Domo Arrigato, Mr. Garabato

I don't exactly understand the Garabato. It's a parade of BQ's rich people, nearly all drunk, dancing through the streets in traditional costumes. It's also the first of the Carnaval parades, and the first of many many days of being sprayed with foam, water and corn flower. Streets are shut down, rum is consumed, insanity prevails and we are exposed to the weirdness of BQ Carnaval that will, over the next four weeks, dominate nearly every aspect of life here. This is the smallest, least organized and least-official of the Carnaval events, and I wish it were the messiest, but the throngs who line the parade route and become positively unhinged are only warming up for the weekends to come. I will keep you informed, as things progress.

Suffice to say that my Garabato experience was typical and i have a few items waiting to be laundered. Suffice to say also, that I am glad I have a waterproof case for my camera.

The gringoes participated whole-heartedly this year, as evidenced by the photos of yours truly and fellow gringo "the original man" Adam.

I promise to follow through on my journalistic duty, but for the time being, you'll have to excuse me, as I have crap to clean.

BQ's Carnaval

Carnaval season has officially kicked off in BQ.
http://www.carnavaldebarranquilla.org/2005/home.php

Ok, you say, this is good for a small post. Not so fast sparky. BQ's Carnaval has officially begun. This is the time of year that the fourth largest city in Colombia distinguishes itself from its much more celebrated and sophisticated brethern. In February Bogota is not boss. Medellin is not the Most, Cali doesn't cook and Cartagena ain't king. It is really the time when goofy, lazy, homely Barranquilla shines. Barranquilla boasts the second-largest Carnaval in South America (next to a little place called Rio in Brazil) and it is nuts here.
And, with Rio so damned far away, and New Orleans still suffering from the effects of the hurricanes, Your natural choice for a Fat-Tuesday celebration is a little town two and a half hours south of Florida. So contact the airlines (Avianca has direct flights from Miami) and get your ass down here, it's really the only time that there is much of a tourist presence in BQ. And it is the only time you'll probably get into competition of rubbing corn-flour into the faces and clothes of everyone around you. Personally, I never figured that one out. But no one really asks complex questions like "why" here in Feb.. More to come.

An interesting sidenote to this years Carnaval is that the Reina Carnaval (Queen of the Carnival, a serious title for a young woman from BQ) just happens to be a former student of a bald, but remarkably handsome middle aged dude from Washington State who's typing this here sentence right now. So, if you need an in to the Carnaval don't hesitate to ask, after meeting with Uribe (Colombian president, gringoes) Marichi has me pencilled in for a 4:05-4:05:30 meeting, and I will be sure to mention your name.

Chiva Me Timbers

Blair and Julia (Co-habitating gringos who embrace all that is BQ) both have late-January birthdays, so they've decided to celebrate them together, and what better way to say, "I was born twenty-blah years ago," than to pile a bunch of people into an old bus with open windows, a small percussion and fife band, give everyone a bottle of rum and drive around to various bars until the wee hours of the morning, ending up at a beachfront place called Kilimanjaro where exhaustion will ultimately overtake nearly everyone. Happy Birthday.

This is the Chiva, one of the many weird, rather diverting options on a friday night. Chaos reigns on the chiva, and the later it gets the more unabashed the dancing on the bus becomes, as the people lose their inhibitions about a dancefloor that has a five and a half foot ceiling and is hurdling along through the streets of BQ at anywhere from 30 to 60 miles an hour. There are usually enough people to keep you falling flat on your face should the driver decide to say, take a quick left or brake.

So buckle up, hold on tight, drink the rest of that bottle of rum and feel free to barf out the window when your time comes. And trust your driver, he's been trained at a special school up in the mountains, at the Chiva-Academy. Applications are available at all the finer hotels.

Finding My Ancient Inner Tears For Fears

Like Neil Young, The Who, Foo Fighters, and Clarence Carter, I recently played a small, 80's themed South American Bar in a shopping center. Along with fellow old fart Chris Davis (congas), I had the unique experience of helping a young Colombian rock band (Alo Kunfu) drive a heavily-liquored-up audience of Gringos and Barranquieros into a Rock'n'Roll Frenzy of epic proportions. Uhhhhhh. Ok. Exactly.

So anyway, as things often happen in our happy BQ world, Chris (more force of nature than third grade teacher) got me involved in something I would not have forseen nor imagined say, Monday. This, being Friday, is about par for his abilities. Tuesday evening he called, asking if I'd like to play guitar and maybe sing with a BQ band. I said 'sure'. Thursday evening we were at the local rock station promoting the gig live on the air. Thursday night we took the stage. The crowd was drunken and responsive. Flashback (the small 80's bar) was packed. The fog-machine was annoying.

I am proud to say I caught the pair of panties thrown at me. I don't feel inclined to mention exactly who threw the panties, but, everyone needs a groupie, even if mine happens to be a 6'2" Canadian man named Thierry. Either way, I feel good about the catch. My shame, however comes in breaking my long-standing three-year tradition of always inserting a Johnny Cash song whenever I play an open mic or any such sort of program. I was too intimidated by Robert Smith's reputation as an asskicker to question whether or not two songs by The Cure was a good idea. Getting the crap kicked out of me by a skinny mopey guy with spikey hair and tons of eye makeup would be too much to try and explain.

West Meets East Meets South Meets Eats

I know what you have been collectively thinking: Where in the hell can I get me some reasonably priced Indian chow in Bogota, dammit? With funky lights and a loungey seating area that used to be a garage and little multicolored cloth elephants hanging from the ceiling?

I am glad you came to me first, cause the answer is obvious:

Calcutta. Address: Cl.75 #8-12. Phones, 2495892,

The food is good, Colombian-friendly (Not very spicy), and reasonably priced (La Flaca and I ate their and it came to a about 75,000 pesos with tip (that's thirty-five bucks)).

It was a great break from the usual fare one gets in Colombia, especially in my pueblito of a city, and the ambiance of Calcutta is charming and very relaxed. The restaurant is basically a converted giant old house with fireplaces, intimate little rooms with tables and Indian decor. So, on your next trip to Bogota, dig in, and dig the lamps, every room has it's own funky multicolored ceiling lamp, which must be the "Indian" thing to have in one's house.

People there were nice and I am sure no one spat in our food.
I tried to take artsy-fartsy pictures of the elephants hanging from the ceiling, spinning them for effect, but that just looked all squiggly and confusing.

All That Crumbles Is Not Cheese

Havana is falling into the sea. Make no mistake about it.

The recent wave of hurricanes and the prolific lack of paint in Habana have resulted in the current situation plaguing the people of Cuba. Shit's afalling down.


Jacques informed me that the two commodities most needed in the country are bras and paint. The former caused him to applaud the embargos and the whole communist system and the cuban people's love of struggle and unity against the western capitalist dogs. The latter just inspired a big question mark over his head, as he walked the streets of La Habana, cartoonlike.

"Why ain't there no new paint on nuthin'?" he asked.

"Why is it so easy to see nipples through thin tropical shirts?"

The answer was simple: NO SHERWIN-WILLIAMS and NO PLAYTEX or VICTORIA'S SECRET.

Gray concrete revealed strip-like from the peeling paint and pokey booby-tips everywhere.

Jacques informed me he only got pics of the decrepit buildings, we will have to trust him about the bras, but I personally think he is full of crap.

Doing Fine

Red Text today to highlight the commies and their propaganda.

A good friend, and all around fine human being, who shall remain nameless, even though he's Canadian, went to Cuba and took some pics of the fine state of affairs in that fine state, as it crumbles, slowly, into the sea. As I have little information on this caribbean island I will just give what I can remember from Jacques' stories, however, I will maintain that the Cubans are all evil, and that their country is a dirty, disgusting cesspool, lest Dick Cheney and his little pal George W. find it in their hearts to throw me in jail for treason.

Anyway, there are far too many tourists in Cuba, poverty is like a red badge of courage, and the young people seem to basically be waiting for the impending wave of western-style big business fun to innundate the island with casinos, hotels, topless dancing shows, and greenbacks. Nobody works too hard, except the hookers, and the guys who come up with the government posters with slogans like, "We're doing fine!"

Call me Isthmus

Back to the Grind.

Having returned to my computer, my apartment, my life, my BQ, I feel inclined to post some more picks of my winter wonderland escapades throughout the Caribbean. There are, however, very little photos to post, as I just got bored of always carrying a camera around and shooting junk that every other travelling North American/European idiot was shooting. I suppose it was a mid-break crisis, my hair, thinning; my vacation, passionless; I had no purpose, and needed to reafirm my place in life with a Porsche, or an affair with a woman half my age, which would make her a girl, really, not a woman. Anyway, that weak metaphor aside, here are some pics from Panama and whatnot.

The Panama Canal, as I found out at THE PANAMA CANAL TOURIST/VISITOR SITE, INFORMATION CENTER AND MUSEUM, is one of the 20th century's engineering marvels and, like nearly all engineering marvels, is really, really boring. I ate an exceptionally overpriced sandwich, learned what kinds of machines they used to excavate all that rock and dirt, and saw dead and faux examples of the original flora and fauna. No mention was made of how many poor bastards from Trinidad and Tobago or Haiti died making this thing, which is too bad, cause I bet the number is pretty damn high. I watched a ship get dragged into position (this took about forty minutes, and for all of it, I was on the edge of my seat).

Panama isn't a real country, it's a hybrid, walking a very tightly stretched cable between Latin America and the good ol' USA. It's Miami-Light, or Diet Miami, or Skim Miami. I can think of no other diet drink terms now, maybe later. Anyway, American fast food places abound and the Canal museum was positively spotless. I forgot I was in Latin America. Everyone spoke to me in English; I responded in German, and I don't speak German.

Dancing

Nothing to report.
I am feeling a hundred percent peachy-assed keen.
I figgured I will put a couple more pics up since I will be away for a couple weeks.
And if you're gonna put up some pics of BQ, put up some pics of people dancing, dammit.

Also, I need to give credit to some of my fellow fotogs so far

some of the pics in the previous posts have been by:
"La Flaca"
CD Davis "Texas"
John "Chino"
Sarah Gringa
and I will be damned if I can figgure out the rest, but most are by me, so, I'm not like a total phony, dammit. I'm not!

Anyway, dancing.
You will have to provide your own commentary, Happy 2006, You magnificent bastards!

Mountain Top Fun in Boge

After spending a couple hours underground looking at salt religious stuff, if seemed only natural to go as high up in the air as we could to do the same. Welcome to Montserrat church on a mountain overlooking the city of Bogota. At roughly 10,000 feet, this steps up to this baby have a profound effect on one's breathing.

As a side note, I feel I must add a tourist's advisory here. If I were you I would not (emphasis on NOT) walk up the steps to the top, but take the gondola or tram-thing. I wouldn't even walk up to the place where you get in the gondola or tram-thing. We did, the first day we went to see Montserrat and we didn't make it.

I have lived in Colombia a grand total of two and a half years and I can honestly say that, until this trip to Bogota I have never felt physically threatened. Notice that "until"? On the way up to the tourist entrance to Montserrat, the neighborhoods went from nice to way beyond sketchy in about a hundred meters and five street kids decided to take my camera bag. My favorite part about this was the fact that the most ambitious street kid, the one with the biggest balls, the one who basically attacked me, could tell I was a Gringo and so, grabbing at my camera bag strap, was saying what he could in English, part of which was "Thank you." It was kind of charming.

I am grateful for cheap camera bag straps, which break. I had a nice tussle with a handfull of these drugged-up kids, all of whom, towards the end of this adventure, pulled out little knives which none of them was willing to use, and eventually ran off when we were able to get a couple cabs to stop and take our less than (shall we say) composed selves to the police station. A couple of us returned to the scene of the crime (leaving our camera bags, passports and watches at the station) with the police, who searched the place, found one kid, handcuffed him up in the back of a police pickup truck, and brought us back when it started raining, but left the kid in that back of the police truck.

Anyway, the next day we made it Montserrat, and I took some pictures, Sorry I don't have any pictures of me and the kids fighting over my cameras and passport.

Back to the Salt Mines

OK... First tourist stop on the tour of Bogota is, of course, a giant underground cathedral north of town carved out of a salt mine. Really. I am confident that Bogota can boast the Largest Underground Salt Mine Cathedral in the world. The thing was built early in the century when the miners figured that it (the cathedral) would save them (the miners) from earthquakes and such. Why not? Anyway, we went, we saw, we walked around underground looking at lots of religious stuff carved out of salt. My fellow bald man Henry kept asking questions along the lines of..."So, have their been any earthquakes lately?", "Did anyone die?", "Really? What are the chances of poison gas killing anyone today?"...which seemed to put many of the other tourists on the fast track out of the salt mines.

My favorite feature of the salt mine was the bronze salt miner statue outside the entrance who has a expression of pain and anger, due, no doubt to the fact that his bonze dingus has been nearly completely eaten away by the salt. And, as modern science has already proved, no amount of time in a giant underground salt cathedral can replace a man's dingus.

Bogota Dreams

In order to verify that movies like Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Clear and Present Danger and Romancing the Stone have their facts straight, I made a trip to the capital of Colombia, the infamous Bogota. I was horrified by how it did not live up to my hollywood dreams. Imagine, a city of eight million that wasn't a collection of small, tile roofed, white spanish homes with chickens and burros running wild in the sweltering heat. What bullshit. This place has been misrepresenting itself for years. As a matter of fact, at 8660 feet above sea level (2640 meters) it's not exactly hot, especially coming in from Barranquilla, which, at sea level, is (hot). So, anyway, Bogota looks like any other city in the year 2005, rapidly approaching 2006, at least in the downtown areas and no bombs went off, and I saw no chickens running through the unpaved roads, nor was I chased by men with machetes. I did however, see a taxi driver discover a novel way to squeeze an extra passenger in for the fare (to be fair this was in Barranquilla on the way to the airport) which shows some Colombian ingenuity. And, also, in an attempt at fairness, I did see a horse pulling a cart downtown in Bogota, which seemed pretty out-of-place and not nearly as natural as it does in BQ.

In all, much was proven to be blatant misreprenetaion by the city of Bogota, through the innocent and unknowing medium of Hollywood filmmaking, to keep the city clear of American tourists, who are known for their lack of culuture and spending dollars and who often insist on speaking to people in English, which, of course, is the language of the devil.