Expat Chronicles » contributed stories

Contributed Story: Two Maids I’ve Had in Cali

Colin — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 22:12:21 +0000

This article was written by Ian S Chadwick. See his blog at ianschadwick.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter.

Aged in her 50’s, Maria Paloma was every bit the indigenous Colombian Indian. She was tiny, with dark, straight hair, high, defined cheek-bones and two small beady black eyes. She was also my first ever “maid.”

Following the murder of her husband she had been displaced from her mountain finca in the department of Cauca. Four strangers had called at her home looking for senor Paloma, produced pistols, and opened fire, killing him and three companions.

Always smiling, except when she was laughing, Maria Paloma never ever wore footwear, was illiterate and, strange as this may sound, was totally unable to grasp the concept of a lock and key. However, she was reliable, efficient, and our dog was unusually fond of her.

The reason for this fondness became startlingly apparent when, one evening, my wife encountered Maria Paloma vigorously masturbating Henry, our Boxer. When asked why on earth she would do such a thing she innocently answered, Because he likes it, señora.

Whilst it’s hard to argue against such simple logic, we never again felt comfortable whenever we saw Maria washing carrots, and so she had to go and we had to find ourselves a new maid, Maria Arbol.

In her mid – 40’s, with an air of vast sexual experience about her, Maria Arbol turned out to be an exceptional maid. Our house had never been cleaner, she cooked fantastic food, and she never went sick. She was as happy to work for us as we were to employ her, and all was well.

Maria Arbol was also from a small village in the mountains of Cauca and she told us that she had been displaced from her home following the murder of her husband by four gunmen. My wife and I glanced at each other in simultaneous recognition of this story, and I pressed Maria for more details. The resultant answer left us both amazed at the coincidence which unfolded.

Maria Paloma, the first maid, was regarded as the village witch of the small rural community in the mountains of Cauca where both she and Maria Arbol had lived, providing herbal remedies for the villagers and performing tarot card readings for local women.

During the course of these readings Maria was prone to inform the women that their men were being unfaithful, and several relationships had experienced serious problems or had broken down completely as a result. The strangely sensual Maria Arbol was named as the likely culprit on more than one occasion and, despite denying these allegations, was becoming increasingly unpopular in the village.

Maria Paloma’s husband was employed by the local guerrilla commander to collect FARC-Tax from the local inhabitants. He and three henchmen would regularly visit the surrounding farms to pick up the compulsory payments of cash, alcohol, food, and various peace offerings before delivering them to the guerrillas who operated in the area.

Maria Arbol’s husband was one such farmer who was obliged to make this regular “donation” and resented doing so. He began to refuse to pay señor Paloma, which resulted in a heated argument between the two men, which came to blows.

Señor Paloma informed the local guerrilla commander about Arbol’s refusal to pay up and his violent outburst. In the meantime, señor Arbol contacted the local paramilitaries and denounced Paloma as a FARC operative.

Several days later, just before mid-day, señor Paloma and his three “workers” went to the Arbol’s farm, found señor Arbol amongst his coffee crop, and shot him through the head in front of his wife and their young son.

On that same morning four unknown men attended the Paloma’s farm, asking for señor Paloma, who was not there. The strangers said that they would wait and, just after mid-day, señor Paloma and his companions returned. Upon entering they were shot dead by the four paramilitaries who were waiting for them. Maria Paloma escaped by diving through a window and running as fast as she could. She was found on the Pan-American Highway, twelve miles away, still running, with her bare feet in bloody tatters.

Both women subsequently ended up in Cali, one living with family and the other being re-housed by the authorities. Both blamed the other for their husbands’ deaths and neither had heard of the other since the incident, yet they had unknowingly lived within two miles of each other for several years.

We recently heard that the part of Cauca where the two women had previously resided had been designated as a safe zone following military operations against the FARC in 2009 and that both Maria’s had been re-located back to their fincas in Cauca following a government incentive to restore to their owners the properties of displaced Colombians.

I’m genuinely glad for them and sincerely hope that they can both move on. But given the obvious feelings of resentment and pure fucking hatred which persists between them, I can’t help feeling that once they encounter each other the term “safe zone” may be far from the correct term to use.

Contributed Story: Two Maids I’ve Had in Cali

Contributed Story: Bus Blow Job in Venezuela

Colin — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 05:37:46 +0000

Expat Chronicles

An American buddy living in Medellin inked this piece about an adventure during his trip to Venezuela to get his Colombian work visa. Enjoy!

I went to Venezuela to file my bullshit visa papers. I was on my way back in a bus from Maracaibo to San Cristobal. I was waiting in line to throw my shit under the bus and I saw this super dark venezolana with long, straight black hair in line a few people ahead of me and I’m pretty sure I had a long, straight boner.

That’s life in South America.

I threw my shit to dude packing up the bottom of the bus and I’m ready to depart at midnight on an eight hour bus ride. Ever seen the inside of a Greyhound Bus? Me neither, but they have to be Air Force One compared to the buses you’ll ride if you’re poor and unfortunate like me and couldn’t afford airfare. The bucket seats hardly recline, and how people sleep in them with the fucking bus shaking and slowing down and stopping all the goddamn time is beyond me. I discovered the only way to sleep is to get piss drunk; sleeping pills won’t work.

Board the bus, and there on each side are two seats scrunched together going back maybe twenty rows. Convenience over comfort – a ubiquitous theme in South America. I reach my row about midway through and sitting in the window seat next to my aisle seat is none other than exotic dark princess I was leering at like a sex offender waiting to check my bag.

I instantly realized how lucky I was when I sat down and she tilted her head over and said hi and asked how I was doing. It developed into mild get-to-know-you conversation. You’re a distributor for a manufacturer? They must like you a lot to ship you around in this fine mode of transportation. You’re single? Me too! After a little of this bullshit we’re alerted they have to change a light on the bus and everybody gets off and goes back in the terminal to wait out the time consuming process of headlight replacement.

It was great because me and exotic dark princess waited together, looking through each other’s pictures and exchanging Facebook addresses. When it was time to board, she reached in her bag and offered me her extra fleece blanket which I accepted. We got back in our seats and kept talking, lights had been turned down and I at one point turned sideways facing the window and she turned sideways towards me and we kept talking.

After awhile I just went for it; leaning in for the kiss with her accepting it graciously. We made out slow at first, then it got a little deeper. Hands started moving, and there this hot thing is, unbuckling my pants and seeing what she can find on a bus packed with people who haven’t even had time to fall asleep yet.

I’m thinking ok, sweet, a hand job on a bus packed with people in Venezuela, this should make a good story. Then as I took my hand from one of her tits up to her neck, she takes my fingers into her mouth and just starts sucking on them like she wanted to go under my blanket. I raised up a little, opened the side of my blanket towards her and sure enough, she did want to go under my blanket! FIRE HEAD.

Could anybody paying any attention in the bus see and know what was going on? Of course. Did I care? Hell no, I was in get-my-nut-off mode and oblivious to everyone else. After about 5 minutes of bliss I blew a top 5 nut of my life, which she swallowed down like daddy’s little angel and stayed down for another minute for good measure, making me practically have seizures. Fighting my urge to tell her thanks and roll over towards the aisle and try to go to sleep, we keep running our hands over each other and acting like two fuck demons possessed by the unholy to anyone witnessing I’m sure.

Before long she strokes up boner numero dos and before long I’m opening my blanket like a kind gringo for her to come in from the Venezuelan heat to my under blanket penis oven. How could she resist? Damn she was good. Close to ten minutes later I mercifully nut again, because it had to be like fear factor under that blanket in the already ridiculous heat. I really had her going.

We’re both tired at this point, and she turns into me and we spoon for quite some time. I’m slowly playing with her pussy, which was nice and shaved and didn’t feel like it had been too beat to hell. Not that I cared, really. She’s earned high marks with me. After awhile, she starts grinding her ass into me, and I start telling her I want to fuck her just like this, and like I used the force I felt her jeans start falling all the way down and felt her warm, firm, bubble ass start into my crotch, which had nothing covering it either after I took out a condom and pulled my pants to my ankles.

I kept her grinding into me for a minute more because goddamn, I’m 28, third boners aren’t as easy as they were when I was 18. I hadn’t gotten the condom wrapper open yet when all of a sudden during one of the frequent inexplicable stops all the lights come on and I’m suddenly aware of everyone else on the bus. I figured ok, driver had enough, he’s kicking me off and I’ll gladly walk for two or three days the rest of the way on the satisfaction I received on his fine bus.

We’re both struggling getting our pants up under our blankets which are entangled at this point, belts jingling. I notice it’s not the driver coming back towards us, but a Venezuelan soldier checking IDs. This pretty much killed it, as me and chick dozed off more or less the rest of the trip. We hugged at the San Cristobal terminal and being the smart girl she is she knew there wasn’t going to be any goodbye kiss. I picked up my bag from under the bus, doubled back to go find a cab when I noticed the driver of the bus looking at me. When he caught my eye he gave me a grin that said it all, and I just grinned back.

Contributed Story: Bus Blow Job in Venezuela

Contributed Story: Hangin’ Tough in La Candelaria

Colin — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 06:37:08 +0000

Expat Chronicles

Before concluding anything negative about La Candelaria, read my recent post Life is But a Dream in La Candelaria.

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.

Contributed Story: Hangin’ Tough in La Candelaria

Contributed Story: La Candelaria Pickpocket FAIL

Colin — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 06:20:37 +0000

Expat Chronicles

Before concluding anything negative about La Candelaria, read my recent post Life is But a Dream 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.

Contributed Story: La Candelaria Pickpocket FAIL

Contributed Story: Revolution in China?

Colin — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 21:53:40 +0000

Expat Chronicles

Western media will have you believe China’s government is immoral and oppressive, and that at any minute people will revolt to produce a modern democracy. I’m no expert but I’ve lived in China for almost two years now. This is my American perspective on the prospect of revolution.

Revolution is a long shot. In Hong Kong I studied for a Master’s degree in economics. None of my classmates had 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.

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. Surprisingly, classmates vehemently defended the one-child policy – because the buses and trains are so crowded.

A different professor who attended the seminar asked this ridiculous question: “Could there possibly be multiple equilibrium points in regard to population?” Multiple equilibrium points? Westerners may find the policy abhorrent but Chinese do not.

I’ve seen little of the political fanaticism necessary for government upheaval. Debates common in the West don’t exist here. 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.”

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. This place was inside a hutong. In the hutongs 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 playing 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. 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. Just as the Inuit language has more words for seal and snow due to its importance in their culture, the Chinese have 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.

Contributed Story: Revolution in China?

Contributed Story: Instability in Tijuana

Colin — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 23:59:26 +0000

Expat Chronicles

This story was contributed by Luis Blasini, an American expat living in Tijuana, Mexico. Check out his blog, Borrowed Flesh.

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. From tired eyes he watched three white 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, police officers included.

Two nights ago in my room I heard the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. Last night the symphony repeated itself down on the corner. Seven bodies lay 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-shirts, unaware of the slaughter occurring a few blocks from their reverie. This is Tijuana – my Tijuana – a place I call home …

Contributed Story: Instability in Tijuana

Contributed Story: Failed Bail on German Bar Tab

Colin — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 14:23:00 +0000

Expat Chronicles

This story was contributed by Brian Radvansky. Check out his blog, Striving for Greatness.

While the other utterly square students in our study abroad program were practicing verb conjugations in our slumlord-governed apartments, KT and I 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 hit the road and see the rest of Europe. 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. We hit a bar.

We rented a locker and stuffed our things inside, then 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.

Eventually it was time to go. Just as we were ready to pay the bartender went into the back room. KT asked, “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.

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.

Contributed Story: Failed Bail on German Bar Tab

Contributed Story: My Last Pint in Ireland

Colin — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 21:22:23 +0000

Expat Chronicles

This story was contributed by Mikey, an American travelling through Europe:

I planned to stay only two days in Ireland, but I fell in love with it and spent two weeks seeing Dublin, Howth, Galway, Doolin, and Ennis. My last night I got wasted with two American travelers in Ennis.

After eating, we met up with two local girls. They were drinking Bulmers by a newly built bridge. I guess when the town is that small, new bridges excite the locals. We shot the shit until the girls led the way to get our drink on.

After a round at a pub, we went to dance club. I disappeared from the group to scope out the talent. When I got back to our table Maz had some drunk Irishman in his face, a classic example of a ginger (Irish slang for red hair, freckles, fair skin) who looked like he could put up a good fight. I joined the heated conversation. Apparently, the guy’s problem was that Maz had ordered a “black and tan.”

The Irishman said, “You Yanks are lucky because if you were a Brit and ordered that drink we would fucking kill you”. A Black and Tan is a beer of 1/2 Guinness, 1/2 Bass or Harp’s. Because it’s thicker, the Guinness sits on top. Supposedly a harmless drink unless you’re in Ireland.

I couldn’t follow the history lesson well because I kept looking over my back at all the Micks staring at us. But I did gather that “Black and Tans” were the English who came to Ireland in the 1920s to enforce English law. This Ginger’s great grandfather lived through it 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, hence their nickname. I felt sorry for this Mick, nearly in tears when he finished his story. Maz apologized.

Maz, Isaac, the girls, and I went back to the dance club. 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 the one he wanted, but his plan failed 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. I asked her to smoke with me when the bar closed. We all straggled out. Maz and Laura got in a cab but before it left, Laura called out to ask if I wanted to smoke a spliff. I got in. The cab dropped us off at Laura’s apartment. Maz may have been sarcastic in saying, “Thanks for coming. I didn’t want to walk home alone.”

At Laura’s disaster of an apartment, she pulled out a bag of ganja. We sat on her bed as she rolled a spliff. She passed to me and I hit it. 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. Anyone who doesn’t is crazy because pure weed would really fuck you up. I thought that was the point?

While we were smoking the second one Maz looked at me like, “let’s tag-team this broad”. We 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. She stopped us again and explained to Maz, “I like you, but not that way. Just as a friend.” Then she looked at me and said, “I like you and think you’re cute and …”

It was awkward as Maz said goodbye. I could read his face: “you fucking cocksucker.” 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, I nibbled her ear, and rubbed her tits while she moaned. I started moving my way down to her breasts. As I was kissing and sucking her nipples I unbuttoned her jeans. I pulled off her jeans and her thong went too. I kissed around her thighs.

She asked me to take it slow because she hadn’t been laid in a while. I decided to start in missionary. Once inside, she wouldn’t spread her legs. I asked, “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.

Frustrated, I had her turn around. When all else fails, go doggy. She simply turned over, instead of arching her back with face down and ass up. I laughed. 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. By that point I didn’t care about her; I just got mine. Then I rolled over and passed out.

The next morning she asked me to fuck her again. I told her some bullshit excuse because I wasn’t about to go through that shit again. I said my goodbye and told her I’d call if I were back in town before I left Europe. Good night!

Contributed Story: My Last Pint in Ireland

Contributed Story: The Pigeon Poop Scam in BA

Colin — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 20:12:18 +0000

Expat Chronicles

This story’s from an American who visited Buenos Aires with his Spanish-speaking wife:

It’s a bright Saturday afternoon in December 2007. We were walking along a side street on the way back to our hotel — only a few blocks off the Ave. Julio 9. Not many people around.

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

We realize this is fishy. My wife spots the guy wiping my shoulders reach into my back pocket with his other hand (I never felt it). She tells them we’re fine and to leave us alone. They’re surprised she speaks Spanish and the sharp tone of her voice stops their scam.

We went separate ways. Big nuisance, but it wasn’t threatening. They got nothing because I had 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. and they were probably Peruvians (apparently they consider those pesky Peruvians their main source of minor crimes). Being two older gringos we were prime targets.

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

Contributed Story: The Pigeon Poop Scam in BA

Contributed Story: Pooping and Machu Picchu

Colin — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 17:49:53 +0000

Expat Chronicles

This story was contributed by Stephen Loase, lead singer of Lonely Mattress Salesman. He has some haters from this story, originally titled “Case of the Ruins.” Go leave him a nice comment. Here’s his story:

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 underwear you can wear for 4-5 days that doesn’t absorb odor/moisture. Happiness Level: A+

Coca Tea

We arrive in Peru. I notice the slight elevation sickness that everyone talks about so I drink the forbidden Coca Tea (made from pre-Cocaine leaves), which is supposed to dull the pain. Instead of the euphoric, drug-leaf-ridden tizzy I was hoping for, 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 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 4 am 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. 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 at the campsite. Night sneaks up on us as the porters set up our tents. We all barrel into a nearby shack as the cook serves us 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 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 huddled. David smartly suggested we put the one unsoaked sleeping bag over our heads. Unfortunately all 3 of us are equipped with blazingly 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 from 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 hear that it’s common for the locals to eat “Cuy” or as we call it “Guinea Pig,” “Hamster,” or “Herbie”. We find a wandering chef to take us to his favorite local restaurant that served the pet delicacy. After our bowl of soup, Cuy is served. Rice, potato and a big brown ball of hot hamster served on a plate. I eat mine in silence as our chef tour guide stare at us. Thankfully the little guy doesn’t have much meat, just tons of little bones that I 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 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, a 45 minute climb at a 45 degree angle. As we climb 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 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. 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 with 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)

Buy organic Maca from Peru.

Contributed Story: Pooping and Machu Picchu

Contributed Story: Chasing Women in China

Colin — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 15:32:57 +0000

Expat Chronicles

Increase your sex drive with organic maca from Peru. Buy Peruvian Maca in China.

This story was contributed by an American studying in China.

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 catching up, he suggested we go to the red light district of Ganzhou. What? 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 carried 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 most of the A-team was busy but maybe I’d 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 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, 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. 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. The wheels were in motion. I fucked her. I am officially a dirtball.

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

The second night in Ganzhou, Jason and I met some of his friends at a club. The place was crowded but everyone was sitting down. Jason said things don’t pick up until people get drugged up. He told me weed was hard to come by, but “king” was done in clubs. 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. Lights were more prominent. 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. Well, I explained, we exchanged numbers and I’ll call her tomorrow. Jason said things work differently in China and I need 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.

I looked around at others for clues on how 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.

The third night we went out to karaoke. Karaoke in China involves renting out your own private room to get drunk and acting 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 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 was completely unnatural. “Let’s be honest,” I told them. “You have an ulterior motive.” They admitted that they work for the bar and it’s 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 hit it off with one of them. I convinced her to come back to my hotel which led to a drunken session of beating it up. I think she stole my blue stocking cap with red snowball afterward. I woke up naked, hung over, hatless, and read a text from Jason saying “you are heinous.” Jason had 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.”

Increase your sex drive with organic maca from Peru. Buy Peruvian Maca in China.

Contributed Story: Chasing Women in China