, this piece exaggerates the situation in La Candelaria. But I only lived there one month as opposed to Christopher’s 2 1/2 years. Also note that he moved to Bogota in 2004, when the crime situation was very different than it is today. Here’s his piece:

I also stayed on the 3rd floor of Aragon and walked to the Platypus to use the internet. I made the Plat-to-Aragon walk at all hours: day, night, 3am, whenever, and always with my laptop. Of course, locals say this is crazy stupid, but there’s a knack to it.

The first skill you need is to read body language on the street, and I mean from two blocks away. I can tell an armed thief from a harmless bum in La Candelaria from at least one block away. What’s he doing, where’s he looking, how’s he carry himself?

A bum shuffles. He looks aimless. He might hang around a certain spot, but he doesn’t own it. He’s always looking around, but not in a predatory fashion, and often looks at the ground, keeping an eye out for coins or food or whatever.

A thief moves like a shark on land. Either it’s an unusually confident casualness, or a direct hunting posture, or if they’re fucked up, spastic aggression. The first is most common. Sometimes they work in pairs, but the second man usually walks some distance behind – moving at exactly the same speed and direction. They look like two idiots trying to look like they’re not together.

Here’s where you develop the hyper-vigilant state: you should be constantly scanning 180 degrees in front and on the sides. At night, you should know exactly who’s on the streets around you. You don’t want to be looking behind you – that shows fear – so you listen carefully for footsteps or anything unusual from the rear. During the day, you look for breaks in the pattern of how people move, and use glass windows to see who’s behind you.

Obviously, at night you walk in the middle of the street.

The second skill is to develop your own body language. I’m 5’10” and maybe 130lbs if I drink a lot of water – dangerously underweight. I’m a scrawny geek, and I’m not a scrapper. But I’ve seen thieves cross the street to avoid me. Once, in front of Aragon, an older man set down his shopping bag and crossed himself as I approached. Bums would usually avoid me, and in 2.5 years of living in La Candelaria, I was hardly ever offered drugs.

I would go into shark-mode myself. I put myself into the frame of mind that every time I walked out the door, I was going into combat. And I was the baddest motherfucker of all. I walked like I had a purpose, and that purpose was to tear out your jugular with my teeth. Chest puffed, arms out, chin pointed slightly down, and stay the fuck back, Jack. Normally, this would be comical on a guy like me. But in Bogota, it worked.

Sometimes a thief would get close enough to where he was thinking about having a go. I’d glare at him and subtly shake my head ‘no’. You could not be retarded enough to make me snap your spine. And that’s all it took. Like everything in Colombia, appearance is everything. Substance is nothing.

There were times on Carrera 3 between Calle 15 and 16, the Platypus-to-Aragon route, when there were muggings every day at any time, day or night. I can’t count how many thieves I put off like this. Once at the same intersection you got mugged at, there was a gang of five waiting to rob people. The scowl and head-shake put them off. Incredible.

The only time I got mugged was at that same intersection. It was 3am and three teenagers came from behind on Calle 15. I heard them, turned to look, and dismissed them as just kids. I could’ve easily run but thought, “Nah, they’re no threat to me.” Fucking stupid. I had just passed two bums squaring off with knives over a pile of garbage and chuckled that I was so accustomed to this, I didn’t even give them a second glance. My mistake was believing my own hype. You need to know when to stop believing and fuckin’ run. Those teenagers were the ones to finally get my ancient, busted laptop.

But generally, this approach is how you keep Bogota thieves away.

The problem is this wears you down. Frequent trips out of the city – Villa de Leyva was always my favorite – are extremely important. And going back to the US or somewhere civilized is a good way to recharge and remind yourself why you live in Colombia.

OK, the shark walk, scowl, and head-shake aren’t as effective for bums. What works is the ‘Fuck-Off’ wave. When they approach, give a passing glance and an aristocratic ‘shoo’ motion with your hand. It may feel like a dick move, but don’t be shy.

If that doesn’t work, talk to them. Pretend you’re a parent talking to a bratty child. This may feel condescending, but it’s better than beating them. Tone is everything. Don’t swear, call names, or show anger. You’re the parent, you’re in charge. They need to shape up and stop bothering you. Try it and see.

I think bums and thieves are so effective and aggressive with foreigners because we’re either easily spooked or too nice. Don’t be shy about being a dick. It’s the only way to get by in La Candelaria.

This piece was contributed by Christopher K, who was the big Bogota blogger before getting locked up in a Brazilian penitentiary last year. Here’s his story:

Something’s not right in front of the tienda bar. It’s not too late at night and Sam’s just purchased an arepa con chorizo. We’re talking with two friends on the sidewalk when a mendigo asks for money – perfectly normal in La Candelaria, but there’s something off about this particular bum. His eyes are too focused, too searching. It’s so subtle I wonder if I’m the only one who notices. All four of us fuck him off and he wanders away. We’re involved in an animated discussion , but I make a note to keep an eye on this guy. He’s distinctively short.

A few minutes later a one-armed mendigo rudely breaks into our chat to beg. We fuck him off as well. A minute later I notice him standing with the short guy. They’re looking at us while talking – planning something maybe.

I look away and a minute later, the one-armed guy comes back begging. I look around for Shorty, but he’s gone. I step forward and raise my hand in the middle of our group to stop the conversation. “Hey, something’s up” … and then I spot Shorty. He’s crept along the wall next to Sam. In that instant, he barely taps Sam on the waist, then turns and runs. Sam responds without hesitation, “Motherfucker!” He sprints after Shorty. We all follow.

Shorty’s got a 10-yard lead on Sam. Sam’s yelling after him, “‘¡Hijueputa, no voy a dejar!” Without breaking stride, with a shot that’d make an NFL quarterback’s father weep with pride, Sam chucks his arepa at Shorty and the half-eaten sandwich explodes across the back of his head. “I’m not gonna stop!” Sam reminds him.

Shorty hesitates at a corner and Sam tackles him, hitting him right in the ribs. “Gimme back my cell phone!” Sam demands in Spanish. Shorty cries he hasn’t got it, which turns out to be true. All Shorty managed to get out of Sam’s pocket was a few small bills, maybe 6000 pesos. Sam doesn’t realize this yet and and beats on Shorty with his fists.

A fat Colombian guy wanders buy and asks going on. ‘Caught a thief,’ someone explains, and the fat guy says (all in Spanish), ‘Oh yea? Step aside.’ He kicks Shorty in the head a few times, then goes on his way.

Improbably, a lone uniformed police officer turns up. Sam doesn’t stop his pummeling. Once the cop’s been told what happened, he tells Sam in Spanish, “OK, that’s enough.” He pulls out his baton and taps his palm saying, “I’ll take over from here.”

Sam got his money back and is relieved to find his cell phone safely tucked in another pocket. The cop cuffs Shorty and drags him up to his feet, leading him away. Every few steps the cop cracks him across the head or shoulders with his baton. Safe bet: the cop in only warming up.

Revolution is a long shot. In Hong Kong I was studying for a Master’s degree in economics. None of my classmates seemed to have strong political views. Most took up economics because their parents told them to, or because they thought it would lead to a well paying job, or just for the prestige conferred by higher education – any subject would do.

I once attended a seminar on China’s one-child policy, where the guest speaker was a Hong Kong-born Ivy League professor. He explained its effects and stated that he thought the policy should be repealed. Chinese students rarely speak up in class, and never to contradict someone so distinguished. But surprisingly, a few classmates vehemently defended the one-child policy – because the buses and trains are so crowded.

Equally ridiculous was a question asked by a different professor who attended the seminar: “Could there possibly be multiple equilibrium points in regard to population?” Multiple equilibrium points? At any rate, Westerners may find the one-child policy abhorrent but many Chinese do not.

I’ve seen little of the political fanaticism necessary for government upheaval. The over-a-beer debates commonplace in the West don’t exist here, at least not in my presence. Yes, everyone in China knows about the Tiananmen Square incident and may even refer to it as a “massacre”. But I’ve also heard separatists in Tibet and Xinjiang described as “troublemakers”. The discussion usually stops there.

Once a group of Hong Kong students were complaining about how they couldn’t change their government by way of vote. (There is universal suffrage in Hong Kong, but only 1/3 of the legislature is elected; the rest are appointed by Beijing.) I asked if they thought things were unfair, or if they thought the government was not active enough, or what exactly they wanted changed. After all, it doesn’t get much better than Hong Kong. “We just want to vote like other countries.”

In Beijing I once thought revolution possible. Just next to my first apartment was a small shop selling instant noodles and beer. I rarely saw any customers other than myself. This place was just outside of a network of hutongs – alleyways with one-story, traditional-looking buildings generally occupied by poor people – within the Second Ring Road. In the hutongs some people burn charcoal for heat and you can find cages with live chickens. The most traffic my local instant noodle/beer store would see was a group of middle-aged men who played a version of checkers outside in the evenings.

Once as I was opening the fridge I turned my head to see a string of chain-linked bullets lying on the ground next to the shopkeeper. Holy shit. “Ni shi jun dui ma?” I asked, which is undoubtedly incorrect Chinese for “Are you in the army?” He made a nervous laugh and pushed the bullets behind the counter with his foot. He then responded with something I didn’t understand, not just because my Chinese sucks, but because he spoke in thick Beijinghua. I put five kuai on the counter for the beer and didn’t inquire further.

Although my experience with weapons is limited to what I used in the army, chain-linked rounds are indicative of automatic rifles – the kind you have to periodically lay off the trigger to keep the barrel from melting. And those bullets were big, not quite 50-cal but larger than the 5.56 mm used by the M-16 – very illegal. As violent crime is rare in China, I don’t think the shopkeeper would need to deter robbers with something that could be mounted on a tripod. Running drugs maybe? This also seems unlikely as I rarely see evidence of drug use, and he was in his forties and poor. This was the most compelling thing to make me think revolution could happen.

Despite the display of some desire to vote and the strapped shopkeeper, a revolution is less likely than Western media leads you to believe. A Chinese friend once told me that Chinese culture is centered more on the family than on any transcendent ideology or absolute truth, personified by the traditional importance of religion in Western cultures. Just as the Inuit language has more words for seal and snow due to its importance in their culture, the Chinese have something like 35 words for family members which do not readily translate into English – paternal grandfather, maternal grandfather, older female cousin on the mother’s side, father’s older brother, on and on. What this means is that most Chinese people probably don’t care about “freedom” or political issues so much as a train ticket home for Chinese New Year. True, there have been two revolutions here in the last century. But from what I’m seeing, I can’t imagine a third.

An old man draped in filthy rags blinked in the unrelenting Mexican sun. His creased face was the color of a brown paper bag and he sported a dingy yellow cowboy hat. Out of tired rheumy eyes, he watched three white Ford trucks – Tijuana paddy wagons – hurtling down a broad street kicking up dust. Several police clung to the sides as they raced by – dark eyes filled with fear and hatred, faces covered in black masks. One stared back at the old man, fingering his shiny black AK-47. The old man stood glaring in apathy.

Seconds later and blocks away, gunfire and a rumbling explosion erupted. Five more trucks careened past, followed by monstrous paramilitary vehicles while the street teemed with pedestrians casually going about their affairs.

I stood in the coolness of an awning sucking on a cigarette. Three squad cars roared past the dusty greenery of Park Teniente Guerrero, their squealing sirens scaring a mother clutching her baby in her breast. Five kids raced behind, crossing the street of kamikaze taxis and rickety buses belching black smoke. Several shifty and dubious malandros turned to hide their faces from the barreling convoy. The police cars always travel in threes now, ever since the local cartel executed 14 people in the last month, many police officers included. Faces cold and featureless, masks of fear and suspicion …

I remember two nights ago in my room hearing the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire in the distance. Last night the symphony repeated itself down on the corner. Seven bodies lay akimbo in the darkened streets, blood oozing onto black concrete and vecinos didn’t care. Thirty minutes later a fat cop chewed a cigar stump, surveying the scene …

In the rural hills of Independencia where you can score speed, heroin, coke, crack – anything your junky heart desires – fires run rampant in the shanty adobes across from the school where a five year old boy timidly scuttled home, clutching his textbook. He passes roving gangs of cholos, their faces vicious with hate as they prowl and brandish pistols to deter the inquiring placas …

Down on Avenida Revolucion, the arrogant tourist still lurks, still drinks, still dances, still buys that ‘One-tequila, Two-tequila, Three-tequila … Floor!’ t-shirt that they must have for the folks back home, unaware of the slaughter occurring a few blocks from their reverie. This is Tijuana – my Tijuana – a place I call home …

Despite the utter squareness of the other students in our study abroad program, KT and I had some adventures in Deutschland. While they were practicing verb conjugations in our slumlord-governed apartments, we were buying drugs from the Turks in the park and smuggling mushrooms from the Netherlands.

After 5 weeks of studying German and drinking brown liquor, it was time to go. An opportunity to hit the road and see what excitement the rest of Europe had to offer. After hitting up our favorite happy-hour, we wheeled our collective 120 lbs. of luggage to the train station to take the 10:26 from Berlin to Munich.

On the platform, it was 10:20. Then 10:25. And 10:30. At 10:45, we realized something was up. Germans are NEVER late. This train was not coming. Using our rudimentary language skills at the information desk, we learned the train had been rerouted to the other side of town and would arrive at 12:13. We arrived at the new station around 11:30 and presented our tickets at the desk.

“Nein! Kein Zug am Abend!,” the attendant screamed at us, like most Germans do. The corners of the letters he spat were physically striking us. He explained the next train would be leaving at 5:26 AM. Frustration set in, for we had six hours to kill. We’d just walked a few miles dragging enormous suitcases, and were tired and dejected. KT had an idea. “Brain,” he said, “Let’s go to the bar.”

We rented a locker and stuffed our things inside. We ducked into the first bar we could find, happy to see the “Open till 4 AM” sign outside. The bartender empathized with our cause, giving us the first round for free. “We vills stay opened past four ifs you guyez vant to stay here and the drinking!”

Drink we did. Euros started to look more like Monopoly money with each Pilsner. We moved from German beer to fine scotches, expensive shots, and cocktails. We bought shots for the bartender, a few cute girls, and later for ugly girls. We were having a great time.

Eventually it was time to be on our way. Just as we were ready to pay, the bartender went into the back room. KT asked, “Hey Brain, you just want to bail?” We sprinted out the door and towards the station. The drizzle had grown into a maelstrom, adding to the drunken drama. When I was convinced we had escaped, I ripped open my soaking collared shirt like a young German Hulkster and spun it in the air above my head. KT let out his rebel yell.

As we high-fived, my excitement turned to fright. “KT,” I said, “The key was in my shirt pocket.” My shirt, or pieces of shirt, lay in the puddles with no key in sight. We dropped to all fours and searched underneath the streetlights desperate not to miss another train because of our unobtainable luggage. After a few minutes, KT found the key. Our excitement was more subdued at this point. I picked up my tattered shirt and we walked toward the station.

A voice screamed in broken English, “Hey guyez! What is your ideas? You have yet pay!” We saw the bartender. He stood, cell phone in hand, ready to call the Polizei.

KT cooly responded, “It’s cool man. My buddy lost the key. He freaked out, I came here to get him. How much do we owe you?”

“It’s 195 Euros!”

We paid, happy the Polizei were not getting involved. You saw what the Germans did to the Jews…

We walked on towards the station, broke with a drop of guilt. We had a nine-hour train ride on zero hours sleep with the inevitable hell of a hangover.

I originally planned to stay only two days in Ireland, but what can I say? I fell in love with the place and spent two weeks seeing Dublin, Howth, Galway, Doolin, and Ennis. My last night I got wasted on Irish beer and whiskey with two American travelers in Ennis.

After eating, we met up with two local girls. They were drinking Bulmers by a newly built bridge. Apparently, the building of the bridge was a big deal. I guess when the town is that small, things like bridges excite the locals. We shot the shit for an hour or so until the girls led the way to get our drink on.

After a round at a pub, we went to a livelier place with a dance club in back. I disappeared from the group for a while to scope out the talent. When I got back to our table outside, Maz had some drunken Irishman in his face. He was your classic example of a ginger (ginger: Irish slang for red hair, freckles, fair skin) who looked like he could put up a good fight. Feeling tough from the beer, I walked into the heated conversation to see what was up. Apparently, the guy’s problem was that Maz had ordered a “black and tan”.

In his Irish accent the guy said, “you Yanks are lucky, because if you were a Brit and had ordered that drink we would fucking kill you”. A Black and Tan is a beer of 1/2 Guinness and 1/2 Bass or Harp’s. Because it’s thick, the Guinness sits on top. Supposedly a harmless drink unless you’re around a bunch of Irishmen that know their history.

The last thing I expected was to get a history lesson. I couldn’t follow the conversation well because I kept looking over my back at all the micks staring at us. What I did get was that the “Black and Tans” were the English who came to Ireland in the 1920s to enforce English law. The Irish that didn’t adhere suffered the consequences. Apparently, this Ginger’s grandfather or great grandfather had lived through this and the story is still passed down. The Black and Tans raped the women and burned the towns of those who opposed English rule. They wore black and tan uniforms, giving them their nickname, “Black and Tan”.

I felt for the Irish. I felt like I had stepped back in time while listening to this mick getting emotional. The guy was nearly in tears when he finished his story. Maz apologized. I needed a beer.

Maz, Isaac, the girls and I made our way to the dance club in back. The girls started dancing and wanted us to join. Isaac started doing every move in the book: the lawn mover, the pizza toss, the dice toss, and more. Everyone was laughing. Maz was scheming on which girl he was going to take home. Too bad for him, his plan was crumbling before him because he kept disappearing with one or the other and they caught on to his game.

One of them, Laura, told me she smoked weed. Excited as hell, I begged her to smoke with me at the end of the night. We all straggled out and Maz was walking with Laura. Just as Maz got her into a cab but before they could speed off, Laura called out to me, asking if I wanted to smoke a spliff. I got in. The cab dropped us off in front of Laura’s apartment. Maz thanked me for coming. He may have been sarcastic in saying, “Thanks bro, for coming. I didn’t want to walk home by myself”.

Laura’s apartment was a disaster. Clothes were everywhere and dishes scattered in the sink, but she pulled out a bag of ganja and I was happy. We all sat on her bed as she rolled a spliff. She passed to me and I took a big hit. After exhaling I noticed it tasted like tobacco. I remembered a spliff is a mix of weed and tobacco. She said everyone smokes like that over here and anyone who doesn’t is crazy because the weed by itself would really fuck you up.

I thought that was the point?

She rolled another one after we finished the first. While we were smoking the second spliff, Maz looked at me like, “let’s try and tag-team this broad”. Maz and I started kissing her neck while she was smoking. She laughed. I was kissing her neck and rubbing her tits. We made it down to her pants when she stopped us and said that she wasn’t with the gang bang. We laughed and said “we were just having fun,” and went back to what we were doing. I started making out with her while Maz fondled her tits. This only worked for so long when she stopped us again. She tried to explain what she wanted. She said to Maz, “I like you … but not that way. Just as a friend,” and then looked at me and said, “I like you and think you’re cute and …”

It was awkward as Maz stood up and said goodbye. I could read his face: “you fucking cocksucker you just cock blocked me”. I felt bad but knew that’d probably be the last time we’d see each other anyway. I saw Maz creep behind the back and peep in the window to her room. I laughed but didn’t say anything. Laura turned the lights off.

We made out for some 10 min. I nibbled on her ear and rubbed her tits while she moaned. I started moving my way down her neck and to her breasts. As I was kissing and sucking on her nipples I unbuttoned her jeans. As I pulled her jeans off, her thong went too. I started kissing around her thighs.

Luckily she had a condom because my dumb ass didn’t. She asked me to take it slow because she hadn’t been laid in a while. I figured I would start off in missionary. Once I was inside, she wouldn’t spread her legs. I said, “Baby is there something wrong? This is going to work if you don’t relax”. She said she was nervous. So I went back to more kissing.

I got frustrated and told her to turn around. When all else fails, go doggy. So she simply turned over, instead of arching her back with her face down and ass up. It was just the opposite. I started to laugh. This was fucking horrible. I kept telling her to arch her back with her ass up in the air and her face down, but she kept going the opposite way. I flipped her back over and went to missionary. This time she was a little more relaxed but not much. By that point I didn’t care about helping her. I just got mine. And after that, I rolled over and passed the fuck out. I don’t know who was with her before but I felt sorry for him.

The next morning she rolled over and asked me to fuck her again. I told her I was tired or some bullshit excuse because I wasn’t about to go through that shit again. I said my goodbyes and told her I’d give a ring if I came back in town before I left Europe.

While walking back to the hostel, I laughed as I thought about drinking with the locals, almost getting my ass kicked by the locals, and then fucking one of the locals. Good night!

Here’s the story:

It’s a bright Saturday afternoon in December (’07). We were walking along a side street on the way back to our hotel — only a few blocks off the Ave. Julio 9 (main drag). Not many people around.

My wife walks a few steps ahead because of narrow sidewalks. Suddenly, we feel moisture of some kind rained from above. Just as suddenly, two people — a man and woman in their early 30s — appear. They’re conciliatory and explain we’ve been bombed by pigeons. From their pockets they conveniently pull handfuls of napkins and begin to wipe the stuff off.

It takes less than ten seconds for us to realize this is fishy. My wife spots the guy, who’s wiping my shoulders, reach into my back pocket with his other hand (I never felt it). She backs up and tells them we’re fine and to leave us alone. They’re surprised she speaks Spanish as well as they do, and the sharp tone of her voice stops their scam.

We make haste to walk away and they go the other way. Big nuisance, but it wasn’t threatening. And they got nothing, because I carried my money and passport in my FRONT pocket.

Back at the hotel, the staff tells us, yeah, that’s an old scam on the streets of B.A., intended to create a diversion, and that it was probably Peruvians (apparently they consider those pesky Peruvians their main source of minor crimes). And as two older gringos, we were prime targets.

Turned out the pigeon poop was actually cheap cooking oil mixed with dirt. According to hotel folks, the Peruvians walk behind their marks with plastic ketchup dispensers they use to squirt the “poop” into the air to fall on their victims — then come to their “rescue.”

Applicable Life Lesson: keep any valuables in a place where pickpockets can’t get at them.

Word.

Special undies

Before the trip, I went to REI for camping equipment. I bought a fleece, backpack, and a very special item: a $25 pair of special underwear you can wear for 4-5 days that doesn’t absorb odor/moisture. Happiness Level: A+

Cocoa Tea

We arrive in Peru. Upon arrival I notice the slight elevation sickness that everyone talks about so I drink the forbidden Cocoa Tea (made from pre-Cocaine leaves), which is supposed to dull the pain. Instead of the euphoric, drug-leaf-ridden tizzy I was hoping it would put me in, it made my stomach do jumping jacks while my upper intestine fell asleep with the door shut. Happiness Level: A-

Soup and nasty meat

We ate at various Peruvian diners. After eating 5 local meals I came to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter what you order in Peru. You’re guaranteed two things: Soup and nasty meat. Let’s see, I’ll order the Lomo Saltado: steak with french fries. Yum-o right? Yum-oh-fuck-no was more like it. A big bowl of bacteria-friendly, lukewarm chicken soup with various hard bits at the bottom to break your molars. Then a freeze-dried piece of steak, which was somewhere in between the process of making steak into jerky (you can’t enjoy it at either end). Not to mention the side of carrots and peas that made me want to run to the nearest Kaiser Permanente cafeteria on a Tuesday. Happiness Level: B+

The Trail

We discover an amazing 4-day tour called the Inca Jungle trail. This included a day of hiking, a few days of mountain biking, sleeping in a covered hostel each night and an air-conditioned bus ride to the top of Macchu Picchu. We do not take this trail. Instead we take the Salcantay trail, which is the hardest possible trail to take to Macchu Picchu: 5 days of hiking by foot, sleeping in thin tents in 20 degree weather, and a 4am wakeup call to scale Macchu Picchu to the top. But hey, we’re all soft San Diegans who complain when it’s 65 at night, this should be easy. The first day is amazing. Fresh air, a cool breeze with the sun beaming down. I’m so excited for the trek that I don’t even mind the soup and nasty meat the tour chef slops out. We arrive at the campsite, taking photos of the Andes in the distance. This is what life is all about, sharing great experiences with friends in remote places. Then it starts to hail. Happiness Level: B

The Flood

The tour group is excited to have made it to the first destination, laughing and monkeying around the campsite. The night sneaks up on us as the porters set up our tents. We all barrel into a nearby shack as the cook serves us up our final meal of the night. Soup and nasty meat per usual. Then it starts to pour rain. The three of us run to our tent and zip up the flap as soon as we can get our muddy boots inside. We set up our backpacks in an attempt to sleep on the rocky ground. Soon the storm turns into a bloody monsoon and water floods down the mountain under our tents. (Yes, the tents were setup at the bottom of a hill). The water soon turns to ice and freezes at the bottom of our tents. Sorta like sleeping on a waterbed in a freezer. Then water seeps into the tent, creating what I like to call a Cluster-Freeze. Happiness Level: F

The Huddle

We unzip the tent and run to the shack where we had eaten dinner. We scour for blankets or a place to sleep. At this point we realized the doorless shack was colder than the tent. We grab 3 of the small stools that we had used for dinner and rush them back to the tent. Into our shivering madness we did “the Huddle”. We position the chairs into a triad facing each other and went into an awkward huddle. David smartly suggested that we put the one non-soaked sleeping bag over our heads. Unfortunately all 3 of us are equipped with blazing-ly fast digestive systems, and when I say blazing, I mean it. So here we are, recreating a scene from Mel Brook’s Blazing Saddles where they eat beans around a campfire. Each horn that blew caused for a retreat outside of the blanket, which caused us to come up with a new game plan. We decided to mix it up, three in a row side-by-side, triangle position back-to-back-to-back, sleeping bag over top, sleeping bag over the legs. Nothing was working. We ended up 3 in a row as if we were riding a 3-man-motorcycle. 3 full grown men sitting on small child size stools like the 3 stooges in a canoe. Happiness Level: F-

The Hamster

No one sleeps that night as we brave the storm in our soaked tent. We finally come upon good luck in the morning as 2 French women are taking a 2-hour taxi ride from town to the campsite. We take the taxi back on a road with no pavement and plenty of slippery rocks. We heard that it’s common for the locals to eat “Cuy” or as we call it “Guinea Pig”, “Hamster” or “Herbie”. We found a wandering chef who took us to his favorite local restaurant that served the pet delicacy. After our bowl of soup, the Cuy was served. Rice, potato and a big brown ball of hot hamster served on a plate. I ate my hamster in silence as our chef tour guide stared at us eating. Thankfully the little guy didn’t have much meat, just tons of little bones that I could hide under the pile of rice. Sorry Herbie, you don’t taste good. Happiness Level: D+

Wannawhat?

After a night of eating late night pizza with questionable cheese and dipping hardly-fried fries into spicy yet tasteless green sauce, we wake up and walk up the mountain trail to Macchu Picchu.  The view is amazing, beautiful ruins made of rock and green grass. My stomach starts to rumble, leading to a verp of chocolate energy gel, acid and Hamster sauce. I stay positive and take it as a sign of my digestive system doing it’s magic. We decide to climb the highest mountain in Macchu Picchu called Wannapicchu. It’s a 45 minute climb at a 45 degree angle. As we climb up, I notice how tired my legs are and start breaking a sweat. We reach the top of the mountain and I look down at my stomach. It gives me the middle finger as it gurgles the stew brewing below. It hits me. It was time to “go”. I need to rush down the hill. I glide down the mountain, clenching my backside harder and tighter on each bumpy step. A pack of German tourists block my path with a half-walk, half-stand-in-your-fucking-way while shooting off-center pictures of plants. I duck through their unwashed bodies and make it to the start of the path. My stomach taps me on the shoulder and says, “If you’re not going to poop…”  I proceed to puke up water onto a patch of ancient rocks. A lady at the front of the bathroom is collecting 1 Sol ($0.30) to use the bathroom. I nearly punch her in the face (my wallet is in the storage bin). Thankfully I found a Sol in my pocket and take the best seat in the house. I say my final goodbyes to Herbie. Happiness Level: B to F to A+

Case of the ruins

I stay sick for the next 3 days, bed-ridden for one, popping antibiotics like popcorn and praying to survive our final days in Peru. The train to Lima is leaving in 10 minutes so we run to the station. As we arrive to the gate, I decide to let out one of my sickened farts outside of the train. As I let the bugle sound, I feel my shorts fill up as if I had made a smoothie from my ass. “Never trust a fart” my wise friend had once told me. I trusted, and now I have sharted. I run to the bathroom, lock the stall and pull my pants down to examine the damage. I had been spared. My special durable REI underwear had saved me, acting as a nest, holding in all of my “eggs”. I threw the $25 diaper into the trash bin and thanked the Gods of REI for sparing me after my case of the ruins. Happiness Level: D- to A+

Pictures (see all 371 pictures here)

I travelled to mainland China to meet Jason, a Chinese-born fraternity brother from America.  I stayed with him at his parents’ place in Ganzhou. In my 1000-page China edition of Lonely Planet, this city of 600,000 isn’t even listed in the index. It was a five-hour train ride from Hong Kong.

Jason picked me up at the train station. After a few minutes of catching up, he suggested we go to the red light district of Ganzhou. “What?  Red light district?”  He couldn’t be serious.  Jason and his friend wanted to get massages with happy endings and suggested I do the same. I refused. Jason told me that was fine but I would have to wait until they finished. I preferred not to do this either. Jason explained the other services you could get, one of which was to shower with the whore. “The shower sounds alright,” I said.

The “day spa” looked like a plush hotel with decorative carpeting and chandeliers. A woman in a traditional Chinese silk dress greeted us and showed us into one of the rooms. In the hall, porters wearing maroon suits with little hats were carrying silver trays. The room I was escorted to had mirrors on the ceiling, porn on the television, and glass walls around the bathroom which contained a massage table.

Jason and his friend negotiated with a man in a black suit, who spoke into a walkie-talkie to summon “the selection.” A few chicks walked in wearing black and purple lingerie covered by a see-through gown. Jason told me that most of the A-team was busy but maybe I would like the B-team. I picked one.

The fellas left and told me they would get their massages while I was in here. The whore went to work. She stripped herself and me and then led me to the massage table in the bathroom. I was hosed down and massaged. Rather than using her hands for the massage, she rubbed her tits all over me and then her ass. She dried me with a towel, and then led me to the bed for a more legitimate massage, followed by more of the boobs and ass.

While lying on my stomach, I felt saran-wrap being put on my feet and thought, “What the fuck?”  She licked the covered bottoms of my feet, which I assume is something Chinese people like. Then a porter brought two cups with hot and cold water. The chick sipped the hot water, then licked and kissed my body. This was followed by the cold, which tickled me. The wheels were in motion. I fucked her. I am now officially a dirtball.

I spent a few days in Ganzhou. I ate with Jason’s family including uncles, aunts, and cousins. There was definitely a hierarchy. Men sat down to eat first while women brought food from the kitchen. The women didn’t sit down until everything was ready. Children weren’t allowed to sit at the table. The men drank liquor; the women did not. Weird things they ate included turtles and lamb’s ears.

The second night in Ganzhou, Jason and I met some of his friends at a club. The place was pretty crowded but everyone was sitting down. Jason said that things don’t pick up until people get drugged up. He told me that weed was hard to come by, but “king” was normally done in clubs. It is an inhalant and stimulant. Sure enough, after an hour or so, the dance floor was full of Chinese people dancing as if they were at Woodstock and Jefferson Airplane was playing “White Rabbit.” I followed Jason into a hole-in-the-ground toilet stall and we snorted some of the powder. It was pretty stupid, much like weed. Lights were more prominent and I had to concentrate to walk in a straight line.

I sat at a table with a Chinese bird. She was an absolute dime whose English name was Abby. She was studying international trade. We hit it off and exchanged numbers before Jason’s friends told me it was time to go. Jason asked me how it went with that girl. Well, I explained, we exchanged numbers and I would call her tomorrow. Jason informed me that things worked differently in China and that I needed to act that night – ask her to come eat with us, then take her to a hotel.

Jason sorted it out in Chinese over the phone. She met us at this barbecue place with two of her friends, a man and woman. Everything was going fine until the couple started to argue. They both stood up yelling. Then the man landed three open-handed right crosses on the woman’s face, the first one snapping her head a good 6 inches. He slapped the shit out of her. The chick grabbed her face, spit in his direction, then threw two bowls from the table which missed and shattered on the wall. Holy shit!

I looked around at others for clues on how I was supposed to react. Everyone just looked but said nothing. Trying to revive our conversation, Jason said to me, “Tell Abby about the fraternity.” All I could say was, “He slapped the shit out of her!” The man yelled at the woman to get in a cab and Abby followed. Thanks a lot, ASSHOLE, for ruining my chance.

The third night we went out to karaoke. Karaoke in China involves renting out your own private room to get drunk and act like assholes. After ten minutes, the manager walked into our room with eight women. “Pick one,” Jason told me. “No, not that shit again,” I replied. He explained these girls are on the menu but not whores.  You can order women as drinking partners, or company. They play drinking games with you and sing songs. Jason ordered two. Those chicks kicked the shit out of me in the Chinese-dice drinking game we played.

Jason and I went to Shanghai and Nanjing for a few days. In Shanghai we went to a bar where two chicks swarmed me right when I entered. The amount of attention they gave me seemed completely unnatural. “Let’s be honest,” I told them. “You have an ulterior motive in talking to me.” The chicks admitted that they worked for the bar and it was their job to drum up business by getting men to buy drinks for them. “Now will you buy us drinks?” one asked. I agreed.  She asked for a Malibu.  ”Too bad. You’re getting Jameson.”

I decided I was going to drink these little Asian chicks under the table. I alternated between shots of Jameson and Southern Comfort. Eventually they stopped asking for drinks. I actually hit it off with one of them. I convinced her to come back to my hotel which led to a drunken session of rough sex. I think the chick stole my blue stocking cap with red snowball afterward. I woke up naked, hung over, hatless, and read a text message from Jason that said “you are heinous.” Jason busied himself that night by using one of the call-in hookers advertised on the map handed out to tourists at the information center.

The second day in Shanghai I had food poisoning. Jason borrowed 200 RMB for more whores.

On the last night in Nanjing, Jason and I got pretty drunk. I was talking up one chick for most of the night and decided to swing for the fences: “Help me find my way back to the hotel.” To which she replied, “I don’t think so. You are going back by yourself.” And I came up short.