Ripped Out is a program to get you ripped. If you follow it, you will be comfortable taking your shirt off anytime, anywhere. And buying it supports Expat Chronicles.

My friend Craig is a natural bodybuilder. We were best friends in college. We were jock-ish, always playing sports and lifting weights.

Craig Leonard at 240 lbs

For his last years in university, however, Craig had less time for the gym and sports because of his increasingly difficult engineering classes combined with a full-time job.

Craig got fat. I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad, until I saw this picture in his new book (left).

Craig looked at himself in the mirror one day and, realizing how far off-track he’d strayed since his high school track days, decided to make a change.

Craig started on his journey to get “ripped.” He researched and experimented for years.

He found a system that worked and dedicated himself. He transformed his physique into this next pic.

Craig Leonard at 178 lbs

That’s sixty pounds he lost, while staying muscular.

His friends and family noted the transformation and asked advice. He started personal training. He ultimately decided to design an applicable program for anyone to achieve a ripped physique. There are plenty of books and websites with valuable info and science, but Craig wanted to offer an actionable program.

The result was Ripped Out: Guaranteed to Get You Ripped. It’s the only program I’ve seen that spells out everything you need to do to get ripped – in an actionable program with no doubts or questions about what to do or eat.

Craig’s book came at a perfect time for me, given my goal to dunk a basketball. While I stuck to my training, I didn’t lose any fat. My vertical’s gone up, but nowhere near as fast as I had hoped. I think the most important factor at this point  - 6 months later – is to get lighter.

I’ve power cleaned 225 lbs for 3 sets of 3, and I’ve jumped up onto 4 foot walls for 5 reps, but I haven’t lost an ounce of fat. As I said in that article, my dietary discipline is shit. Furthermore, I didn’t have a strict plan. Ripped Out came to fill that void. In Craig’s words:

Nutrition plans like mine require more discipline, but discipline is the difference between getting lean, strong and ripped vs. big, strong and fat!

The latter has been me for much of the last five years. Friends who’ve only seen me in clothes say, “You don’t have any fat to lose.” Yes I do. You can grab a good handful at my waist. Maybe it’s not much, but if you consider most white guys who can dunk look more like Craig than me, you’ll see I have some work to do. This is my Ripped Out “before” pic. I’ll post the “after” later.

Me starting Ripped Out

I’ve never been as lean as Craig in the pic above, largely because appearance isn’t my priority. I like looking good, but I don’t do bodybuilding workouts. My stated reason for training is “to kick ass in sports and the street.” I want to be able to show up to any sport with any group and be a formidable force – and of course to score quick knockouts when needed. But fitness today is largely judged by appearance instead of horsepower. More on this in my upcoming Bodybuilding Rant.

I found that when training for performance, my body will look good enough. Every girl I get in bed is thrilled to be getting it from me. However, this argument of mine is partly a cop-out. A lot of guys say they don’t care how they look because they can’t or haven’t achieved a truly ripped physique. I may be guilty of that.

My abs are visible year-round, but nowhere near as defined as Craig’s. My core is strong as shit, but I eat too many bandeja paisas and drink too much beer.

Although Ripped Out is a bodybuilding program, you can’t take anything away from Craig athletically. He currently plays in a fast-pitch baseball league, and he’s one of the league’s better hitters. In school he often said he should try out for the baseball team, but he never did. Now he’s playing with ex-college ballplayers and dominating. Still, I believe if he shifted the focus of his training from bodybuilding to power and explosiveness, maybe some of his singles would be doubles and some doubles would be home runs.

Here are pros and cons to Ripped Out.

Pros

No restricted foods – “Paleo” is the new “low-fat.” Gluten is the new devil. The next phase may be “raw” diets or juice diets. All these diets tell you what you can’t eat. One of my favorite features of Ripped Out is you can eat whatever the fuck you want, as long as it stays inside your calorie restrictions. This adheres to the most basic rule of weight gain (calories consumed > calories burned) and fat loss (calories consumed < calories burned). See Michael Phelps (left), whose daily caloric intake is 12,000 calories and includes chocolate-chip pancakes, French toast, pizza, and more (Michael Phelps diet). Fellow Olympian and fastest man alive, Usain Bolt, eats McDonald’s chicken nuggets. The level of activity in Ripped Out is nowhere near those, so you don’t get to eat as much as Olympians, but it can be 100% Chinese food or hot dogs coated in mayonnaise. However, carbohydrates are limited at specific times.

Strength focus - Ripped Out is a bodybuilding program, but the core tenet of its training portion is strength. Adding weight to the bar on compound movements like squats and deadlifts is paramount to building muscle. Ripped Out will make you stronger.

Methodical approach – Craig is an engineer working in process management. His job is to minimize margin of error, and he’s applied it to this program. In fact, his method of ensuring fat loss while building muscle (something I never attempt because it’s too difficult) is fool-proof and creative.

Tools – Tracking diet and training details are key to a methodical approach in getting ripped. I’ve never tracked either. However, Craig makes it easy with pre-formatted Excel files. They even automatically adjust the weights with strength gains and nutrient needs with fat loss.

Cons

Bodybuilding exercises – I haven’t done any exercise with the word “curl” or had an “arm day” since 2007. I don’t use cables, pulleys, or machines. I only do a few of the 17 weightlifting exercises in the program. More on this in my upcoming Bodybuilding Rant, but suffice to say I’d bet Craig would hit more home runs if he added Cleans and Snatches, and nixed Dumbbell Flyes and Preacher Curls.

Training to failure – I’ve done it in the past. I never do it anymore unless it’s on accident, which is consistent with the word “fail.” I’ve read arguments for and against failure reps, and all the proponents are bodybuilding gurus (most notably Arthur Jones) – not performance coaches. I finally busted through strength plateaus when I stopped my sets at the prescribed number of reps, even if I could press or pull another one. Save it for the next set. “Leave one in the tank.” Again, this is a bodybuilding vs. performance issue. You won’t see Olympic weightlifters or pro powerlifters fail on purpose. Jason Ferruggia wrote a four-part series against training to failure (see 1, 2, 3, and 4).

Low frequency – Frequency refers to how often a muscle group is trained. The Ripped Out program is typical of bodybuilding routines in having a low frequency, or one body part a day. I did those for years and made snail’s pace gains. Especially for naturally slim “hardgainers,” I’ve found it necessary to hit each muscle a few times a week or it shrinks before it gets hit again. I do whole-body workouts 3-4 times a week. Bodybuilders say your muscles – especially legs – can’t recover that quick. However, Olympic weightlifters squat every day. And they’re the pound for pound strongest men on the planet. The Ripped Out training emphasizes compound lifts and getting stronger, which is the most important. But I’ve found you get strongest by doing compound lifts often in whole-body workouts, and dumping all isolation exercises.

Even with its 5 day split, the Ripped Out training program still hits muscles more than once a week. If you’re overhead pressing and bench pressing on different days, then you’re working your shoulder, chest, and tricep muscles on both days. In addition to your arm day, you’re working your biceps and forearms on back day when you deadlift and do pullups. And if you’re squatting with no belt on a different day from your abs exercises, your core’s getting worked more than once a week. This program focuses on compound lifts, so it’s not the lowest frequency split out there.

Other Observations on Ripped Out

Steady-state cardio – Years ago I cut out all “running” and medium-intensity, long-duration cardio because I thought it impeded my strength gains and weakened my immune system. Riding a bicycle to get around Bogota, playing pickup basketball, and hill sprints were my only cardio. However, it’s easy to let weeks go by with none of the latter two. A limited (15-25 minutes) run in the morning is an easy, effective way to melt fat. Plus, it builds stamina for sports. However, I’ve definitely noticed slower strength gains since incorporating so much cardio as prescribed in Ripped Out.

Cardio after weight-training – This is probably the easiest way to melt fat. I never do it because I’m destroyed and the last thing I want to do is go running. But again, this book gave me a wake-up call. As with anything, you get used to it.

Rest between sets – Craig limits your rest to 60 seconds. I recently squatted 385 lbs for 5 reps. 60 seconds after a set like that, I’m still dizzy. After cleaning 225 for 3 reps, my whole body is still shaking after 60 seconds. It’s not a factor of muscular recovery, it’s the nervous system. Especially for explosive exercises like Cleans and Snatches, you need significant rest to throw that kind of weight around. In powerlifting and Olympic weightlifting, 3-5 minute rests are the norm. Ripped Out is a bodybuilding program however, and many exercises aren’t as taxing (excluding squats, deadlifts, and lunges). On the other hand, I think I used my nervous system as an excuse to let my rests drag on longer than five minutes. Craig’s standard motivated me to jump into new sets sooner, and allowed me to get more work done in the allotted time.

Training duration – The most common error I see is training for too long. For hormonal reasons, you want to finish in 45 minutes. At the one hour point, I force myself to leave. Craig and I were guilty of this in college. We’d talk shit and laugh for several minutes at a time between sets. I don’t doubt some “rests” lasted 10 minutes, and we’d be in the gym for up to two hours. This is counterproductive. I agree in Craig’s rule to finish in 45 minutes, 1 hour MAX.

Complete proteins – I’d come across this concept before, but apparently forgotten all about it. A complete protein is one that contains all the essential amino acids, those not created by the body. In a nutshell, complete proteins are animal products.  Animal flesh (meat), whey, milk, cheese, and eggs are complete proteins. Soybeans are the only non-animal based complete protein. However, for athletes I only recommend the natural form of soybeans served before sushi because soy has been shown to elevate estrogen levels (estrogen = main antagonist of muscle-building testosterone). I believe soybeans in their natural form won’t do any hormonal damage, in part because to eat 40 g of protein you’d have to eat 3 cups. However, steer clear of the concentrated forms such as tofu and soy burgers. Vegetarian diets are great on a temporary basis if you’re not eating a ton of grains. But think of the vegetarians you know. 99% are frail, fat, or worst case, “skinny fat.” None are muscular. It’s rarely a healthy diet. Humans evolved by hunting and eating animals. It built muscle to make us faster, stronger, better hunters. Animal fats boost testosterone, which is why eating meat is considered “manly.” Anyway, the Ripped Out diet only allows you to count complete proteins for your nutrient requirements. I’d been counting the protein from beans and nuts for years. Big mistake, but I’m back on track.

Genetics - Craig always says he’s of average genetics, and I always call bullshit. He competed at the state level in track. For someone to (A) be the top sprinter at a 2000+ student high school and (B) qualify for state competition in a state with two major cities and a significant percentage of black people, you have to have athletic genes. Regardless, the Ripped Out program will get any dedicated person “ripped.”

Ripped Out dedication – Craig spends considerable time explaining the dedication you’ll need to get ripped out. This is no casual program. This is a dedicated lifestyle. To be honest, I’m getting into it slowly like a woman into a super-cold pool. I’m used to the training, but the difficult part for me is the diet. There are no restricted foods, but your nutrient intake needs to be exact. You will live on Nutrition Facts labels and the USDA nutrient database. You will weigh your food. A lot of research and creativity went into designing this program, so it’s not free. But the price is justified given the dedication required. Paying for this program will be the easiest step in getting “ripped out.” If you want to cut any corners, this is not the program for you. But as Craig says, that’s what it takes to have a body that turns heads.

Ripped Out is a program to get you ripped. If you follow it, you will be comfortable taking your shirt off anytime, anywhere. And buying it supports Expat Chronicles.

The best testimony in my opinion is from Craig’s old man. Look at his results at 52 years old!

Jim Leonard ripped out at 52

Related posts:

1. Killing Pablo: Summary and Review

Ripped Out Program Review

This story is from Private Man, a fellow Evil Patriarchy blogger:

I got a vasectomy. I met a girl soon afterwards. She was nice and attractive but a selfish streak raised red flags. She was 32 and I could HEAR her biological clock ticking. But she was a good lay, easy on the eyes, and reasonably good company.

I did NOT tell her about my vasectomy and always used a condom. She assumed the condom was only used for birth control. Silly girl.

We dated for a few months. I never made any move towards commitment but she brought it up ocassionally. For me, this was a casual but pleasant relationship. For her, it was a carefully-planned series of life-changing events.

At four months, I got the “I’m pregnant” talk. She’s going on and on about how the condom must have broke and now we need to think about getting married “for the baby.” She’s positively giddy. She has a baby in her and she thinks she’s gonna have a good meal ticket (me) to go along with her 7 lb annuity.

At this point, I’m just as giddy because I get to pull the reverse “OOPS” on her. She slept with some bad boy and got knocked up. So I waited a couple days to “think about all this.”

We met again. I said I don’t want kids and she should have an abortion. She went batshit insane, insulting my manhood and threatening legal action. It was ugly and I was loving every minute of it.

I let her stew for a few days. She left nasty messages on my phone. She sent awful emails. I laughed hysterically with each one.

While she was stewing, I was busy. First I got a notarized copy from the urologist who performed the vasectomy. Next I got a notarized copy of TWO test results indicating a “negative test result for sperm” to show I’m shooting blanks.

Finally, I got a letter from a shark attorney stating he’s seen the documents and is prepared to litigate against this woman if she continues to communicate with me in such an unpleasant manner. The letter also states that we will insist on DNA testing to show the baby is not mine.

I met her at her place. I brought flowers and jewelry to show I was willing to reconcile and assume my responsibilities as a new father. I also had the documents in my pocket.

She got all giddy again. Her plan was going perfectly – or so she thought. We talked about our future. We had good sex. Then, as I was about to walk out the door, I asked her the $64,000 question. “Are you sure the baby is mine?”

She went batshit insane again – screaming. How dare I question her morals? Do I think she’s a slut? I’m just trying to weasel out of my responsibilities… blah, blah, blah.

I wasn’t mad, but embarrassed for her. Since she wouldn’t shut up and the neighbors could hear everything, I asked her to step back inside and sit down. She sat on the sofa and calmed down. She glared at me with all the moral self-righteousness that only a woman can muster up. She thought she had me trapped, 100% convinced her plan had worked.

I reached into my pocket and produced three pieces of paper, unfolding them slowly and deliberately.

I told her, “You’re screwed.” Her look didn’t change. I continued, “I am sterile.”

Her look changed. Something began to sink in. She reverted to women’s logic. “You’re full of shit. You’re trapped and you know it.”

I held up the letter and test results. “Three months before we met, I had a vasectomy. Here is a notarized letter stating what I had done. Here are two test results showing that I tested negative for the presence of sperm. I am shooting blanks. That baby inside you is simply not mine.”

She wasn’t swayed by logic and clear documentation. “Bullshit, those are fakes.”

I was ready. “No, they are real. This last piece of paper is from my attorney. It’s a simple letter that states if you pursue any kind of legal action against me for child support, then I will insist on a DNA test to prove paternity, that is, to prove that your baby is not mine.”

I gave her all the documents. With each passing second of her reading, she realized she made a big mistake. She started to cry – a small cry at first. Then it became deeper and more painful. By the time she got to the lawyer’s letter she was sobbing.

I walked out the door. Even after I closed the door I could still hear her sobbing.

Epilogue: I never heard from her again, but I did hear through friends that she had the baby. I also heard the real father was some guy in a band. I assumed that after 30, women stopped going after musicians, bikers, criminals, and thugs. Silly me.

Moral of the Story: Get a vasectomy but keep it a secret.

See Private Man’s blog.

Related posts:

1. Contributed Story: Bus Blow Job in Venezuela
2. Contributed Story: My Last Pint in Ireland
3. Contributed Story: Chasing Women in China
4. Contributed Story: Pooping and Machu Picchu
5. Contributed Story: Hangin’ Tough in La Candelaria

Contributed Story: Private Man’s Vasectomy Venture

Evo Morales with a coca leaf

Three years ago I lived in Arequipa with a Swiss fella who loved climbing mountains. He organized a group to climb Misti. It’s a 2-day excursion. You camp at the halfway point so your system acclimates to the altitude.

On day 2 the Swiss fella couldn’t continue. He had altitude sickness and stayed at camp. He’d climbed several mountains in the Alps, and he was fit. He believes he couldn’t go on because he didn’t bring any coca.

I, one the other hand, brewed 2 liters of coca tea to drink in addition to water on the recommendation of a Peruvian who’d mounted Misti twice. It was a bitch carrying a 2-liter of coca AND a 2-liter of water in addition to all my other shit, but I never even noticed the altitude. Only the cold.

That’s my little anecdote on coca. Here starts Matt’s piece:

The Myth

Most Americans believe the coca leaf is the same as cocaine. The average American has not traveled outside of the US, let alone the Andean region of South America.

Yes, one of the coca leaf’s 14 alkoloids is used to make cocaine. But a 1995 World Health Organization report confirmed that when chewed, coca has no side effects. It doesn’t yield a “high.”

Cocaine is made from extracting the alkaloid and mixing it with sulfuric acid, kerosene, and methyl alcohol. The result is cocaine and its equivalent, crack.

Recently, my former U.S. Ambassador Dan Simpson made a trip to Bolivia and suggested ideas for improvement in U.S. foreign policy. In his article, Befriending Bolivia, he compared the coca leaf to cocaine:

Prior to being elected president for the first time in 2005, Mr. Morales headed Bolivia’s coca-growers association — coca as in cocaine, constituting an estimated 10 percent of Bolivia’s economy. Ah, Bolivia.

While I have no idea of his intent, he made a misleading statement – if not a lie – by framing Evo Morales as advocating cocaine.

Brief History of the Coca Leaf

The coca leaf has been a sacred plant in the Andean region for hundreds of years. And throughout history, there has always been a culture vehemently opposed to it.

When Pizarro and the Spaniards arrived in Peru in the 1500′s,  they banned coca. They withdrew the ban when they realized their Incan slaves couldn’t work without it.

In the mid-1800′s, cocaine was recognized for its stimulating capability by German doctors and it became a popular, legal pharmaceutical drug. It was later banned.

Vin Mariani coca wine tonic

A few decades later, Corsican chemist Angelo Mariani began developing coca products. From Cocalife.org:

[O]ne of his products made him rich and famous: Vin Mariani, a Coca wine tonic.

Mariani gained quite a bit of fame with his drink. It was  cherished by royalty in the United States and Europe.

Admirers of Vin Mariani included Queen Victoria, The Pope, President McKinley, and Ulysses S. Grant, who, dying of throat cancer, drank it while writing his memoirs.

Celebrity endorsements arrived from Thomas Edison, Robert Louis Stevenson, Alexandre Dumas, Jules Verne, Henrik Ibsen, and Arthur Conan Doyle.

It inspired John S. Pemberton’s 1885 coca wine drink recipe called Pemberton’s French Wine Coca. Later, after legislation in Georgia, a non-alcoholic, carbonated drink was developed: Coca-Cola.

Coca-Cola contains coca extract

According to this 1988 New York Times article, coca leaf is still used in Coca-Cola’s secret recipe, kept in a vault and known by only a select few employees. A Coca-Cola supplier is the only authorized American importer of coca.

See the Vin Mariani winery in Lima, Peru.

Benefits of the Coca Leaf

Coca has been used for years for energy and to deal with altitude sickness, a healthy alternative to coffee.

This Harvard study found that chewing 100 grams of coca leaves provides a full day of nutritional sustenance. Chewing 100 grams is difficult, but many Bolivians and Peruvians chew 30 grams every day. Getting 30% of their nutritional sustenance for what costs almost nothing is important when living in extreme poverty.

Should Coca Be Legal?

Cocaine trafficking to the United States puts a lot of money in the hands of bad people. The narco money comes from American and European demand, where artificially-inflated prices (due to mandatory minimum drug sentences) make the business so profitable.

On the other side, the coca leaf provides sustenance to poor laborers and plays an important role in Andean culture.

Why does the coca leaf have to be grouped with cocaine when they are two different things? Bolivia asked the UN to separate the coca leaf from cocaine in 2009 , but it was rejected by 17 of the 184 countries that were part of the treaty. Less than 10 percent was enough to impede the change.

Can we develop international regulations for production that circulates the coca leaf as a healthy energy supplement and mood enhancer? Powerful forces want to prevent this.

Here ends Matt’s piece. See his business: Aprender Inglês Sozinho.

I’ll add that George Washington, the Godfather of the American republic, was a fervent advocate of cultivating hemp for its fiber, which made strong rope and clothing. The unrealized benefits of hemp were one downside of the failed drug prohibition, similar to the demonizing of coca.

See my Narcoterrorism article or My War on Drugs Rant.

Related posts:

1. Contributed Story: Revolution in China?
2. Contributed Story: Pooping and Machu Picchu
3. Cocaine Cartels and Economics in Colombia
4. Contributed Story: Chasing Women in China
5. Contributed Story: Instability in Tijuana

Contributed Story: The Truth about Coca

Alternate Title: Promoting Colombian Tourism Better than Anywhere Else on the Web

“Don’t hit me with that positive shit, I know you lyin’.” - DMX

I’d be rich if I had a dollar for every time a gringo or gomelo complained that I “perpetuate the negative image of Colombia.”

My friend Joey was reading my copy of Killing Pablo soon after arriving. Some Colombian gave him shit, told him he shouldn’t be reading it! I couldn’t believe that. One of the most compelling news stories from the continent, and the world’s most famous criminal in a generation – he shouldn’t be reading it. That’s not just Latinos’ aversion to reading, it’s a form of censorship in Colombia. They want foreigners only to read about their coffee, flowers, and pink dolphins.

If you’re familiar with the Colombian English-language blogs, you’ll see most claim to “challenge stereotypes,” to show the “real” Colombia – safe and friendly and beautiful and magic and pasión. Here’s a perfect example, from This is Colombia (I’m picking on him because he’s a friend):

Our aim is to offer an accurate overall representation of the country of Colombia. We hope to increase the general understanding, challenge stereotypes and pass on information for those who would like to know more about what Colombia has to offer…

There’s a real effort to change the image of Colombia from the old stereotypes of cocaine, kidnapping, and guerrillas. It’s a good effort they’re doing, because the country has changed. I wouldn’t have moved here in the 1990s.

But unlike those good gringos, I have no agenda. I don’t give a fuck about your perception of Colombia. If something I write dissuades you from visiting, I won’t lose a minute of sleep. I just don’t care.

I’m not here to perpetuate stereotypes, but I do write about sex, drugs, crime, violence, and vice. It’s just a coincidence I live in Colombia. When I started writing, I had no ambitions of making money as a blogger. I didn’t know what a blog was! I definitely didn’t want to write about Peruvian or Colombian culture.

I was influenced to start writing by Tucker Max. My literary influences include Hemingway, Updike, HST, Garcia Marquez, Burroughs, etc. Like them, I never had any intention to write about sterile subjects. I specifically believed that people only want to read about SIN. Sex, drugs, crime, violence, los pecados capitales, your most hidden secrets and ugliness. That’s what people want to read, and that’s what I set out to create.

Many gringos and Colombians lead clean lives in Bogota and greater Colombia. OBVIOUSLY! People aren’t stupid. You don’t have to tell them that ALL lives in Colombia are not exactly like MY life in Colombia. You can live in the North and never cross 72, which should keep you from ever meeting deported Colombians. You can steer clear of drugs and whores. You can think drinking in Zona Rosa till 3 am is a wild night out. You can hang out with CouchSurfers who play kickball. You can go to megachurches and hang out with Protestants who put their arms in the air while singing Christian rock in Spanish. You can be as square as you want in Colombia, and you can only read about Colombia’s coffee, flowers, and pink dolphins.

Colombia’s sins are on display here only by coincidence that I chose to live in Colombia. But maybe the do-gooders haven’t considered something. What if I was attracted to Colombia specifically because they have the hardest culture of sin?

My old man used to say about me: It doesn’t matter where you put Colin. He will make friends with the lowest common denominator.

Latin America has some of the most corrupt cultures and governments in the world. And the more you learn about Colombian history, the more you’ll come to see Colombian culture as the most corrupt of Latin America. The more you learn about Colombia’s underworld, its sex culture, its drug use, the more you’ll believe Colombia is the devil’s top playground.

Colombia offers the hardest partying in the world. In the first world, you have to make A LOT of money to do what I do. Here, it’s free for us gringos. In the first world, it’s easy to go to jail. Here, it’s hard. You have to be a real asshole to get locked up in Colombia.

The do-gooders have a noble agenda, but some go too far in trying to discredit me. Instead of trying to silence me, why don’t you go after Colombian culture? If you criticized my brothel tours, did you also go after the “Chicas! Chicas!” guys in Zona Rosa and along 15? Do you criticize Colombians who worship beauty pageants, super-models, and plastic surgery? Did you have a problem with Yandar and Yostin’s song, Cripy Cripy or El Capo? Or do you just have a problem with a gringo talking about those things?

When Adriaan Alsema first implied my DAS incident equated censorship, I actually didn’t agree. But given the gringos trying to shout me down COMBINED with my government troubles, I’ve turned 180 degrees to agree with him 100%.

ProExport’s Official Colombia Blogger Campaign (I’m not official)

Colombia’s ProExport has recently launched a bloggers campaign to promote tourism. From Mike’s Bogota Blog:

Incidentally, missing – unsurprisingly – from the official bloggers list is Expat Chronicles, by Colin Post.

Colin, a friend of mine, wrote very frankly and explicitly about sex, drugs and corruption, as well as his own problems with addiction and even mental illness. (And about politics, literature and urban planning.) Colin describes a hidden, dirty reality. That exists to some degree everywhere, but no nation, particularly one with as troubled a past as Colombia’s, wants it to be shown off to outsiders. Colin’s entrepeneurial initiative in setting up a brothel tour business may have been legal, but certainly didn’t help his case with Colombian officialdom, either.

Mike’s right. Am I disappointed or surprised that I didn’t make the cut? No. But do I want to make a point anyway? Yes.

ProExport’s official bloggers are almost 100% coffee, flowers, and pink dolphins. All that’s great, but it has a key flaw. That content is only going to appeal to foreigners ALREADY INTERESTED in Colombia. If someone’s already interested in Colombia, they’re likely to visit whether or not they read your coffee, flowers, or pink dolphins articles. A successful Colombian tourism campaign would target the 99% of the world who don’t give a shit about Colombia. In that respect, their campaign will bring moderate results at best.

Who reaches that 99% better than any other blogger in Colombia? Me. I’d bet 100,000 pesos that I reach more of that 99% than ProExport’s entire stable combined. Take the top two sites (by traffic) there, from two friends of mine: Medellin Living and Mike’s Bogota Blog. I bet even Dave and Mike would agree their readers were already interested in Colombia, Medellin, or Bogota. On the other hand, many of my readers (I estimate half) don’t care about Colombia, Peru, or South America. But because of this site they know Why I’m Bullish on Colombia, Enrique Peñalosa’s innovative ideas, Colombian fruit, Fernando Botero, and more. Maybe coffee, flowers, and pink dolphins someday!

See this comment:

Colin, I am not here to learn more about Columbia or paying (or fantasizing about paying) women for sex. I am here because I have an unwavering admiration for your open hearted honesty and ability to take me into your world without making excuses. If you started to write about your toenails growing you’d probably have my attention.

Mike called the campaign “a good, low-budget strategy for Colombia.” I’d say he was half right. I wouldn’t call it good unless it reaches this 99%.

But can you expect huge results from a government-funded organization? Government outfits (outside military and law enforcement) are, by definition, NOT risk-takers or innovators. People don’t want outside-the-box ideas in government. And endorsing me would be career suicide in a bureacrat’s work environment, so I’m not surprised or disappointed.

Here’s more food for thought for boosting Colombia’s tourism. Are we even sure Colombia’s coffee, flowers, and pink dolphins can compete with their sterile equivalents in Brazil, Mexico, Peru, or Argentina? Maybe. I doubt it. But for sex, drugs, and partying, Colombia crushes the competition. There’s no comparison. This year’s U.S. Secret Service sex scandal in Cartagena will bring more tourism to Colombia than any government organizations’ or do-gooders’ combined efforts for a decade.

In fact, I’ve recently decided I can’t live in Colombia because the rumba is too hard. I’m leaving.

Know When to Fold

I may have a substance abuse problem. I’ve been accused in the past. My bigger problem is not just drinking and drugging. I have a habit of making the wrong kind of friends. It’s an overall, high-octane, drinking-and-drugging, hanging-out-with-crooks lifestyle. It’s always been that way (see my old man’s quote above), and I’m wondering if it always will. Either way, I’ve realized I can’t handle Colombia.

Here’s a juicy quote for Colombian tourism, from yours truly:

If you like drinking and snorting with criminal types and dancing reggaeton with sexy Latinas in sketchy neighborhoods on bad blocks, you won’t find anything in the world like Colombia. Sex, drugs, and danger. The only risk is wanting to stay!

It’s so pervasive in Colombia, you should avoid the country if you have trouble with being sensible and moderate. I’m proof. I didn’t get into this stuff in Peru or anywhere else, but Colombia turned me out. So I gotta split.

Related posts:

1. Why I’m Bullish on Colombia
2. Plan Colombia: An Overview
3. Cocaine Cartels and Economics in Colombia
4. Human Rights in Peru
5. FARC, Guerrillas, and Paramilitaries in Colombia

Censorship and the Image of Colombia

I spent some time in Peru last year, enough time to write 7 articles featuring over 200 pictures.

The trip was planned – sort of. I planned to spend two weeks in Lima getting a new Colombian work visa. A new work visa, as opposed to a renewed visa with the same employer, must be applied for outside Colombia’s borders. I could get it at any Colombian consulate in the world. Last time I chose Buenos Aires. This time I chose Lima so I could sneak down to Arequipa for a few days and see old friends. And I missed Peruvian food!

I had been hired by a Colombian to develop an internet strategy for his business. I’d spend most of the day promoting his website and generating clients via the web. Most of his clients were Colombians, but some were gringos so I could also take phone calls and translate documents.

After I was fired because of this blog, I decided I wouldn’t hide this site anymore. I’m going to tell anybody who may hire me. 100% disclosure – I want people to know exactly who they’re dealing with.

This Colombian businessman is fluent in English, and I sent him my worst articles to read. I mean, the WORST. He read my sleaziest stories and still wanted me to be his internet marketing guy. Plus, he was willing to sponsor a work visa.

Colombia is rare for Latin America in that it limits tourist visas to six months per calendar year. In Peru, on the other hand, you can get a 90 day tourist visa every time you enter. I know a woman who lived in Peru for six years, leaving the country every 90 days just to get a new tourist visa. Sometimes she’d simply drive to Arica, have lunch, and come right back. Colombia’s 60-day tourist visas can only be renewed twice per calendar year. I was fired in March (hence losing my work visa) so a tourist visa started by default, but did not include the one month I spent in St. Louis. My 6 months as a tourist would end in mid-October.

I started work before flying to Lima. In fact, I delayed leaving until the last day before my tourist time expired.

When I got to Lima one of my documents was missing a stamp. I emailed the Colombian and he drew up a new one, then had it notarized and mailed to Lima. I spent a few days in Arequipa, then returned to Lima. The new documents had just arrived. I logged onto the internet to confirm receipt, only to see a surprising email from him (lightly edited):

Some government employees came to talk to me about your web-sites. Even though I don’t hold anything personal against said web-sites, I have to regretfully cancel any work relationship with you. So when you get the signed work offer, please disregard it. This notification supersedes any previous agreement.

Without stating the formal reason why, we have notified the Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores and the DAS.

Fired again – and this guy knew about me beforehand!

I honestly don’t blame him. He was willing to take a risk. He believed in me, enough to bet on me. But he underestimated the pressure he’d have to endure as the sponsor for my being in Colombia. Whatever the funcionarios said, it was enough to change his mind. But we’re still friendly. We had lunch as soon as I came back.

Back to me sitting in my Barranco hostel, having just been fired via email. I had a suitcase with a week’s worth of clothes, and I just learned that I’m stuck in Peru for two extra months. Everything I called a “life” back in Bogota – my apartment, my clothes, everything I own, my gym membership, my cell phone bill, my clients, my friends, my squeeze, everything – I couldn’t return to. It’s a strange feeling if you’ve never felt it.

I feel a new kinship with my Mexican friends who were deported. Only it’s not supposed to happen this way, gringos getting booted from Latin countries?

I wasn’t technically deported. But when people ask why I left Colombia, what should I say? I say I was “pseudo-deported.”

Another interesting angle to this is that I had only been working for this Colombian a very short time. How the hell did anybody know I was working for him? I’d showed the paperwork at the Colombian consulate, but they didn’t receive them. They just noted one’s lack of stamp and dismissed me. They didn’t even get my name.

I thought and thought and eventually realized one way I could’ve been linked to his business, but it was a long shot. And they would’ve had to been watching me very closely. They either found out that way, or I have no idea how.

Imagine how pissed my landlord was to hear me call him from Peru saying I wouldn’t be around to pay rent until January

I’d already endured the DAS and MIA incidents, so I anticipated something going wrong before flying out. So I paid extra for a fully flexible flight. I rescheduled my return trip to Bogota for January. Coming through (formerly DAS) Migración Colombia, I was more nervous than ever. But the guy was as friendly as could be, described in The DAS Incident(s). So I must not be in any computer system.

Soon after returning, the Colombian and I had lunch. He was happy to see I’d closed the brothel tours. He added that if I change the subject matter of this blog, he’d offer me a full-time contract – the salary of which would afford an estrato 6 lifestyle.

A few weeks later he called to tell me the government people really don’t like me. They came into his office asking for all his employees’ IDs. They’d heard there were gringos working there. I hadn’t been in the office since October, and this happened in February.

Given the timing of their timing of their two visits to my boss (just after I left for Lima and soon after I returned), I’m even more paranoid than before.

I’ve also re-thought getting fired by Institute Pimp. I no longer believe he found my site on his own. They’re quite inept with web concepts. I now believe he was contacted by government people, given the timing was within a week of renewing my visa with them.

I published the articles all out of order, but here’s the timeline of my troubles.

2011: Year of Knocks

March 2011 – Fired for this Blog
May 2011 – The MIA Incident
June 2011 – Colombia Reports Controversy Part 1
July 2011 – The DAS(s) Incident
July 2011 – Colombia Reports article on censorship via Expat Chronicles and Brian Andrews
September 2011 – Colombia Reports Controversy Part 2
October 2011 – My Pseudo-Deportation from Colombia

Don’t forget the anonymous snitches and dedicated haters I have. Anyone close to me knows how paranoid I was in the second half of last year. I wouldn’t talk on the phone, email, FB, nothing. I got a glimpse of what it must be like to be a gangster. But if I were a crook or gangster I wouldn’t have a goddamn website!

These songs sum up my 2011:

Rockwell – Somebody’s Watching Me
hook on this track sang by Michael Jackson RIP

Rolling Stones – Fingerprint File
all-time most underrated Stones song

TRU – I Always Feel Like
OK, so this samples Rockwell but it still captures the feeling

Geto Boys – Mind Playing Tricks on Me
my first ever gangsta rap tape

50 Cent – Many Men

Related posts:

1. Why I’m Bullish on Colombia
2. Fired Because of this Blog
3. Food Tours in Bogota, Colombia
4. The DAS Incident(s)
5. Colombia Reports Controversy Part 1

My Pseudo-Deportation from Colombia

Alternate Title: My Last Time Smuggling Contraband From Colombia

Years ago I wrote about smuggling dope into the States. Dwayne’s comment:

You’re crazy to bring drugs into the US — even if it is small amounts for recreational use.

I never think about consequences. I just think how to make it work.

In May 2011 I had to go to St. Louis for two weddings – one for my brother in which I was the best man and the other for one of my best friends in the world, who scheduled his wedding close to my brother’s specifically so I could be there. I was basically in charge of both bachelor parties, and everybody was screaming bloody murder for Colombian cocaine.

I planned to bring a little, but this time I got paranoid before the trip. I couldn’t see myself bringing coke for years with no end. Eventually I’ll get caught.

I started thinking how exposed I am with this blog, which is only growing in popularity. It’s only a matter of time before I’m targeted by authorities.

On the other hand, I was going back for my brother and one of my best friends on the planet. This occasion would never happen again. I had to do it one more time.

Last time I brought cocaine so rocked up it wouldn’t need a bag. I put it in the pocket of jeans so it’d seem like a piece of detergent. But I wanted the American homies to taste Dopeman purity, and he had none rocked. So I used a bag. I paid for three, and what he gave me weighed four  grams with the bag. I rolled, squeezed, and compressed it as hard as I could for an hour until it was smaller than my pinkie finger. I cut off the excess plastic and wrapped the tiny dedo in plastic wrap.

I put the dedo in the dirtiest, nastiest, crustiest sweat sock I wore playing basketball. I put the sock near the bottom of dirty laundry tied up in a plastic bag.

I got super-paranoid again. I considered not doing it, but then I thought I was going soft. Then I’d think it’s stupid and not worth it. My site’s growing, so somebody must be watching me. Then I’d think, nobody knows about this site and I have two important bachelor parties to provide for. I went back and forth. Finally I went through with it.

I arrived at Bogota’s El Dorado airport three hours early. After handing over the suitcase, the airline girl asked if I was carrying luggage for someone else, if I’d packed my own bags, if I had any medicine, blah blah blah. Then she told me I’d been selected for an extra screening and manual inspection of my bags, maybe canine. Is that OK? I nodded.

I went to my gate and panic overwhelmed me. Extra screening and manual inspection when I got four grams of coke? FUCK!!!

I had a counterfeit $100 bill The Mick had given me. Counterfeit money is common in Latin America and everybody inspects currency, especially dollars, so you couldn’t spend it in Colombia. But in the States it’d be easy to pass it off to a server, bartender, or ghetto fast-food worker. I threw it away in case I was going to jail. One less charge.

I had three hours to simmer and sweat in El Dorado. It occurred to me that I could split. But then I’d miss my flight, and Colombian authorities would probably search my luggage in that circumstance. No, I had to ride this one out. I prayed. I prayed to God and Jesus Christ. I hadn’t prayed in years, maybe a decade. But when I was truly scared I prayed. I promised I’d change. “God, I’ll go to church the next six Sundays and do community service back in Bogota, if You just get the dope through.” I must’ve repeated a million times, “God, get the dope through … God, get the dope through … God, get the dope through.”

I got on the plane in Bogota. Part of me wanted to believe they already searched it before putting it on the plane, but I knew the gringos were going to search it Stateside.

I thought about facing the US customs agent. I tried to remember if I get my luggage before facing him or after? Do I have time to rummage through it? I continued to pray, “God get the dope through, God get the dope through …”

The hardest part of smuggling drugs has to be playing it cool in front of customs. I tried my hardest to keep an even voice, not sweat, etc. Everything was going fine. Then, when the customs agent swiped my passport, he looked up and told me I’d have to step aside and wait in the special line along the wall. FUCK!!!

I decided I was going to jail. My biggest worry wasn’t spending time in jail or getting a drug charge on my record. My biggest worry was the embarrassment in front of the whole family and friends. My buddy’s wedding was all ex-cons and dope peddlers anyway, they’d have a laugh if I weren’t there because I was in jail. But at my brother’s wedding, EVERYBODY would ask where I was and EVERYBODY would know why I was locked up. It would undoubtedly be the biggest fuck-up of my life.

I kept praying to God, promising church and community service.

When the line was about ten deep, they took us off to an immigration screening room. Behind six desks were immigration officers scrutinizing people’s visas, aggressively questioning why they were coming to America and how long they’d stay. On my way into this room, a TSA officer pointed at me and asked the officer if I was in the right line. Unfortunately I was. This immigration room is also the waiting room for manual inspection of passengers’ luggage.

I sized up the room, wondering who I’d be in jail with. I was again the only white guy with a blue passport (hence the officer’s confusion). A lot of black Latinos and other Caribbean types with gold jewelry.

An hour went by and I realized I was going to miss my connecting flight to St. Louis. No matter, I thought, I’m going to jail. But I kept praying, “God get the dope through, God get the dope through…”

When most people’s names were called, they’d go up to the desk and face a firing squad-style interrogation. But when they called me, an officer led me outside the room and to baggage claim. He asked me which of 15 suitcases was mine. I grabbed it and he led me into a separate part of customs, where nobody else was passing. He sat me down in a room enclosed with glass walls (like the old smoking lounges), my suitcase just outside the lounge. The idea crossed my mind to get the dope out, but it was in sight of several TSA agents. I kept praying, “God get the dope through…”

They called me out. I grabbed my suitcase and headed to the stainless steel counter where TSA officials do their manual searches. They told me to put the suitcase and my backpack on the counter. I complied and one of them started firing questions. Why am I in Bogota? What am I coming back for? What do I do for a living? They ask questions fast, trying to make you slip up in a lie or say something stupid. “What do you do for a living” is actually a difficult question for me. Sometimes I say “vendor” or “sales” or “English teacher,” but never “writer.” I told her I was an English teacher learning Spanish in Bogota. My being white, handsome, well-spoken and dressed business casual helped.

She opened the plastic bag and started going through shirt pockets. “Is this your dirty laundry?” she asked, surprised.

“Does it smell that bad?” I replied casually. God, please get the dope through.

She was going through all dress shirt pockets, rolled-up sleeves, and socks. I intentionally left an old workout program on an index card in a pair of gym shorts, which she found and showed me. “Oh, thanks,” I acted surprised.

She set the bag of laundry down and started with everything else. The other agent finished with my backpack. The first agent, having emptied my things onto the stainless steel counter, handed my suitcase to the other agent to X-ray the lining. Afterwards she told me to re-pack and move along.

GOD GOT MY DOPE THROUGH.

I’d missed my flight to St. Louis. The airline got me a deal in a Miami hotel. I went outside to catch the shuttle in the hot Miami air. A LOAD OF MY MIND. My nerves had just taken 8 hours of hard stress. As soon as I checked in to the hotel I went to the nearest liquor store and got a fifth of vodka. I drank it in just a couple hours and went to sleep.

I considered dumping the dope at the hotel, since I still had a flight to St. Louis in the morning. I’d have to re-check my luggage, but I wasn’t worried about a domestic flight. I’d gotten over the hump with TSA.

On the flight to STL I thought, How has my life gotten so off-track? I almost went to prison at 18 and turned it all around. I quit drugs and stopped having shady friends. I set an example for the whole family, everyone was proud of the new me. What the fuck has happened? Hanging out with The Mick and deported guys? Using drugs again?

On the MIA-STL flight, I decided it was time to make a change. I’d clean up my act. No more crooks and, more importantly, no more drugs.

When I stepped out of the STL airport to look for my old man, instead I saw my buddies George (my friend getting married) and Mike. My dad had outsourced picking me up at the airport to them, two ex-cons. Mike just got out, it was the first I’d seen him in years. George lit a blunt as I got in the car. And the rap music blared the whole way to his bachelor party. They refused to take me home. The bachelor party started right then.

After telling them the story, Mike asked, “Why didn’t you put it up your ass? It’s not gay to put things up your ass if you’re smuggling shit.” Thanks Mike. I was really worried about being gay.

The bachelor party was four or five dudes drinking at George’s apartment. No girls, no stripper. We snorted half the coke by midnight. My brother showed up, and I gave him the rest for his bachelor party. I told him there’s no way it’ll last through this party, and I don’t want to give him tidbits at his bachelor party of 15 guys. Do with it as you like.

So I was all out of the Colombian cocaine, which I almost got locked up for, in less than 12 hours of landing in St. Louis.

I Need My Head Examined

When I wrote the first article about sneaking dope through, this site was at about 30 visits a day. That’s as close to invisible as a site can be. Back then I wrote as provocative as possible to drive traffic. Now I’m at 300 visits a day, so I need to watch what I say.

It still hurts to think how stupid I was there, and it was almost on display for 90% of my gringo world in St. Louis. It was so stupid I’ve debated whether or not to publish it for a year. I seriously need to have my head examined.

I know a Colombian who got put on that list, unnecessarily as he’s a pure zanahoria – a square. He traveled back and forth often, and was singled out so many times he finally asked why he was getting searched so much. Given I’m on the list, I’m prepared to be manually searched every time now. I need to leave at least three hours for my MIA layovers so I don’t have to stay overnight in Miami. More importantly, I’m never bringing anything suspect, not even a generic Tylenol or pirated DVD.

This occurred two months before The DAS Incident. I don’t think the Colombian authorities had me searched. I believe it was the US embassy in Bogota, but I don’t know for sure. Either way, I can’t be mad. Think of the guy whose job it is to put people on that extra screening list. If he didn’t put me on the list, he wouldn’t have been doing his job. I was asking for it by publishing Smuggling Contraband from Colombia and I need to have my head examined for doing it again after that article.

I can’t blame the embassy gringos or Colombians or whoever had me searched, but I can rant about the failed drug prohibition.

I Owe My Ass to Jesus

I have to pay up to Jesus. I was in church the next six Sundays after the TSA search. I still owe community service.

God is the easiest guy not to pay. When you’re scared you promise the world, but after the fact He’s not going to demand payment. Your credit score doesn’t go down.

It’s easy to rationalize your way out of it. It’s easy to think, “I hid everything really so well, I’m so smart, I’m quick on my feet, I was so cool under pressure. God didn’t get the dope through, I did.”

I ain’t saying any of that shit. I asked for divine intervention, and whether I got it or not, I’m paying up. I’m not going back on my word to God. I went to church the next six Sundays. I used the opportunity to write about two Bogota churches: El Lugar de Su Presencia and Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de Lourdes.

This was a sign if I’ve ever gotten one.

Related posts:

1. The Cusco Incident
2. My 1st Time Bribing Cops in Colombia
3. The DAS Incident(s)
4. My 3rd Time Bribing Cops in Colombia
5. Los Hermanos Angelito in Bogota, Colombia

The MIA Incident

Some readers may know, but most won’t because I’ve never mentioned on this blog the Colombia Reports story about me being called into the DAS. DAS was the Colombian equivalent of the American FBI before being dissolved last year due to various corruption scandals.

I never wrote about it because I didn’t want to provoke Colombian authorities. I’m a writer, nothing more. I don’t sell drugs. I don’t coerce women or deal with underage girls. I write what I see in the streets of Bogota, nothing more. I don’t want problems with authorities. I’m just a writer.

After being called into DAS, I called my personal friend, who happens to be the managing editor of Colombia Reports. I called Adriaan to vent and to ask his opinion. He’s a more experienced gringo publisher in Colombia, with a lot of government contacts and experience. It was a friendly conversation. He told me not to worry and to keep him updated.

Just a few weeks later, reporter Brian Andrews wrote to CR why he left the country in fear of a FARC kidnapping. Adriaan was compelled to write about Andrews and my DAS incident in the context of censorship in Colombia. I did NOT want him to write about my ordeal. He asked my permission before publishing. I stalled, but it was true and Adriaan’s a buddy so I agreed. He also convinced me by saying the authorities don’t want to give me any extra readers / press. So if I write about every time they call me in, they’ll surely stop bothering me. It made sense when he said it, but I don’t believe it anymore

So the story’s been told, but here are the details plus the other incidents.

In June 2011 (almost a year ago) I received a phone call. Leonardo claimed to be with DAS, and he wanted to know why I wasn’t at our meeting the day prior. What meeting? He asked me to come into the office so we could clarify my visa situation. I had lived in Bogota over two years by then, and they’d never called me in before. I’d never even heard of  a gringo being called in.

I wouldn’t have been nervous, but my first Colombian Reports controversy had just happened. This site had just gotten a lot of new attention in Colombia. So I was nervous. I told Leonardo that I didn’t have time for this. He replied that he worked for DAS, and that if he told me I had to come in, then by law I had to come in. Although nervous, I did have a visa issue. I’d recently been fired and entered the country on a tourist visa after attending a wedding in the US.

After the phone call, I went home and found a letter from DAS asking me to see “Detective” Leonardo. It arrived at my house the day after the date of the appointment. See that letter.

For the appointment I wore a shirt and tie. I arrived ten minutes early. Going through security, they told me my guy was on an upper floor (I’d previously only known the first and second floors). On that floor there were no waiting room or other foreigners. Agents walked around with guns on their hips. I found a receptionist and mentioned the Detective I was to meet with. She told me he’d just stepped out.

I waited for twenty minutes or so. I told the receptionist I had an appointment, which I did. I left my phone number and split. I headed south on Carrera 11, stressed that I hadn’t finished this. A few blocks down, I received a phone call from the receptionist. My detective had just arrived and wanted me to come back. I turned around.

Detective Leonardo was clean-cut, young, and most importantly, friendly. He told me he had some questions about my visa and employment in Colombia. I sat down at his desk and the questioning started. I was doing my best to look like a straight-laced professional.

When he asked why I wasn’t with the English institute, I told him they fired me because I wouldn’t work full time. This was a lie. I didn’t want to tell him I was fired because of this site. He asked if I had the institute director’s number. He dialed it up, walking away from the desk and out of earshot for the conversation, which did nothing to calm my nerves. He came back and said the director mentioned some website. I played dumb and we moved on.

After asking all the possible questions he could about the institute – what I’m doing now, my visa – Detective Leonardo threw a packet of papers, at least 50 deep, in front of me. The first page was a printout of Gringos Who Don’t Know How to Act in Colombia, my most recent story at the time and the cause of the first CR controversy. He told me to translate it to him. Imagine my discomfort translating the first paragraphs of that article to an officer of the law…

Fortunately he took mercy and quickly cut me off. He said the website is why he called me in. What’s the deal with this?

I told him I’m a writer. I write about what I see in the street. I told him that while all the stories on the front page at this moment are bad, that’s not all I write about. I told him I’ve written about fruit in Colombia, chiguiro, social issues like limpiezas, tourist dangers like scopolamine, and economics. I don’t only write sleaze.

Detective Leonardo noted all my comments, in addition to my answers to the visa and employment questions, on an official statement. I signed the statement and it was placed in my file. In the statement I was identified as “Colin Post, Interpol # xxxxx …” I don’t know if everybody has an Interpol number, but I know I do.

In leaving, I asked the detective if there was a problem with my writing. I certainly don’t want any problems. He was clear in emphasizing it’s legal, “Es su derecho.” But he said I should be careful with some of these subjects, especially when writing in the first person. We shook hands and said a friendly goodbye.

The Other DAS Incidents

A couple weeks later, Detective Leonardo called me in again. This time, I told Adriaan Alsema I was going in and that if I didn’t call him within two hours, then I was in jail. I wanted somebody to know where I was. I took all my documents with me.

My paranoia was unnecessary. Detective Leonardo wanted to know what I was going to do. He called me in to ask what my plans were. I told him I was going to continue looking for work, and if I didn’t find any by the time my tourist visa expired, then I’d leave. I was out in just a few minutes that time, and I called Adriaan to confirm I wasn’t in jail. A week later Adriaan asked permission to write about my DAS incident.

I have a gringo buddy who plays golf with a DAS guy and some other funcionarios. The gringo told me my name and website came up in conversation one day. They don’t know the gringo and I are friends. The DAS guy in particular hates my site, and me. My buddy acted like he didn’t know me.

Since meeting Detective Leonardo the first time, I’ve been nervous and paranoid every time at the DAS building. Every time is a shirt-and-tie affair, and an air of straight-laced professional. When walking Calle 100, I cut down Cl 99 out of my way so I don’t have to pass the front of the building.

My next DAS trip came just before my tourist visa needed renewing because I didn’t have a job. I used to bring a book and read while waiting. After all this I’m too paranoid to read. Instead I constantly scan all the DAS agents’ faces, trying to see if they give away something in their expression. Do they recognize me? Are they talking about me? I never had any indication that they knew who I was. Then my turn came up at the information desk to see what I need to renew a tourist visa. The guy who works this line is a little older, quite friendly, and speaks English. We spoke Spanish as he gave me the requirements. Then he switched to English: “Don’t worry, you’re home now … You’re well known here.” I thanked him and darted out. I wanted to chuckle because he was so friendly, and it was a friendly thing to say. A gringo told me that may be Colombian sarcasm: “You’re well known here.”

Censorship?

Adriaan’s op-ed got a lot of comments from people who hate me and this site. They argued DAS was right to call me in. Adriaan said governments shouldn’t persecute bloggers. What do I think?

I think both are right. Colombia has a hard past and it’s trying to become a beacon of safety and stability. If there’s a gringo writing what I write with questionable visa status, interviewing him is completely acceptable in my opinion. Adriaan’s also right in his point:

Colin, intimidated by this state interference, got the message. Since his visits to the DAS, Expat Chronicles has been about reggaeton, traffic jams, mullets and, surprise surprise, Colombian painter and sculptor Fernando Botero.

Adriaan’s absolutely right that my content changed because of the DAS incident. However, I wouldn’t use the word “intimidated.” I would say that I wanted to DEMONSTRATE to the authorities that I can write about sterile subjects too. I don’t have to write about sex, drugs, and violence. I’m not a one-trick pony.

So both my critics and Adriaan are right in different ways, but they were both wrong too. Critics suggested there was something illegal in what I do. There isn’t, and Detective Leonardo confirmed that. Adriaan’s article suggests that my sensational content would disappear, but it hasn’t. While I do G-rated articles, this will never be a G-rated blog. See some articles I’ve published since the DAS incidents:

• Deported Colombians from America
• Economics of a Bogota Drug Dealer
• Los Hermanos Angelito in Bogota, Colombia
• An American Prison Rape (my nastiest article ever comes from America, NOT Colombia)

Then again, I certainly toned down Economics of a Bogota Drug Dealer. I was originally going to call it “How to Sell Cocaine in Colombia,” and I delayed it almost a year till things cooled down. Dopeman was willing to pose in a ski mask holding a pistol over his inventory. In light of all that’s happened, not so much …

I started meeting with lawyers as my case in obtaining visas may now need help. One guy was hell-bent on going after the DAS because I didn’t have a lawyer present, I wasn’t given a copy of my statement, etc. I said NO, NO, NO, I do NOT want to start trouble with the government, but thanks for your time!

I went to Peru when my tourist visa ran out, and returned to Bogota in January. As usual now, I was nervous seeing DAS at the airport. Although it technically wasn’t DAS anymore, but I was still nervous. The new signs read “Migración Colombia” – nothing else. A young, handsome guy examined my passport. I tried to charm him. We shared a laugh. He was friendlier than I could’ve ever imagined, even calling me “parce” as we said goodbye. Nice fella.

I’m very interested in Colombian opinions. Please let me know what you think in the comments.

Related posts:

1. The Cusco Incident

The DAS Incident(s)

In June 2011, Colombia Reports included Expat Chronicles with the other Colombia blog feeds on its website. Controversy immediately ensued when my first article to appear involved a lot of snorting coke. In fact, my whole front page at that time had stories about coke, bribing cops, cheating Colombianas, or something offensive to bleeding-heart types.

See that FB thread arguing whether or not Expat Chronicles should be linked from CR.

I published an article on the ordeal, Colombia Reports Controversy Part 1. From that article:

I told the managing editor I understand if he wants to take my posts out of the feed. The first one caused backlash, and it’s going to happen as long as I’m writing. I’m so sure of it I put “Part 1″ in the title of this piece.

Soon after that thread they created a CR FB group to discuss its format, policy, and complaints. For three months Expat Chronicles articles were linked from the CR site and FB feed with no problems. Then I published How to Break Proper-Actin’ Latinas. It’s a quick read if you want to catch up. Here are the bullet-points:

1. Wrap her up.
2. Grab a handful of her hair.
3. Point her lips at yours and put your tongue in her mouth.

This sparked the second Expat Chronicles controversy on CR (6 months ago, just a couple months after the first controversy). Here’s how the FB thread started:

Yesterday, a Colombia Reports “fan” was offended by one of Expat Chronicles’ posts about women. These posts appear, because all blogs on Colombia appear on the facebook page. Do you think we should keep the blogs on CR’s facebook page or remove them?

As opposed to cocaine and partying, this thread argued the treatment of women. Unfortunately, the first guy to complain and primary plaintiff, after arguing back and forth several times, deleted all his comments except the last one. So the thread may not make sense at a few points where it’s missing this gringo’s feminist arguments. Here are screenshots as of today:

Note: I’ve blotted out last names. If anyone would like to be even more anonymous, email me through the FB account. I’ll respect your wishes and I’m nothing if not accessible. That also goes for anybody who left a comment anywhere on this site, just email me if you’d ever like your name / link removed.

This controversy played out nicely in that I didn’t have to argue. My arguments were made before I could make them. First, let’s look at the female comments from my original article. This one from Maria:

I actually enjoy reading Colin’s stories and hey if it works for him… good. He’s not re-writing the Constitution here, it’s a blog and it’s entertaining… Even though I am one of those ‘proper’ Colombian girls

Here’s my favorite, from Judith:

God, those commentators over on the Colombia Reports FB are a bunch of whiny little bitches.

There’s nothing over-aggressive or rapey about those tactics as long as the girl has shown clear and sustained signs of interest. Most women I know would react positively to a man she found attractive acting in such a manner.

And here’s the third and final female comment, from Jessica:

That’s hot. ‘Nuff said.

There were NO female commenters on the Colombia Reports Interaction thread. Not one female voice – Latina or gringa – complained. Why? Maybe it has something to do with an inarguable aspect of Latin culture: traditional gender roles. Samuel makes this point:

ah, the glory of Latin culture, where the women require the men to be MEN.

I like it. It fits a lot of my theory. I wonder… what do you think of the machistas, the guys who run all the macho bullshit? Latina women say they don’t like machistas, but it seems that they sure do respond positively to most of it.

And they’ll damn sure eat a guy alive, if he doesn’t have a good spine and brass balls.

I would imagine this sort of behavior where they wont kiss is so that they dont feel like sluts or come off like sluts, so as long as its “forced” they don’t have to be responsible. Its all a game, but I get it. It also weeds out the spineless dudes. In fact, most romance novels, until more recent years, all involved the guy taking the girl forcefully at first, like a captive or outlaw and having his way… because not only do girls all have fantasies about that, but then they can enjoy it without guilt, because the ‘poor girl’ who was captured had no say in the matter and wasn’t complicit.

Watch the first season of Mad Men and your jaw will drop at the sexism just last century. Feminism has empowered women in magnificent ways. In some ways, however, it’s gone too far. Feminism and Hollywood morals have culturally neutered gringo men. Look at gringa women who go after Latin men. These gringas crave the aggression they’re not getting from the gringo pussies in their worlds.

Here’s one from Enrique on the Colombia Reports Interaction FB thread:

Gringos in Colombia try to force gringo logic and life on others which simply won’t work.

This comment spawned a new saying of mine: “Keep your gringo values in Gringolandia.”

We obviously want to export some gringo values: good governance and the rule of law, customer service and better business practices, egalitarianism, reading and writing, etc. But don’t try to change the entire culture, especially where gringo “progress” went too far.

I’m a product of Gringolandia and Hollywood morals. Almost until I completed university, I was gentle with women. I didn’t start playing rough and manhandling until well into my 20s. I learned that spanking, pulling hair, and choking women during sex makes them fall in love. I don’t know why, but it does.

My St. Louis buddy Joey got a culture shock in Bogota. The main reason I wrote How To Break Proper-Actin’ Latinas was because of how surprised he was whenever I did it. He saw it work with three girls in two weekends. His shock bordered on hating. He tried calling me out in front of other gringo expats a few times, none of whom cared.

Joey’s been in Bogota over six months now. He has a beautiful, estrato 6 girlfriend. He has recanted his previous hating. He told what he’s been doing to his girl sexually. He slapped her once, and she asked for it harder. So he smacked the shit out of her. He smacks her during sex, and even fish hooks her with his thumb. She loves it. She’s sprung.

So there may be something about Latin culture, or Latin women, that will change you before you change them.

In Colombian author Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera (great book), there’s a costeña woman who’s raped as a young girl. She confesses that she loves the stranger who raped her, and he’ll always have her heart. No matter how much feminism or cultural forces try to change our psychology, women’s sexual experience is very masochist. I’ve thought about what it’d feel like to be penetrated, and I can’t imagine anything pleasurable about it, even with a little one. And women like it hard with big ones. There’s an inherent submissiveness and masochism in female sexuality. No gringo progress or feminism can change that.

I’ve never raped a woman nor been accused. I’ve never hit a woman intentionally. I’m not abusive. But I’m not delicate or pretty and never will be.

I don’t only use  that tactic because women like it. There’s another reason that didn’t come up in the comments. Forcing the issue also serves to let me know where we stand. As have most men, I’ve been sidelined into being “friends” by playing nice with women. A heterosexual man and a heterosexual woman can’t be just friends – not hanging out alone anyway. One will eventually want the other. If she wants him, the man will either give it to her or cut her off as a “friend.” Women, on the other hand, will string a guy along forever if he keeps hanging around. She’ll even convince herself they’re friends. These are the women who say things like, “All my friends are guys.” Yeah, right.

Years ago I got strung along for a few weeks and decided it’d never happen again. I take the risk of getting slapped or pissing a girl off with my tactic. Either one’s fine with me. At least I won’t waste any more time. Go find another friend.

Managing editor and friend, Adriaan Alsema, defended me during the first controversy, but this article seemed to offend his liberal sensibilities. Expat Chronicles is out of the CR feed. Here’s the first complaint from the first controversy:

I’ve read this guy’s blog and while I find some of his entry’s interesting, the profanity and content doesn’t quite “go” with what I though CR was all about….just sayin’.

I actually agree. Colombia Reports is a reputable news source, cited by both Google and The New York Times. Reputable news sources generally don’t link to sites like Expat Chronicles. I can’t blame Adriaan.

And I got significant traffic from CR’s huge readership, but I can’t complain because Expat Chronicles is still goin’ hard, and traffic’s up since getting removed.

Screenshots of the first CR FB controversy (some comments were deleted from this thread as well):

Related posts:

1. Colombia Reports Controversy Part 1
2. All Colombian Women Cheat
3. Vanity and Colombian Women
4. Colombia Bang: E-Book by Roosh V
5. Joey’s First Days in Bogota, Colombia

Colombia Reports Controversy #2 – The End

La Universidad Nacional de Colombia AKA “La Nacho” is the largest university in the country. It’s also a hotbed for extreme political views. While UPN may have more riots (my 1st time tear gassed), La Nacho’s riots are bigger (my 2nd time tear gassed).

Pictures include tributes to FARC terrorist and kidnapping innovator Mono Jojoy, and FARC figurehead Manuel Marulanda. Other graffiti supports Che Guevara, Fidel Castro, the ELN, and the Basque-Spanish separatists, ETA. The first shot of Che Guevara is a signature image of Bogota. One hot political topic at the time I got the pics were the planned US military bases in Colombia, which was ruled unconstitutional. Hence the ‘Yanquis Out’ and ‘No Gringo Bases’.

It’s only fair to note that these extreme political views – advocating history’s worst economic idea that was defeated in the public realm 20 years ago – and graffiti are perpetuated by a tiny minority of La Nacho students. I’ve met students who HATE those extremists and what they do to their school. So despite its overwhelming presence on campus, it doesn’t represent even a common opinion. Former Universidad Nacional dean and Colombian presidential candidate Antanas Mockus once mooned a group of disorderly students, and his public support skyrocketed, propelling him to mayor of Bogota.

I took these pics in January 2011 and forgot to publish until now, so many have changed. Most pictures are written messages, but there are also non-political murals. For easier viewing of pictures, see the La Nacho Graffiti album on the Expat Chronicles FB page.

Related posts:

1. Riot at Colombia’s National University
2. Ave Suba Murals in Bogota, Colombia
3. 2012 Murals in Chapinero, Bogota
4. Understanding Uribismo
5. Chapinero in Pictures

Socialist Graffiti at Colombia’s National University

Take a Graffiti Tour in Bogota.

Bogota street artists update their work every couple years. You can see Chapinero murals from 2009 in the previous post, Chapinero in Pictures. Few of those remain. Below are the new editions.

See my other mural collections:

Ave Suba Murals
2010 La Candelara Murals
La Candelaria in Pictures
Barranco Murals

Notable:

1. Artists are starting to incorporate natural images. Lots of frogs and jungle. I like it.
2. More and more, corporate acts are getting involved in Bogota street art. Most notable is Sprite, also Immortals (film) and Alcatraz (show).
3. On Calle 57 west of Caracas (technically Teusaquillo, not Chapinero) is a huge Free Palestine mural by Toxicomano, Bogota’s most famous artists.
4. Nature, corporate sponsors, Palestine, and large murals are grouped together.
5. The image of a police officer on Calle 55 just east of Caracas (also known as the Mariachi block) is a new edition on what once was the top dope street in Chapinero. The coke spots shut down and the cop mural went up.
6. One of the nature murals features an Indian shooting a blowgun – bad ass.
7. I got the fresh Calle 53 mural in progress, with the artist. They’re starting to put out “Apoya Arte” (Support Art) cans for donations while they work, plus email addresses in their works.

Related posts:

1. Ave Suba Murals in Bogota, Colombia
2. 2010 Murals in La Candelaria, Bogota
3. Chapinero in Pictures
4. Chapinero Alto in Pictures
5. Barranco Murals in Lima, Peru

2012 Murals in Chapinero, Bogota

Avenida Suba in La Castellana neighborhood of Bogota is a hotbed of street art. Here are the more elaborate images.

Dig murals? Take a Bogota Graffiti Tour.

See my other mural collections:

2010 La Candelara Murals
Chapinero in Pictures
La Candelaria in Pictures
Barranco Murals

Prefer viewing pictures on Facebook? See the Ave Suba Murals album on the Expat Chronicles FB page.

Related posts:

1. 2010 Murals in La Candelaria, Bogota
2. Pictures of Barranco in Lima, Peru
3. Bogota’s Zona Rosa in Pictures
4. Photo Exhibit in Bogota
5. Pictures of Miraflores in Lima, Peru

Ave Suba Murals in Bogota, Colombia

Joey is a good friend from Chicago. When he visited Europe, he wrote an article for this blog. He recently decided he wanted to come to Latin America. He wasn’t particularly hot on Bogota or even Colombia, but he knew I was here and could help him. So he came to Bogota in July.

Joey’s flight arrived around 9 pm. As soon as he exited the terminal, I pointed him to the outdoor dollar exchange. Change ALL your dollars! During the transaction, I produced a pint of red Nectar aguardiente from my pocket and two vasitos. I served us right there at the dollar exchange window. Before leaving the dollar lady said to Joey in English, “Careful.”

After getting a registered taxi, we started toward Joey’s indefinite temp home in La Candelaria. In the taxi, I produced a gram of impressively pure Colombian cocaine. I took a key bump to illustrate it’s OK to snort in taxis. He couldn’t believe it. He was hesitant to take one himself.

This is the only way to pick friends up from the airport in Colombia – with a bottle and a gram.

We started drinking at the hostel before hitting Doña Ceci’s for a round, then made our way to Quiebracanto (it was a Wednesday). Joey bartended in downtown St. Louis, so he’s used to unsafe streets. But downtown Bogota at night is a different world. Especially after midnight, everything has a sketchy vibe. Running around in those streets, drinking and snorting, keeps you on your toes.

Joey’s second day I took him around North Bogota to meet potential English students. In Chicó’s clean, developed, safe feel during the beautiful daylight hours, Joey saw a stark contrast from the previous night of sketchy streets and drugs.

After a few hours meeting rolo professionals, we jumped on a bus heading South through Chapinero. I jumped from my seat when I saw The Mick on his bicycle. “Joey, you gotta meet this guy,” as I rang the bell for the bus to stop. We had to run, but we caught up with The Mick. He was on one of his terrible benders. After pleasantries he said, “How ’bout a drop of whiskey?” Joey and I were still hung over from the night before, but we went to the liquor store for Something Special to get it started.

Joey had read much of this blog before coming, so he already knew of The Mick. He was intrigued at the Irishman who did four years in Colombian prison in the 80s, even shanking another inmate.

After getting whiskey, The Mick led us to one of his favorite rock bars. He hangs out there for the music. He does not hang out there to meet underage boys, which this bar is somewhat known for. The manager rides the local boys who want to be ridden. He gives them free lunches and drugs in return for their favors. I explained this to Joey over our first round of  beer, while he took note of all the boys in high school uniforms with tongue rings and lip piercings. It looks like the manager buys them oral piercings too.

If the previous night drinking in downtown Bogota didn’t do it, this was Joey’s wake up call. Not in Missouri anymore, he said “That’s fucked up.” I explained him my vice theory to understanding Latin America – especially Colombia. Think of every vice or anti-social behavior in the world. For every one, there is a percentage of offenders in the States. In Latin America (and especially Colombia), that percentage is higher. Degenerate alcoholics, degenerate gamblers, thieves, killers, con men, whores and whoremongers, drug addicts and drug dealers, wifebeaters – everything. Across the board, each one comprises a higher percentage of society than in the States.

That analogy helps. So did some of The Mick’s jaw-dropping stories of the seedier side of Colombia.

We kept drinking in Chapinero until night fell, when we found ourselves in the Hippies Park (Calle 60 and Septima) with a caleña chick. This girl took a liking to Joey and it was quickly evident that I was the third wheel. It wasn’t late, but it was night-time in Chapinero and they were looking to me to answer, “What are we going to do?” I hailed a taxi and directed him to Amarte, a sex hotel nearby. Joey had no idea where we were headed, even when I walked them in to do the talking. I told him to give me money, paid with it, and left him to the hotel staff. I went home, smiling at having dropped Joey off at the sex hotel within 24 hours of landing in Bogota.

The next day was Friday. I had brothel tours all weekend. Friday night’s client was staying in a hostel nearby Joey’s. He had a late night flight, so we met up around 8 pm. I told him I was “training” Joey. He was Nigerian – my first African client – in Bogota for work. He was also the brokest clients I ever had. His budget was about the least you can get it done for without resorting to streetwalkers.

Because of his lack of funds, I decided against taking a taxi into Santa Fe. If you speak Spanish and know the rules of Latin American cities, you can easily get along without getting robbed. You only get in trouble if you ask for it. Going to Santa Fe isn’t necessarily asking for it, but walking there is borderline. But we were three – one of whom was black – and it wasn’t too late. We should be fine. So Joey’s third night started with a hike up Decima, down Calle 22, and into the devil’s lustful den.

They call Las Vegas “Sin City,” but it ain’t got shit on Bogota or Medellin. I don’t care where you’ve partied in Gringolandia, you haven’t seen much if you haven’t been to a Colombian zona de tolerancia.

On weekends I usually refuse to take clients to Santa Fe because it’s so crowded. The whores are getting ran up in all night long. If the client wants a hot one, you almost have to grab her as she’s coming back from the bedrooms. But this client was broke and in a hurry, so Santa Fe was the only option. We crowded into a small table. I usually didn’t drink on tours, but this was Friday night and dude was in a hurry. Joey marveled at the scene, at how easy it was to buy sex, at the show and the wild drunkenness, and how quickly we were in and out of there. Then we went drinking at downtown salsa spot, Goce Pagano.

The next night, Saturday, I had a client from the opposite end of the spectrum. He was staying at La Fontana (arguably the nicest hotel in the country) and his primary concern was safety. These are the preferred clients for a few reasons.

1. They’re not price-sensitive, so 50,000 pesos more or less isn’t going to break a deal with a ho.
2. The high-end ho houses pay commission (average 30%) on the room and bar. So if the client bangs a ho and nothing else, it’s an extra 30,000 pesos in my pocket (rooms cost 100,000).
3. These are the only clients who may tip.

We picked the client up and took him to a high end brothel near Parque 93. Joey was “training” again. The client bought us beers, plus whiskeys for not one but two whores. He settled on one and I negotiated the deal. When he finished he invited everybody to another round. In two nights, Joey went from one of Colombia’s seediest red light districts to its poshest. After dropping the client off at the hotel, we went straight back to the Park 93 whorehouse to get my commission. Then I invited Joey to a night of drinking guaro with two Colombian chicks we’d met in Zona Rosa.

Sunday we met up for lunch with five-day hangovers. He started bitching about money. He’d come down with almost none, spent most of it, and didn’t have a job yet.

Joey, I said, it’s time you meet the deported niggaz. I took him over to Dopeman‘s. I’d hinted at this back in St. Louis, but now I told him in exact words. Joey, you’re right in the heart of all the gringo tourists, many of whom want drugs. I know a few Colombians who sell drugs to tourists, most are horrible. They triple the price on shit quality / quantity. And if a gringo goes to one of those sketchy street hustlers, he may get robbed. You’d be doing them a favor, and a valuable service to Bogota tourism by keeping gringos safe. By simply doubling prices, you’ll clean up. Just keep a low profile, especially with hostel staff. And the gringos will come back.

He was hesitant at first, but it ultimately proved an income stream important enough that he refused to move to Chapinero a few months later. He’s since making enough clean money and quit hustling weed and coke to tourists. It was a stepping stone.

At Dopeman’s, it was a full house as usual. Joey gets along with the deported guys, but in time he became a nagging voice against hanging out with them so much. In his words, “It’s just a matter of time before something fucked up happens hanging around those guys.”

Joey’s first week was not a Lonely Planet, Trip Advisor, or Rated G look at Bogota. It was an Expat Chronicles intro to Bogota:

• Day 1 – drinking and snorting from the airport to downtown Bogota.
• Day 2 – kiddie porn rock bar with The Mick to the sex hotel with a Colombiana.
• Day 3 – Santa Fe brothel tour followed by Goce Pagano salsa bar.
• Day 4 – Park 93 brothel tour followed by Zona Rosa street drinking.
• Day 5 – Dopeman’s spot and meeting the deported crew.

After a few months in town, Joey and I sat down to a roasted chicken dinner (pollo asado). We ordered a half-chicken, and when it arrived I was like a proud dad seeing his son learn the ways of the world. When our platter arrived, Joey immediately threw the plastic gloves aside onto the table, followed by the arepas. He proceeded to eat the chicken with his fingers. A real gringo and white man!

P.S. If a gringo eats chicken with gloves, give him a slap for me

Related posts:

1. Los Hermanos Angelito in Bogota, Colombia
2. Scopolamine in Colombia
3. South London Gangster in Colombia
4. Bogota Brothel Tours
5. Bogota Zombie Bums

Joey’s First Days in Bogota, Colombia

Horrorcore is music’s strangest subgenre. It’s murderous and bloody like death metal or goth, but it’s hip hop.

It’s strange because goth and black metal generally doesn’t appeal to black people. I never met a black guy who thought he was a vampire, wore makeup, or filed their teeth. However, the themes of serial killing, cannibalism, and Satanism can be found in this strange mix of gangsta rap and horror.

Geto Boyz “Chuckie”

Dwarf rapper Bushwick Bill raps this ode to the killer doll in horror flick, Child’s Play. Recorded in 1991, it’s the earliest horrorcore track I know of. We Can’t Be Stopped was my first gangsta rap tape. The hit single Mind Playin’ Tricks on Me has vague tones of horrorcore.

Gravediggaz “From the Dark Side”

This song’s beat and sound completely embody horrorcore. The Gravediggaz are the genre’s most respected act. Wu-Tang beats genius RZA is a member. Their sound is very East Coast. This track is featured on the soundtrack of horrorcore film, Tales From the Hood.

Anybody can enjoy Gravediggaz’ Tonite is a Special Nite, even if you’re not into horrorcore.

Brotha Lynch Hung “Season of da Sicc”

Brotha Lynch Hung is the most horrific of horrorcore artists. He raps about cannibalism and killing babies. His music is also classic, West Coast gangsta rap. It’s gang-banging music. In the album title “Season of da Siccness,” he misspells ‘sickness’ with two C’s so as not to use ‘CK’, which stands for ‘Crip Killer’. That whole album is rather listenable for rap fans, but his best track is Situation on Dirty from the I’m Bout It soundtrack.

Insane Clown Posse “Psychopathic”

ICP are the token white act here, and by far the most successful. I’m embarrassed to say I was an ICP fan in high school. I grew out of it, but over the years I’d often marvel at their longevity. They released their first album, Carnival of Carnage, in 1992. More popular than ever, ICP may be the most prolific rappers in history.

Chicken Huntin was their most commercially viable track by the time I quit listening, but they’ve put music out for over a decade since and spawned a cult-like following. You may recognize their label’s logo from car decals and t-shirts, or often as a tattoo. They’re among few musical acts that inspire tattoos, and I’d bet ICP tattoos outnumber any other musicians’.

ICP video Miracles recently went viral (9.5 million views, 66,000 dislikes to 42,000 likes), which was parodied by Saturday Night Live. It went viral precisely because of how hated ICP are, especially by the music industry establishment. Their outcast status appeals to their outcast following. Fans are often obese, ugly, dirt poor, scrubs, and/or from a trailer park. ICP validates these social outcasts and makes them feel a part of something, hence the cult.

Insane Clown Posse had a foray into professional wrestling. Here’s a tribute video to ICP wrestling, which includes their amateur experience. They ascended to performing alongside A-list wrestlers on primetime WCW and WWF. Watch ICP get their asses kicked by Billy Kidman and Rey Mysterio.

ICP are so bizarre they could warrant their own article. Wired Magazine did exactly that in an in-depth look at the ICP brand. How did these hated clown rappers become so rich? Insane Clown Posse are pioneers in cultivating and monetizing their tiny niche. How Two Outcast Rappers Built an Insane Clown Empire is required reading for independent artists. From the article:

[ICP] discovered a formula for success in the Internet age that the larger music world is only now waking up to: Build close relationships with fans, develop ancillary profit streams, keep production and promotion costs down, turn every concert and album into an event (even if that requires industrial soda sprayers), and, most of all, do everything yourself. Bruce and Utsler, in other words, have become two bona fide 21st-century music magnates.

ICP is the least listenable music on this list for any socially mature person. However I do still have some of their instrumentals in my iTunes. See Ringmaster’s Word.

DRS “Sickness”

Horrorcore just got even weirder than ICP. DRS is more R&B than rap. Horrorcore R&B. Listen for yourself. Despite their smash hit Gangsta Lean and a high quality album (for 1993), the group never produced more music.

Koopsta Knicca (of Three 6 Mafia) “Torture Chamber”

Added at the suggestion of a friend. Samples Metallica.

Related posts:

1. An Ode to Todd Shaw, American Pioneer
2. Listen to Old Music

Horrorcore: Music’s Strangest Subgenre

The Mick came to Colombia with his Irish girlfriend Mary Anne in 1986. They’d been living in the Amsterdam drug scene. An Uruguayan crackhead recommended they bring cocaine from Colombia. He put them in touch with an acquaintance in Bogota. They organized investors, then flew to meet the crackhead’s acquaintance. He introduced them to Los Angelitos.

Los Angelitos were brothers, Alberto and Eduardo, mid-level gangsters. Not “made” guys, but career criminals semi-affilitated with the Cali Cartel. Aside from the occasional contract killing and kidnapping, Los Angelitos specialized in clearing drug mules through El Dorado airport security and onto international departures. They dressed as pilots.

Los Angelitos put The Mick in touch with with a Cali Cartel connection to buy three kilos of cocaine. Then The Mick, Mary Anne, and Alberto entered El Dorado airport for a flight to London. The Mick and Alberto each carried suitcases loaded with cocaine. The trio was detained and searched as soon as they entered the airport. The authorities had recently caught on to Los Angelitos.

All three were jailed. Mary Anne went to Buen Pastor, the women’s prison in Bogota; The Mick and Alberto went to La Modelo. Aside from a Colombian prison murder, The Mick had no problems despite being a gringo with no Spanish. He credits Alberto for not abandoning him. Alberto got a cell for them to share. Alberto also gave The Mick money, of utmost importance in Latin American prisons. Eduardo sent Alberto money; Alberto shared with The Mick.

As soon as she arrived in prison Mary Anne learned she was pregnant. The Catholic church negotiated her return to Ireland. After getting established in La Modelo, The Mick arranged with Alberto to take all the legal blame for the cocaine. Alberto was released after five months, and in return sent The Mick money for all four years of his sentence.

When The Mick was released in 1989, Alberto and Eduardo picked him up. They went drinking at a tienda near the prison. With four years in Colombia at this point, The Mick noticed Los Angelitos’ particular Colombian style. They were embambados – blinged out in gold necklaces, rings. Gucci shoes. Fancy clothes. They picked him up in a BMW. While drinking in the tienda another car rear ended the BMW while parking. Before the drunk driver got out, Eduardo approached his car and shot him in the head. This was The Mick’s first night out of prison.

The Mick moved into Los Angelitos’ family home in Barrio Estrada (near Simon Bolivar Park) with their mother Señora Angelito and Alberto. Eduardo lived nearby with his girlfriend and her niece.

Los Angelitos already had work for The Mick. They had just kidnapped a doctor from Barranquilla. The doctor’s brother had a debt with the cartel, and they were contracted to collect it. Killing Pablo by Mark Bowden tells how kidnapping became a common way to collect debts in Colombia.

Los Angelitos set The Mick and the Doctor up in a plush finca with a pool. They gave him a pound of marijuana. Doctor was obese and the finca lie in the bottom of a valley. The Mick says Doctor couldn’t have escaped if he wanted to, given his physical condition and how quickly The Mick could catch him. So he didn’t keep Doctor tied up or anything. He went jogging every morning and enjoyed leisurely swims while smoking away on the pound. After four years in Colombian prison, The Mick was in heaven. He and Doctor became friends. The Mick taught him how to play backgammon. They spent a month together by the time Doctor’s brother paid up, and The Mick returned to Casa Angelito. He says he was never paid a penny, but he doesn’t complain because he enjoyed his time at the finca.

Back in the city, The Mick found work teaching English and brought money into the household. One day he invited Eduardo’s girlfriend and her niece for a drink in Zona Rosa. After only a couple drinks the girls were too nervous to stay. They said Eduardo would beat them if he found out. He was fucking both of them. So their night out was cut short.

A few months into his stay, Señora Angelito insisted The Mick move out to make room for Sicariazo, a “friend of the family” from Cali. The Mick got an apartment in Chicó. He settled into a comfortable life with plenty of money, women, and rumba.

One night The Mick came home to find a letter from his empleada (cleaning lady / domestic servant):

Alberto llamo su hermano murio

In Spanish, addressing someone in the third person as ‘usted’ is a sign of respect, so the empleada’s note could have two meanings. The Mick took it to mean his own brother in Dublin died. He started drinking. It was raining, and back then Colombian phones didn’t work in the rain. He couldn’t call home.

The Mick was good and drunk by the time he learned that Alberto’s brother Eduardo had been killed. Eduardo was alone with his mistress when he was shot six times in the head. The mistress took three bullets in her left leg.

A month later Alberto was found shot to death at Eduardo’s grave. The Mick says this is very Colombian – sending a message and spreading terror by executing Alberto while he was mourning his brother’s death.

After four years in La Modelo, The Mick was plugged into the criminal scene in Bogota. He learned Sicariazo was sent from Cali to kill Los Angelitos. They borrowed cocaine on loan and didn’t paid on time. Their mother had kicked The Mick out to make room for her sons’ killer. He ate and slept in the family home while planning the murders.

Related posts:

1. Introducing The Mick
2. South London Gangster in Colombia
3. The Mick’s Prison Murder
4. A Public Hanging in South Bogota
5. Economics of a Bogota Drug Dealer

Los Hermanos Angelito in Bogota, Colombia

Alternate Title: How to Sell Cocaine in Colombia

Last year I published the macroeconomic cocaine industry in Colombia article, Cocaine Cartels and Economics in Colombia. This year we’ll take a look at the microeconomic level. In the spirit of Freakonomics writer Sudhir Venkatesh reporting on a Chicago street gang’s economics selling crack, I’m delivering a less in-depth look at a Bogota drug dealer’s business.

Note: I’m not going to introduce you to Dopeman. Do NOT contact me for drugs.

For this article I interviewed “Dopeman,” a mid-level drug dealer.

There are different ways to sell drugs in Colombia. You can avoid most trouble by catering to tourists and always moving around like my buddy Gustavo. You can sell in the street, or join a gang that sells in a specific neighborhood – both of which are much more dangerous. Dopeman’s method centers around maintaining a low profile in Chapinero, a crowded neighborhood where people are constantly coming and going.

For practical purposes, 1 US Dollar = 2,000 Colombian Pesos (2000 pesos = $1).

(All prices are in Colombian pesos)

Cocaine

Cost of a kilo: $3,200,000 COP
Cost per gram: $3,200
Price per gram: $10,000
Profit per kilo: ~$7,000,000

LSD

Cost of a carton (25 hits): $200,000
Cost per hit: $8,000
Price per hit: $20,000
Profit per carton: $300,000

Ecstasy

Cost of 20 pills: $120,000
Cost per pill: $6,000
Price per pill: $20,000
Profit per 20 pills: $280,000

Cripy (high-quality marijuana)

Cost of pound: $500,000
Cost per gram: $1,100
Price per gram: $5,000
Profit per pound: $1,750,000

LSD, ecstasy, and cripy come ready to sell. But Dopeman’s cocaine comes in liquid, the form mules carry because it’s easier to swallow. So Dopeman’s connection is a lab fairly high in the supply chain. To convert it from liquid to powder, he simply pours it onto a plate and sets it under a UV light for a day or two. Once dry he chops it up.

Any coke dealer will tell you they don’t cut their cocaine (mix it with other stuff to make it weigh more). Dopeman is the one I believe given its purity. He charges 10,000 / gram, a higher price in Colombia. He says dealers who cut it usually use baking soda or an over the counter pill that has a numbing effect. Cocaine’s also sprayed with acetone to weigh more. When Colombians snort coke they deem to be low quality, they say “¡Acetona!” It’s like saying “garbage” or “no good.” Dopeman says acetone is used in the original processing, so all cocaine has a little acetone smell. It’s impossible to get acetone-free cocaine, but I wouldn’t know.

An important part of selling drugs in Bogota is moving product around the city – drugs and guns. It’s important to have taxi drivers you trust. They have prices for everything, but the key is to get a driver who won’t stop if the cops try to pull him over.

Profit Breakdown

Dopeman’s profits break down as follows:

Cripy 35%
Cocaine 25%
LSD 25%
Ecstasy 15%

I was surprised Cripy was his most profitable product. In the States, the highest-earning drug dealers sell cocaine, a function of the inflated price.

Core Competencies

I asked Dopeman the two most important core competencies for success in this business.

1) Networking – always meeting new people. This is crucial for (A) gaining new suppliers with higher quality or lower prices, and (B) expanding the client base.

2) Maintaining Respect – not allowing haggling, negotiating. You can’t let people think they can handle you or they will. Set ground rules with clients, such as not showing up at the house unannounced. And of course not seeming like an easy mark to rob.

Violence a Part of the Business

Violence is an assumed core competency in any illegal business. Dopeman has a few knives, a 7 mm Beretta, and a .38 revolver. He had a taser for a while but lost it. Three times he’s had to track down customers who were ignoring their debts and pull a gun, two of which he did alone and one he did accompanied by three friends.

One night Dopeman attended a party in Restrepo, a South Bogota neighborhood. He made friends and sold some bags. Then a local from the neighborhood asked him to step outside. A couple others were waiting out there, and one showed a pistol. They told him he wasn’t to sell cocaine in that neighborhood.

I asked if Dopeman ever went after someone who he thought was competing for his business. He said he never has because given his quality and pricing, he doesn’t lose clients. Plus, Chapinero is so big, so busy, and so uncontrollable that nobody tries to claim it as their own.

Once I was over at Dopeman’s place and there were no less than ten deported Colombians from America over there. Not one girl, but ten of these Latin King type gangsters. I noted it’d be difficult to rob this house.

During our interview Dopeman said someone did try to rob him once. They came when it was a full house, as it often is. Two guys came, one with a pistol and the other with a cattle prod, and when they saw the situation they quickly backed out and left.

There was an attempt on Dopeman’s life. He’d been selling coke out of a Chapinero bar. A local gang got jealous. They weren’t jealous because he was taking their customers. They were a gang of thieves who smoke crack in la L. They were just jealous. One of them went after him in the bar with a knife. One of Dopeman’s friends saw the knife and knocked him down. The crew jumped on the would-be assassin, killing him right there in the bar. In Dopeman’s words: “That nigga got killed with knives, bottles, chairs, hands, feet … That nigga got mutilated.” There wasn’t much of an investigation. Dopeman was willing to tell police what happened, but they didn’t call him for a week. Even after they called, he never went in to talk and they never came to his house.

A friend of Dopeman’s, another deported Colombian from America, was killed for selling drugs. A Cali gang deemed he had taken away some of their business and shot him four times in the head. In the Colombian drug business, life is cheap. It takes a lot less to get killed than in the States.

International Cocaine Trade

The most profitable way of making money off Colombian cocaine is getting it into the US, Europe, or Australia. Fittingly, the most difficult part is getting it into Gringolandia – whether it be by air, mail, foot, speedboat, submarine, whatever. If you can’t get it in, you’re not in business.

Since meeting a bunch of deported Colombians, I’ve been offered to carry twice. International traffickers pay a premium for gringo mules since Colombian passports draw extra scrutiny. Gringos are more likely to get the dope through. The going rate is $6,000 – 10,000 USD depending on how much you can carry on a plane, which depends on how big you are. In addition to your fee, they pay for your flight and any necessary documentation. The second offer I refused included a week vacation in Barcelona.

I’ve received two hard sells, two soft sells. So technically four. I asked how often he’s asked for mules and Dopeman replied without hesitation, “Daily.” Mules are ALWAYS needed. Especially gringos with blue passports.

Watch the award-winning Colombian film Maria Full of Grace, which depicts girls swallowing dedos, the small rubber tubes of cocaine. One burst dedo would result in certain death. So they put three coats of wax on each one. Nobody I know has heard of a swallower dying. But they get caught and face long prison sentences.

Dopeman knows two gringos who got caught muling coke through airports. One was the guy’s first time. He got nervous on the plane. When he arrived in Spain he turned himself in voluntarily at customs. He probably got a light sentence, but the Colombian traffickers are understandably pissed and want him dead. It’s safe to assume he won’t come back.

The second gringo was set up. He’d done it several times successfully with Dopeman’s associates. He got comfortable with the operation. Then he went partying in Cali and met some new traffickers. He agreed to mule for them. He was caught and is currently serving time in a Scandinavian prison. Dopeman believes he was set up by the caleños. He says traffickers sometimes tip off the authorities on one guy so others are sure to get through. The fall guy probably didn’t swallow 100% cocaine. Dopeman says the paisas may be the least trusted, but “them Cali niggaz are grimy.” They don’t give a fuck who goes to jail as long as they get their dope through.

Dopeman estimates mules get caught at a rate of 15%. FIFTEEN PERCENT! 1 out of 7 – that sounds really fuckin’ high to me!

True Capitalists

In My War on Drugs Rant I argue against the futility in combating drug traffickers. I’ll take that position further to appeal to any right wingers, “Austrian” economists, and laissez faire advocates. Selling illegal drugs is the ultimate free market. There is no government regulation, litigation, trademark protection, contractual enforcement – NOTHING. It’s free market capitalism to the extreme.

Cocaine industry music:

Rick Ross – Hustlin’
1st rapper to say “I cut ‘em long, I cut ‘em wide, I cut ‘em fat…”

UGK – Pocket Full of Stones
RIP Pimp C

Dru Down – Ice Cream Man
Original ice cream man bringing humor to the cocaine industry

Clipse – Grindin’

Master P – Ghetto D

Related posts:

1. Cocaine Cartels and Economics in Colombia
2. Bogota Zombie Bums
3. My War on Drugs Rant
4. Smuggling Contraband from Colombia
5. Introducing The Mick

Economics of a Bogota Drug Dealer

In Deported Colombians from America I said getting deported is a positive for most guys. Almost all are productive, middle class, and legit in Colombia.

Some do extraordinary things. These three are examples of an unusual way deported guys export American culture and enhance Colombian culture.

305 Style Barber Shop

This is a Caracol news story on 305 Style Barber Shop on Caracas just South of Calle 49. 305 is the area code for Miami. The owner is Jesse Figueroa, who saw a lack of proper barber shops in Bogota when he arrived.  He cut hair as a hobby back in Miami, bringing the chair and clippers out in the front yard and charging friends just a few dollars. Now he’s making the news (and a living) with his talent.

In addition to offering great cuts, 305 is a shrine to urban American culture. It pumps New York’s Hot 97 via satellite radio. There’s usually basketball or American football on the flat screen TV (unless Colombians hijack it and put on soccer). The walls are adorned with American magazine covers such as Sports Illustrated, KING, and more. Gonzalo (below) called 305 Style “a sanctuary.” It’s a Chapinero sanctuary for anyone looking to escape classism, vallenato, and soccer for just a little while.

305 doesn’t count only deported Colombians among its clientele. Every time I’ve been, there were Colombians who don’t speak English. Gringos living in Colombia go to 305 for the atmosphere and quality cuts. Finally, several Colombian celebrities are 305 clients. I can get my head shaved at most Chapinero peluquerias for 3000 pesos, but I’d rather spend 10 – 15 at 305 where I might see friends or watch an American football game. Plus, Jesse is the best barber I’ve ever had.

I never got a cut at a black man’s barber shop back in St. Louis, so I’m not used to the service. With Jesse I’ve learned all kinds of features: shape up, skin fade, full razor work, etc. My first cut I admired how clean he could make my head look. There’s little you can do with it because I’m balding, but Jesse found a way to leave some color on top while fading the back and sides to baldness. He fades the bottom hair lines with a razor and touches everything up with aftershave.

In addition to Caracol, 305 Style has been featured on all of Colombia’s national news channels. See segments on CityTV, TeleMundo, or El Ladrillo. Jesse’s famous.

305′s known for the designs Jesse can shave into your head. Very hip-hop / reggeaton. Not for me, but a gringo buddy got one as a gag before he spent Christmas back in the States. He told Jesse he wanted Santa Claus. Jesse could do Santa Claus easily, but he wanted to do more. He proposed, “How about Santa Claus pointing a gun with one hand and sticking his middle finger up with the other?” The gringo loved it and went home with a haircut of Santa strapped and flipping the bird.

See a photo album of Jesse’s designs on the 305 Style FB page. Or to see a video montage, go to the Expat Chronicles FB Wall. If you’re viewing this today, it’s the top post. Otherwise, go back to February 20, 2012.

I doubt many Latin American cities have anything like 305. It’s special to Bogota. Here are pics of the interior:

305 Style Barbershop storefront

305 Style Barbershop Run DMC poster

305 Style Barbershop KING, Sports Illustrated

305 Style Barbershop flat screen TV

305 Style Barbershop Al Green poster

305 Style Barbershop seats

———————-

305 Style Barbershop musicians and sports teams

305 Style Barbershop business cards

Go get a cut at:

305 Style Barbershop
Avenida Caracas # 48-42
Chapinero, Bogotá
Colombia
287 90 79

Tell Jesse you read about him in Expat Chronicles.

Hector Jurado

Hector flying

Hector Jurado started skating back in South Florida. He got a couple American sponsors, but then went on a hiatus during his troubled times.

When he arrived in Colombia he started skating again. He’s among the top 50 skaters in the country. He’s regularly invited to national competitions in Bucaramanga, Yopal, and Pereira. He says there are rarely shows in Bogota because of a lack of skate parks.

He’s picked up two sponsors here in Colombia: Wild Skateboards & Skateshop and Cuerpo Salvaje Tatuajes.

Here’s Hector’s promo video:

See Hector Jurado’s FB page.

Here’s a shot of the Hector Jurado board, made and sold by Wild Skateboards. They sold out of their first 150 produced. The image is Hector’s tattoo.

The Hector Jurado skateboard

-

Gonzalo

Gonzalo fought MMA back in Miami. Upon arriving in Bogota two years ago, he immediately looked for gyms to continue his passion. He found in Colombia a small, undeveloped scene. He’s fought twice in Colombia, one of which he was never paid for. He says the MMA culture here simply doesn’t exist for there to be full time professionals.

I’d heard of Gonzalo but never met him. I had to track him down for this interview. He deliberately stays away from the deported community. He was never in much trouble back in Florida, and he wants to keep it that way in Bogota. He is very much against glorifying hoodness and street shit; he says you’ll become what your mind believes you to be.

I trained with him at his gym. Despite my having 40 pounds on him, he was submitting me left and right. I have zero training in wrestling and my cardiovascular conditioning was shit after getting fat for two months in Peru, but the experience still highlighted a glaring deficiency in my scrapping skills.

After training Gonzalo insisted I have dinner with him at his place. His girl whipped up steaks and lulo juice. Gonzalo is the only deported guy to feed me a proper meal. On the subject of food, we have similar attitudes (gripes) toward Colombian cuisine. A fighting athlete needs to watch his nutrition and emphasize protein. Most want to do so with good-tasting food. Of everything back in Miami beside family, Gonzalo misses food most.

For now, Gonzalo teaches Jiu-Jitsu classes. He hopes the sport develops into a thriving industry, but for now he’s content to be an MMA pioneer in Bogota.

Related posts:

1. Deported Colombians from America
2. The Theft of My Roommate’s Blender in Bogota
3. A Shower of Cocaine and Shady Colombians
4. We’re Not All Americans, You Dumb Asses

Deported Colombians Doing Positive Things

My first year in Bogota I lived across the street from a parking lot which kept three dogs. Their main job seemed to be to bark and harass the passing indigentes / crackheads / bums / homeless / desechables.

One night from my window I saw two guys walking down the street. Something about them wasn’t Colombian. They walked too tall, their swagger too confident. They were speaking Spanish, but too loud and indifferent to everybody around.

The dogs usually antagonize indigentes only, but something about these guys irked them. Just as the guys were passing they started barking. One of the guys yelled back in English, “You wanna die? You wanna die, bitch?” He pulled a knife and started swinging it side-armed at the dog’s face. Every time he missed, the dog would advance a little as if to bite, and the guy would swing the knife again. I don’t think he caught the dog, but after one swing the dog yelped and retreated. The guys moved on. The parking lot attendee never said a thing.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was my first glimpse at a bona fide subculture in Colombia: deported Colombians from America. I lived in Peru for a year and I’ve traveled all over South America, but I haven’t seen anything like it. It’s a bona fide community. The deported Colombians community. I’m sure they’re in Mexico and Central America, but more the migrant worker type. In Colombia, the deported community are ex-con, East Coast Latin gangsters.

I first met a bunch of deported Colombians in Medellin. There’s a public park a few blocks from Parque Lleras with free weights. The equipment’s not good, but it’s free and there are bars for bodyweight exercises. One time it was crowded with Colombians working out with no shirts on. They were speaking prison English. I’ve never been to prison, so this was the closest I’ve been to working out in “the yard.” It was just a matter of time before we met. They said they could tell I was American. They all work at a call center in the neighborhood (English call centers are the #1 workplace for deported Colombians). They were all friendly.

The typical deported Colombian legally immigrated to the States at a young age. Being Colombian and being in marginalized ethnic ghettos, they’re attracted to crime. And of course Colombian social networks offer ample opportunities in the cocaine industry. So these Colombian-Americans got in trouble for whatever reason, did time in prison, and were deported after completing their sentences. Most left their families back in the States.

These guys lived their whole lives calling themselves “Colombian.” But when they arrived to Colombia, they got a wake-up call as to how different they were. They get called gringos. They speak English and listen to hip hop. Many had never visited before being deported. I doubt they were friendly to real gringos like me back in Miami or New York. But once they were alienated by Colombians they felt a kinship with us.

Some of my best friends in Bogota are deported. They speak English with each other, not just when I’m around. They smoke blunts, listen to hip hop, and wear baggy clothes. It’s like high school all over again.

The Latin gangster type I’d known in America was the Mexican variant: shaved heads, socks pulled up, rosary beads, teardrop tattoos, etc. Deported Colombians are different. They’re East Coast. 90% of deported Colombians are from two cities: Miami or New York. 10% are from all the rest of the United States. The New York guys are centered in Queens but also hail from Long Island to North Jersey. The Miami scene is centered in Miami but includes all of South Florida. There’s a subtle rivalry between the two.

The New York guys are more gangster. Dudes will wear durags to the club, or basketball shorts sagged down to basketball shoes with the hoodie up – at the club! The New York guys look like something out of a Latin Kings documentary (many are actual Kings). I’ve heard New York guys say the Miami guys are “bitch,” despite the fact that they’re all friends.

The Miami scene is less hip hop, more like normal Latin guys. Miami guys say the New York Colombians are “too pushy” or intense, which I don’t entirely disagree with. I’d almost say the Florida guys are laidback, but you certainly find heavily-tatted, thugged-out Colombians from Miami. Plus, Miami in the 80s and 90s was an anomaly in American crime rates. See Cocaine Cowboys for a look at this amazing time of chaos and instability in a new American city.

Here are some of my friends’ stories.

Shorty

Shorty and Pollo are brothers. They come from a good family in Barranquilla, and they grew up in a nice neighborhood of Miami. However, their affluent Latin neighborhood was surrounded by poor Latin neighborhoods. Gangs from the surrounding areas robbed, beat them up, or took their women. Shorty and Pollo were two key founders of a gang in this nice neighborhood. The gang’s only goal was to protect themselves from outside gangs. They didn’t do any illegal business as a gang, they only fought.

In one of these gang fights Shorty stabbed a rival. He did state time in Florida and was deported almost ten years ago.

Shorty’s vibe is nothing less than prison. He comes off like an ex-con. One time he and I were denied entrance at a bar in Chapinero. This is a small miracle for a gringo. In La Candelaria they’ll turn away a gringo if a club is full, and in the pretentious Zona Rosa they’ll turn away a gringo for any reason. But gringos don’t get turned away in Chapinero. I blame our getting denied entirely on Shorty’s vibe being too ghetto, too prison.

It’s good not to be a fearful person, but some fear is healthy. Shorty’s lack of fear is dangerous. He’s volatile. If it’s nearing the end of the night and there are no girls, he’ll start trying people. He won’t challenge them to a fight in so many words, but he tries people. I had to trade shots with him once (high school?).

Shorty’s lack of fear can be fun. If we’re at the club and you tell him to go ask a girl to dance, it doesn’t matter how many guys she’s with. He’ll be over there with no hesitation. Everybody has a volatile friend who feels no fear. When his name comes up, a lot of deported guys will say, “No, I can’t fuck with Shorty too often.” But it’s never a boring time.

Another night we were at the club and it was about to close. Shorty came up to me and said, “Colin, we got beef with some niggaz outside. Let’s go.” I followed him out to find a group of normal Colombians smoking. They weren’t looking at us, they didn’t have “beef.” Shorty looked around the streets, hoping to find somebody with beef. He was disappointed there was nobody.

One day Shorty was doing pull-ups at home on a bar affixed to his door frame. It came down and broke his nose. The first thing he did was tell everybody on Facebook. Then he put his nose back in place with a big CRUNCH.

Every month or so Shorty will announce on Facebook that he’s going to fuck somebody up this weekend. This is usually prompted by an English student dropping a class. Despite how he comes off when he’s partying, Shorty is an excellent English teacher.

Most people use keys to snort coke. Shorty’s the first guy I’ve seen to use a flathead screwdriver. If ever we’re snorting over at his place, out comes the big screwdriver.

Shorty’s brother Pollo told me that when they moved to Bogota from Barranquilla, their father gave him a gun. Before giving it to him he said he knows how they are and what they were going to get into, so he wanted Pollo to have a gun to protect themselves. There was only one condition: DON’T TELL SHORTY.

Shorty occasionally gets modeling work. This is unbelievable to anybody that knows him because he comes off so ghetto. But if he’s not talking or moving, apparently he’s good-looking enough for ads.

The deported guys all know I’m a writer, and they all want me to write about the deported community. Sometimes someone will say, “You should write about all the stupid shit Shorty does.” I tell them there’s too much. It would be an entire article in itself. I had to cut this down. I didn’t even interview him.

Pollo

Pollo is Shorty’s brother. He was a high school soccer star. Pollo dresses like a preppie from the 90s. Dress shirts tucked into jeans with dress shoes. No tattoos. He comes from a good family and learned early the value of a respectable presentation, especially if you’re into criminal activities.

Pollo was into scams. Big scams. He and his partners would go to great lengths and make upfront investments. Once they got a hold of a fraudulent contractor’s license, which Pollo says is like gold. They created stationery and logos and got a work truck before pitching a job, whether it be pressure washing asphalt or whatever. Because of his clean-cut look, Pollo was always the talker, the front guy to the person they were scamming. He’d ask for a 50% deposit on a job (“Make the check out to ‘Cash’ and we can start today!”) and never go back.

The guys deported from Miami were often involved in stealing cars. Pollo was involved in car frauds. He had partners that owned a junkyard, so they always had spare titles around. Pollo once got a hold of a title for a Honda Accord. In a complicated and daring con where his friend had to pose as a bank teller over the phone, Pollo got an Auto Loan on a car he didn’t own.

Another auto fraud Pollo assisted with involved selling cars to Venezuela and reporting them stolen. They had a connection in Venezuelan customs to quickly clear the container with the car. A connection at a dealership gets them a fully insured car with no deductible. They’d make a down payment on a big truck and bring it to the junkyard, where they’d load it down with spare parts to sell in Venezuela. They made sure the spare parts weighed evenly on all sides of the truck, as uneven weight distribution is something customs officials look for in detecting contraband (says Pollo). Then they’d ship to Venezuela, selling it for more than its worth in the States but less than market value in Venezuela. As soon as they got confirmation that it cleared Venezuelan customs, they’d report the truck stolen. Here came the hardest part, convincing the insurance company investigators. Pollo played the part once. Another time they got a woman who’d worked as a Spanish language actress. Pollo said she cried in front of the investigators.

These kinds of scams earned big profits. Most deported guys robbed or sold drugs to enjoy ghetto fabulous celebrations. Pollo and his partners would go to DisneyWorld or Las Vegas after a score.

Pollo never got caught for fraud. He got deported for the same reason as his brother – gangbanging. He was charged with Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon for hitting someone in the head with a baseball bat.

DC

DC is from New York. He’s a New Yorker first and foremost. If you met him in New York you wouldn’t assume he’s Latin. He could pass for a Guido. He’s a huge Giants fan and fast-talking New Yorker.

I met DC at a nightclub party with dozens of deported Colombians. We were all at someone’s apartment for an after-party. DC pointed out his wife, a beautiful half-black girl across the room, and said she’s bisexual and brings other girls home for trios. He told me I have to play the “I’ll-bring-you-to-the-States” card with Colombian girls. He tells them he’ll bring them to New York, the Statue of Liberty, then he has them snorting lines of coke off his dick and going down on his girl. Hot tub orgies and all that.

It was almost five in the morning and I was falling asleep until DC started talking. I woke right up. Then he started complaining about cheap Colombians. He said he always buys beers and food for others, he always spends more than he consumes, and that they never return the favor. DC says he incurs a net loss among his deported Colombian peeps.

I thought he was full of shit on the money point. But one night I was riding my bike home after a brothel tour. Passing through Chapinero around 1 am, I ran into DC, his girl, and another deported Colombian outside the liquor store at 53 and 13. I stopped to say hello. He told me they couldn’t get into a local brothel because his girl didn’t have her cédula (ID). I looked at her closer and realized, Wow, she looks really young. Then DC invited me out and offered me an ecstasy pill. I told him I had to wake up in the morning; I was going to bed. He countered, “Yo, you know what it means when a Colombian says he invites you?” Yes, I told him, of course (it means he’s buying). I appreciate it and all, but I’m going to bed.

One night we went drinking in La Candelaria. We were outside Ceci’s when a beggar approached. We were speaking English, which is like Spanish Fly for Colombian crackheads. This one wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. Like many Bogota bums, he didn’t accept several No’s. He wouldn’t go away. DC showed him his empty hand, palm up, saying in English, “You see my hand? I ain’t got shit. You see? You see? You see?” Then he pivoted a bit and slapped the bum with a loud CRACK! He slapped him so hard and the CRACK was so loud that the whole block turned to see (a crowded block on Friday nights). The crackhead fell back a step. He looked as if he were about to cry. He was on the verge of tears. The slap seemed to wake him up. It jogged the cloud of crack smoke in his brain. Now he saw past the English. He realized these weren’t gringo tourists he was begging from. He took a couple slow steps backward, still on the verge of tears, and disappeared around the corner.

I’ve seen guys punched or hit with objects harder, but that was the hardest I’ve ever seen someone slapped.

One day DC shared this photo on Facebook:

"some niggas tried robbing me, And I got locked up for self defence, and had to pay police" - DC

DC had been on a banging-whores binge in Santa Fe for two days. He left on foot. Thieves prowl the surrounding blocks of Santa Fe, and a couple picked DC. They cornered him with a knife and insisted on taking him to an ATM. As DC explains it, he was afraid at first. But after walking for a block he got over the fear and started swinging on each of them. One ran away. DC got the other one on the ground and pummeled him.

He hasn’t admitted it, but I know he got caught because he didn’t run away when he could. He wanted to punish this thief. That’s why the police got him. They found him beating on someone who wasn’t defending himself. DC paid them 200,000 pesos and was free. On this FB thread a bunch of his NYC friends commented on how great of a deal that is, how they paid a lawyer $4000 and still got an assault conviction and jail time.

DC is short and wears baggy clothes, so people underestimate him. He was a high school wrestler and gangbanger, so strong as shit with experience to back it up. If you look closely at the picture, you can see all his knuckles are covered with scars.

DB

DC was a Crip in New York. DB was a Blood. They’re the only guys I know who claimed Crip or Blood. They’re virtually alone in Bogota, and they all have the same friends, and they get along, so it’s difficult to be enemies. I think that’s hilarious.

In his own words, DB’s ”a hood nigga.” He’ll “buck shots or whatever to get this money.” At 15 he was sent to juvenile detention for stabbing someone. He was in and out of jail his remaining four years in the US.

After getting out of juvie, DB was placed on house arrest, for which he moved in with his girlfriend. She soon got pregnant. They fought frequently, often resulting in the police being called. A few times he was taken to jail for domestic violence charges. His girlfriend would never follow up on any charges. She skipped appointments with police and district attorneys. She and DB always got back together. Charges never stuck, but the local police got to know DB from a young age.

Local task force and anti-drug units also got to know DB from the local crack set. They quickly identified young drug dealers and gang members. DB worked in a gang of over 20 local kids aged 16-24 decked out in flashy clothes and new cars. They controlled their neighborhood with violence and by threatening witnesses. DB was charged with gang activity and organized crime offenses, in addition to the dropped domestic violence arrests, when he was only 18.

DB’s fate was sealed by a long-time friend, a weaker kid from the neighborhood (who DB calls an “herb”) with a cleft lip. He grew up with Cleft, bringing him around the gang. He helped Cleft gain respect, but they had a falling out when Cleft owed DB money and had been ducking him. DB beat him badly in public, collecting his debt forcibly. Cleft pressed charges. DB was deported to Colombia after serving another year in Riker’s Island, which he calls his “second home in New York.”

This story from DB sticks out in my mind. One night he was picking up a pistol from a Bogota crackhouse. There’s a young boy who lives at this crackhouse. Every time DB goes there he says hello to the kid. On this night, after he got the pistol he went by the kid’s room. He knocked on the door and nobody answered. It was late at night, so he knew the kid had to be there. He knocked again, forcefully, and an adult male answered. The adult male wouldn’t open the door. DB realized the kid was getting molested, and he made a ruckus. The paisas running the crackhouse came and put up a front. They forced him out of the house.

Armed with an illegal pistol, DB found the closest police station. All worked up and flustered, he explained there was a boy being raped at a house in the neighborhood. The police asked if it was at the paisa house (implying they were in with the paisas). DB confirmed it was the paisa house. The cops replied that DB ought to leave before something happens to him. DB took the hint and, what could he do?

DB is an aspiring rapper. Check out his music.

Pusha T

Pusha T legally emigrated to Houston, TX as an infant. He’s among the few deported Colombians not from New York or South Florida. Most of the Latin people he grew up with were Mexicans. His English has that West Coast, Mexican Spanish rhythm. He attended the same high school as Paul Wall and Chamillionaire.

Pusha T began robbing people in high school with a .357, the “brick buster.” He was heavy into Xanax (Z-bars).

Personal sidenote: Xanax is the motherfucking devil.

Pusha T had beef with some Mexican Syndicate guys in Houston, but they squashed it. At least they told him they squashed it. They went robbing vacation houses in Galveston. They went door to door down an entire street. In the last house, the Mexicans pistol-whipped him. All fucked up on Xanax, Pusha T went right to sleep until the police came. He was still woozy and laughing when they picked him up from the floor. He was charged with Burglary of a Habitation.

Soon after getting out, Pusha T and a friend robbed a drug dealer in his home. They took a bunch of cocaine and ecstasy pills. People rob drug dealers because they don’t call the police. This drug dealer, however, called the police and claimed they stole money. They got away but Pusha T’s friend was later caught in a stolen car with a gun described in the robbery. He was identified and he gave up Pusha T.

Before the Galveston robbery, Pusha T got a Conspiracy to Commit Racketeering charge for running a stolen goods store from his house. He had over $5000 in electronics, clothes, and shoes stolen from local stores. So he had three felony cases, but luckily they were each in a different county in Texas. He hired a good lawyer who “tricked” the judge into agreeing to concurrent time. Concurrent time is where separate sentences are served simultaneously.

Pusha T served 3.5 years of a 5 year sentence in federal prison before being deported. He believes he could’ve been sentenced 15 – 25.

Despite his violent record, Pusha T is one of the more presentable deported Colombians I’ve met. Any gringo in Colombia for a year or more surely knows about the deported community, and most want nothing to do with it. But I can bring Pusha T around gringo expats and nobody suspects a thing.

Miscellaneous Observations on the Deported Community

Despite it being their preferred language, a lot of Miami guys don’t speak good English. It goes to show how Latin of a city Miami is.

From what I’ve heard, when a new deportee arrives in Colombia they go through a phase of hard partying. You can do so much more so much cheaper than in the States. For some guys it lasts a few years. Some guys never escape the rumba. Some guys become crackheads begging from tourists in English. Most get over it and get jobs at call centers.

Some deported guys don’t drink much, and some aren’t into snorting, but ALL the deported Colombians I’ve ever met smoke. If you hang around the deported community, expect to smoke lots of cripy. If you don’t, they’ll assume you’re a cop. In fact, a few guys thought I was an informer when I first started hanging around, and I was drinking, smoking, and snorting right there with them.

If you start hanging around a deported community, it’s only a matter of time before you’re approached to mule cocaine. My advice: DON’T DO IT.

You’ll get approached to mule because the deported community is relatively tight-knit. Everyone knows everyone and they’re all friends. When I first started hanging out, there were times I’d be on the street with guys I knew and two or three heads would stick out of an apartment window checking me out, sizing me up, etc. Who’s the gringo? Who’s the gringo? Some immediately see pesos and want to earn a commission off you. It’s like open season, a race to get the gringo to mule. My advice, DON’T DO IT.

All the guys I hang around know that I’m a writer and I’m writing about the deported community. Pusha T had the idea of a documentary, like Real World Bogota with a house full of deported guys. It’d be more entertaining than Jersey Shore, but it wouldn’t last. Too many fights and too much jealousy in a country too crazy.

I doubt the deported guys gave a shit about a gringo when they lived in Miami, New York, or wherever. But once they got deported and realized how much they have in common, they’re friendly to us. It’s like they want an escape from the laziness, apathy, and Spanish in Colombian culture.

The word “nigga” should not be in my vocabulary. I’m a 32 year old white guy from Middle America with an MBA. But if you hang around these guys enough and hear that word enough (“The nigga did this and …”, “Yeah my nigga but you gotta think …”, etc.), it rubs off on you. I’ve caught myself saying to a deported friend, “What up, my nigga?” Not a good habit.

I’ve met deported Colombians in both Medellin and Bogota, so I assume they’re everywhere in Colombia. Most are super-friendly. They’ll probably spot you first and introduce themselves.

When I first visited Bogota I was amazed at its punk rock scene. Punk rock, a gringo subculture long dead in Gringolandia, is alive and passionate in Bogota. Before moving here I had the idea of making friends with the punks (since I like punk rock) and infiltrating the scene, ala Hunter Thompson and the Hell’s Angels (his breakthrough work). But when I arrived and saw the Colombian punks again, I decided they were broke, dirty, filthy, grimy, and nothing I wanted to infiltrate. Unintentionally I got familiar with a different subculture worth writing about in the deported community. If I ever want to do similar work to Thompson’s Hell’s Angels (who were the most feared gang in America at the time), the deported Colombians will be the subject.

Deported Colombians Making Better Lives

Most deported Colombians lead productive lives after being deported. Some degenerate into crackheads, or they’re in the brothels every day, but most get good jobs and make middle class livings legally. At the very least they have English fluency, so they can teach or work in call centers.

In addition to English, they have an American go-getter mentality and the attitude that they can be anything they want to be – something not taught in Latin America. And as seen with Pusha T or DC, most gringos would never suspect some of these guys were ex-cons. I met a deported Colombian in Medellin (at Facedos) who worked as a real estate agent catering to gringos looking to invest in Colombia.

So while 100% of these guys would love the opportunity to go back to the States just to visit, being deported was a positive for most of them. See the next edition, Deported Colombians Doing Positive Things.

Related posts:

1. A Shower of Cocaine and Shady Colombians
2. Killing Pablo: Summary and Review
3. Contributed Story: La Candelaria Pickpocket FAIL
4. Limpiezas in Colombia: Social Cleansing
5. Scopolamine in Colombia

Deported Colombians from America

I always associated Peru with being surrounded by little brown people. Some full grown chola women come up to my waist. In Colombia nothing changed. Women who don’t watch where they’re going may get hit with an elbow – in the head.

At 6’2, 210 lbs, I’m a large person anywhere. But it’s borderline freakish in South America.

Many Colombian tiendas have tables for four with fixed swivel seats. The space in these seats is so small I have to turn sideways and contort my body a little to get in. If I’m with a friend, they’ll have to sit on the opposite side (not just across) so our knees don’t hit each other. If we’re more than two, we may need another table.

On Bogota buses if a passenger has an aisle seat they usually don’t give it up. Instead they turn sideways to give you the window seat. There’s so little leg room I don’t fit in a window seat, so it’s the aisle or I have to stand. If someone’s sitting in the window seat, I can sit in the aisle but in most buses I still can’t fit my legs in front so I turn sideways into the aisle. It’s best when an entire two-person seat is vacant. That way I can sit in the aisle seat but spread my legs wide so I can face forward, taking up 1.5 seats. When new passengers get on the bus, they usually choose a different window seat to ask for before mine. But when there are none left, they sit next to me and I turn my legs into the aisle.

At tourist gift shops in Peru they sell these chessboards with Incas on one side and Spaniards on the other. The first one I saw had the Spaniards on horseback, wearing armor, and holding rifles. The Incas were on foot and holding spears. I got a kick out the Spaniards’ advantage in technology and size. I always assumed the Indians to be smaller because all the purest Indian-blooded people I saw – especially in Peru – were tiny. And the biggest players in my basketball league were mostly Spanish.

From these informal observations I assumed Indians to be smaller. So whenever I hit my head on low doorways or can’t fit in the seats at the tienda, I complain about the little Indians.

Politically-correct gringos may be thinking, “Oh my God! I can’t believe he said that.” Keep your gringo values in Gringolandia. Race isn’t sensitive here. I was recently in Bogota Beer Company (which just got 100% cooler for opening a location in La Candelaria). Their tables are tiny. The surface area is just a little larger than a proper American bar stool. So my friends and I pulled two of them together. When the waitress asked if we could use just one, I replied “No somos indiocitos.” We’re not little Indians. She laughed.

Peruvians often told me the Incas were big. I’d argue. Look at them, I’d say. If I go to the Southeastern section of downtown Arequipa right now, I can walk the crowded streets with my arms straight out and they’ll clear most everyone’s heads.

I’ve completely reversed my little Indians position. In October I went to Peru for the first time in almost three years. I was expecting what I remembered Peru for – constantly being surrounded by little brown people, even smaller than Colombians.

I was surprised after arriving in Lima. Every day I saw a Peruvian bigger than me.

In Bogota I’ll sometimes see a Colombian taller than me. And sometimes I’ll see one broader than me. But weeks or even months go by without seeing a Colombian both taller and broader than me. In Peru I saw one almost every day. How did I forget these big Peruvians?

One day at a gym I was looking at a musclebound Peruvian, a pure Indian. He had the stereotypical strong brow, square jaw, wide nose, and densely packed muscle. He had muscle coming out of his fingers. I thought, he’d be a phenomenal athlete if were just a foot taller. But at 5’3 …

Then it hit me. It hit me as I imagined this gym rat at 6’3. If this musclebound little Inca were 6’3, he would (A) conquer all the other Indian tribes of South America and (B) have sex with Spanish women.

The Incas were the largest pre-Columbus civilization in the Americas. They conquered tribes in Argentina, Chile, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia. And they never had gunpowder or horses, so they must’ve been big, strong warriors.

The second point answers why you don’t see them around any more. That big Inca would’ve had all the Spanish women creaming their knickers. Some big Incas may have social climbed by marrying white women. Some may have studded for married Spanish women bored with their delicate aristocrat husbands.

Whichever it is, my new theory is that the big Inca genes are virtually gone because they mixed with Spanish. That’s why I saw big Peruvians every day – all of whom were the Peruvian mix of Inca and Spanish – but see almost none in Colombia, which (aside from African genes) is one of Latin America’s most European bloodlines outside Argentina.

Colombia’s European bloodline is most evident in Medellin. It’s why everyone drools over paisa women – they’re white.

The average Colombian may be a little bigger than the average Peruvian, but Colombia doesn’t have extremes on the big end of the spectrum. That’s not only why I rarely see Colombians bigger than me, but also why I’ve never seen one of those pussy-ass Colombian tienda tables in Peru. Too many Peruvian customers wouldn’t fit in them.

I started thinking about the flaws in my original assumption that the Incas were small. Aside from banging white women and diluting the big Inca genes, big Incas were surely killed off in wars or when Spanish colonists felt threatened. The large male Incas were certainly the first to go.

Then I thought about my old basketball league. All the big players were white. But then I thought about it again and realized all the players were white. Outside the States basketball is a posh sport (maybe strange to learn for those in the States, where it’s the preferred urban ghetto sport). Basketball is a hip way to differentiate from the poor peasants playing soccer. Almost the whole league were white alumni of the finest private schools, so looking at the power forwards and centers doesn’t prove anything.

Then I remembered El Negro, who was on my team. I guarded every big player in that league during the year I was there, and El Negro was the most difficult. He consistently got the better of me. In fact I thought of him when I read Mario Vargas Llosa’s description in Time of the Hero (GREAT BOOK, La ciudad y los perros in Spanish) of Indians’ hair being like needles. It doesn’t matter what El Negro tries to do with that hair, it ain’t doing much. But he was a big strong Indian, one of the best players in the league. A rare artifact from a lost bloodline.

There’s obviously nothing scientific here. I’m just trying to explain why there are some huge dudes in Peru, the heart of the Inca civilization, the largest Indian civilization in the pre-Columbus Americas, if the Indians were a smaller race. And why things in Colombia are built for smaller people on average if it’s a more Spanish bloodline. I could be completely wrong about everything here, there’s no way to know.

Related posts:

1. Public Urination in Peru
2. Human Rights in Peru
3. You HAVE TO See Machu Picchu!
4. Colca Canyon in Arequipa, Peru
5. Hazing in Peru

Big Incas in Peru

Brazilian and Argentine food is excellent, and Mexican restaurants dominate the international dining scene, but Peruvian food is the best in Latin America. The gastronomical FAIL that is Colombian cuisine is the worst in Latin America. Colombian food is so bad you’d need a guided food tour from an expert like me to eat the few good Colombian meals. I don’t think food tours would sell in Peru because it’s not hard to find delicious food. No matter where you go or what your budget, you’ll be amazed.

I recently met a Colombian woman who was living in Arequipa, Peru. She was from Medellin, so she grew up with the worst regional cuisine (paisa food) in the worst country (Colombia). While her looks and accent drive Peruvian men wild, her cooking surely doesn’t. The Peruvian girls who introduced us asked about Colombian food. I never miss a chance to tell Colombians how bad their food is. The first step in problem solving is acceptance. Overcoming denial. If Colombians go on believing their food’s good, it’ll never get better. So I told the Peruvians and the paisa woman that Colombian food is nothing to write home about, but I didn’t twist the knife. I didn’t detail the superiority of Peruvian cuisine compared to the inferior Colombian as pictured below.

Peruvian food dominating Colombian

After subtly making my point the paisita said something interesting: “La comida peruana es muy condimentada.” Peruvian food is very condimented, which I took to mean lots of spices, sauces, etc. But if I were to translate that literally, I’d write it as ‘Peruvian food is very flavored.’ The proud paisa implied (correctly) that Colombian food is not very flavored, thus confirming the boring nature of Colombian food: ACPM.

So as the paisa chick said, condiments, sauces, and seasoning is part of Peru’s success, but it’s not the key difference. Peru’s culinary greatness stems from their being experimental. Some of the best meals I’ve made resulted from experiments. Tinkering. Sometimes experimenting results in disaster, but it’s necessary to invent great dishes.

The degree of experimentation in Latin America’s best (Peruvian) and worst (Colombian) is a stark contrast. Colombians’ lack of culinary creativity is perfectly illustrated in the local saying, ACPM. Arroz, papa, carne, maduro. Rice, potato, meat, banana. That’s 90% of what Colombians eat. The meat can be chicken, pork, or beef. Sometimes “potato” means french fries. And sometimes it comes with ‘salad’, loosely defined since Americans wouldn’t call it ‘salad’. It’s more like cole slaw with lemon juice instead of dressing. Or if not salad, maybe ACPM comes with the even less appetizing arepa. Sometimes the meat comes with a sauce like cream of mushroom or barbecue sauce. But usually it’s bare. A 2-3 oz bare filet with bare rice, a salted potato, and a fried plantain or banana. Sound good? If not, escape ACPM by taking a food tour in Bogota.

Below you’ll see how experimental Peruvians get in the kitchen, starting with the national dish, ceviche.

Ceviche

Peruvian ceviche with calamari and three creamy sauces

To make ceviche, marinate raw fish in lemon juice to kill the bacteria and serve raw. Who would try that? Whoever’s idea it was didn’t stop there. They thought it’d be good with sweet potato. Raw fish in lemon juice with sweet potato. But sweet and sour wasn’t enough. They created an-all out oral orgy by adding spicy to the mix, via fresh rocoto. Sour, sweet, and spicy. Add cancha for crunch. Also seaweed for … I don’t know what seaweed brings. But I eat it all.

Ceviche’s rarely served with creamy sauces and calamari as in the first pic. And if you skip the cancha, ceviche’s a super-healthy plate. Raw fish is loaded with Omega 3 fatty acids and protein. Lemon juice adds your RDI of Vitamin C. Sweet potatoes are so low on the glycemic index they’re not considered a starch. Seaweed is a common ingredient in fat burner pills. All that healthy goodness and it’s delicious!

Peruvian ceviche in Barranco, Lima

I actually have a horrible case of acid reflux disease. Acid comes up from my stomach when I sleep. Five years ago it was so bad the acid ate away the enamel on four of my teeth, which I had to have capped. A doctor gave me a list of behaviors that aggravate acid reflux, and I noted that I was very guilty of 4 out of 7: spicy food, caffeine (especially coffee), alcohol, and eating before exercise.

Eating ceviche is worse than all of those. No food’s more acidic than lemon juice. Drinking the leche de tigre (Tiger Milk, the fishy lemon juice at the bottom of the bowl) after finishing all the food is like injecting acid into my gums. But I don’t care. I ALWAYS DRINK THE LECHE DE TIGRE. Sometimes I add it to beer.

I won’t live a life without ceviche, especially in Peru. I just spent a few months in Arequipa and Lima and I ate ceviche at least once a week, often two or three times. At one point my acid reflux got so bad the nerves in my front teeth inflamed and my gums swelled up. I have to take Ranitidina pills to eat ceviche so much, but it’s worth it. It’s nothing less than oral orgasm.

Arroz con Pollo / Pato

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Every country has their own version of arroz con pollo – rice with chicken. Colombia’s version isn’t bad, but it’s inferior to Peru’s. To make Peruvian arroz con pollo, you need two different types of cilantro (there are two kinds) in enough quantity to turn the rice green. Saute chicken or duck thighs (duck tastes better). Cook diced peas and carrots with the rice. Serve the rice topped with the poultry, raw red pepper and red onion. Add a ton of aji like me.

I’ve seen Peruvian arroz con pollo served with a creamy, yellow sauce. Don’t know how to make it or what it’s called. Leave a comment if you know.

Ají de Gallina

Ají de Gallina in Barranco, Lima

Another perfect example of experimental cooking is seen in ají de gallina, a creamy chicken sauce served with rice. The sauce is made with evaporated milk, mild yellow peppers, Parmesan cheese, garlic, onion, and crushed pecans. PECANS!

Cook shredded chicken breast into the sauce. When thoroughly cooked, top the sauce with a boiled potato, hard boiled eggs, and black olives. Serve with rice.

Let’s do an ingredient roll call:

• Evaporated milk
• Yellow ají
• Parmesan cheese
• Garlic and onion
• Pecans
• Chicken
• Potato
• Boiled eggs
• Black olives

Who would think to mix those? Boring Colombian chefs bow down!

Seco de Cordero

Seco de cordero receives little mention when people drool over Peruvian food. But it’s one of the best.

Sauteed lamb meat in another experimental sauce. Mix in a blender water, spinach, cilantro, yellow ají, a little onion and garlic. Seems strange, tastes great. Add peas and a boiled potato after making the sauce.

Seco de res is the same dish with beef in place of lamb.

Lomo Saltado

A $1.50 Lomo Saltado

Homemade Lomo Saltado, no rice

My lomo saltado with strawberries & cream and wine

Everybody raves for Lomo Saltado.

Fry potato strips (french fries). Then saute strips of steak with soy sauce, diced tomato and onion. Use enough oil and soy sauce for there to be a good amount of juice at the bottom. When cooked, throw the fries in and toss it all so the juice mixes with everything. Top with fresh cilantro and serve with rice.

The two shots on the right were cooked by me. In my opinion lomo saltado doesn’t need rice because it already has a good amount of starch in the potatoes. I’m not as anti-rice as when I wrote My Rice Rant, but I still cut it whenever possible. You can always cut it from Lomo Saltado. The pic on the right is a dinner I cooked for my Peruvian darling: Lomo Saltado sin arroz with Argentine Cabernet and Strawberries & Cream for dessert. Damn I’m good.

Chicharrón de Cerdo

Chicharrón de cerdo

In Colombia, chicharrón means pork rind, but not like the salty snacks in the States. Colombian pork rinds are deep fried pig skin. Cuts can range from pure grease and fat to very lean and red. Most are pretty greasy with a skin so hard it could break a tooth. One of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s stories features a character who chipped a tooth eating chicharrón.

Deep-fried pork

In Peru, chicharrón simply means deep-fried. So they have chicharron de pollo (deep-fried chicken), chicharron de cerdo (deep-fried pork), and even chicharron de camaron (deep-fried shrimp). I didn’t eat pork or shellfish for over three years to avoid heathen food. I resumed eating pork when I moved to Colombia because bandeja paisa, the national dish and one of my top 4 Colombian dishes, features three (four if it comes with morcilla) pork foods: a chicharrón pork rind, chorizo, and beans cooked in pork fat. I took pork back, but shellfish only rarely, and I’ll never eat truly heathen shit like dogs or snakes.

I never had Peruvian chicharrón until I went back. It’s delicious. Heathen eating at its finest. Generous with the ají. Served with lightly fried potatoes, onion, and mint leaves with lemon juice.

There’s no reason Colombians can’t serve this. There’s nothing difficult about it. Colombians already eat a lot of pork and a lot of deep-fried food. Why don’t they deep fry pork? Maybe it’s too tasty for the Colombian palate.

Here’s a shot of chicharrón de camaron, deep-fried shrimp. It’s fried so hard that people eat the shell. They can chew and digest the entire shrimp. Crunchy seafood, the swine of the sea.

Chicharrón de Camaron, fried shrimp

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Estofado de Res

Estofado de Res

Estofado de res is another lesser-known Peruvian dish, but a good one. It’s usually cheap too. Thin-cut steak strips stewed in carrots, peas, onion, tomato, and bay leaves. It’s tangy.

Causa

Bad ass homemade causa

Causa de pollo

Causa is an inventive wonder. It’s a mashed potato cake with chicken salad filling and avocado. If chicken salad sandwich with avocado sounds good, it’s even better with mashed potato instead of bread. It’s filling.

The mashed potato has lemon juice so there’s a hint of sour.

Causa’s not only made with chicken. It often has tuna salad inside. Those are the two main variants, but there are several others. It’s sometimes served as an appetizer in small portions. In addition to chicken and tuna, they make lobster causa, octopus causa, shrimp causa. Some are purple, some are green. They serve it with elaborate creamy sauces. To see some wild causa designs, Google Image search “causa.” Food porn #foodporn.

Causa is distinctly Limeña, like Ajiaco to Bogota. The best causas are found at Lima seafood restaurants. You can usually find a sampler appetizer with three or four variants mentioned above. My favorite is plain old chicken causa with a ton of ají.

Malaya Dorada

Malaya Dorada

Beef ribs. Boil the ribs with carrots, celery, and ají peppers.

Served with rice, baked potato, and Russian salad. They call it Russian salad, but what they serve doesn’t look like what Google says Russian salad is. What they serve is mostly beets and a sweet, creamy dressing.

A major Colombian breakfast is Caldo de Costilla, beef rib soup. I eat at least one every week. It’s very simple: beef rib, potato, and cilantro. It’s good if you go to a place that serves a generous beef rib. Many caldos are stingy. Then beef rib soup sucks.

Locro de Pecho

Locro de Pecho

Another wild one. Pecho is the chest of a cow, or brisket. It’s boiled until soft and mixed in with a mess of mashed potato and spicy ají peppers. Very filling.

There are many variations of this, many of which are soups. This style of Locro de Pecho dominates Arequipa.

This one is homemade.

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Alpaca Steak

Alpaca steak in mushroom sauce

Alpacas are similar to llamas, common in Peru. Alpacas’ meat makes great steaks. It’s leaner than beef with a similar flavor.

Alpacas also yield the softest fleece I’ve ever touched. I bought a baby alpaca sweater and blanket. After getting used to that blanket, it’s hard to go back to any other fabric. Arequipa’s a major producer of alpaca fleece clothes and blankets.

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Arequipa Cuisine

Arequipa is unique in that it’s a small city of 1 million, but it’s produced enough dishes that it has a bona fide regional cuisine. Arequipa restaurants are called picanterías. This would be the equivalent of Colombia having a Bucaramanga cuisine and Bucaramanga restaurants. I’ll give Bucaramanga props for hormigas but it’s no Arequipa, which has contributed more than its fair share to Peruvian cuisine.

Before moving to South America, I was looking for work anywhere. Mexico, Argentina, Brazil, Colombia, Peru, anywhere. I’m only realizing now how lucky I got in landing a job in Arequipa.

Arequipa Soups

I always shake my head in disbelief when Colombians are proud of their soups. Ajiaco is by far the best Colombian soup. Caldo de costilla, mondongo, and sancocho are OK but not worth bragging about. But the vast majority of Colombian soups – those that come with lunch – aren’t worth eating. I often tell waitresses not to bring it. Just keep it if it’s rice soup, pasta soup, plantain soup, or cream of mushroom. It’ll just go to waste if you put it on my table.

No bullshit, they have pasta soup.

It’s also weird to see pride for Colombian soups because I lived in Arequipa where they have over a dozen soups that are amazing and inventive. I don’t know the ingredients, but just see the pics. They all have more ingredients, more flavor, and usually more meat.

Shrimp Chowder (expensive)

Chupe de Camaron (cheap)

Chochoco

Chaque

Chupe Criollo

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There are more soups, but I never knew when I’d see a new one. I don’t carry my camera every day so I’m missing most of them.

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Adobo

Arequipa specialty soup, Adobo

Adobo, pork chop soup

Sunday soup: Adobo & bread

Adobo is an Arequipa soup, but it’s different from those above because it’s a standalone meal. It’s also a Sunday ritual. You can only find Adobo on Sundays, but you find it everywhere. You can’t walk far on a Sunday in Arequipa without passing a sign advertising pork chop soup.

The pork chop is simmered with onions. It’s rich and tangy. If you like to throw down on swine, you’ll LOVE Peruvian chicharrón and Arequipeño adobo.

Cuy Chactao

Cuy chactao, guinea pig

Colombia has chiguiro (which is delicious), Peru has guinea pig (which is disgusting). Cuy chactao is known as a national dish, but it started in Arequipa.

Many people love cuy. I was on my holy diet when I lived in Peru so I never ordered this heathen fare. But I ate some once just to try it. It was the foulest smelling meat I’ve ever encountered. It tasted like a filthy pork. The biggest complaint people have about guinea pig is how much work it is. There ain’t much meat on these little fellas, and they have a ton of bones to get past. They’re so small they don’t filet them. They just cut them in half down the chest and belly, and deep fry them whole.

I once saw a small guinea pig farm and realized they’re the easiest beast of burden on the planet. They don’t even build cages for them because they don’t run. They don’t go anywhere. They just sit in the grass waiting to get slit in half.

Rocoto Relleno

Rocoto Relleno w/ Pastel de Papa & Chicha de Jora

Rocoto Relleno

Rocoto Relleno & Pastel de Papa

The top dog in Arequipa, the most revered plate, the source of Arequipeño pride, is Rocoto Relleno.

Rocoto is the spicy pepper in Peruvian cuisine. It’s the shape, color, and size of a red pepper. It’s de-seeded and de-stemmed, then stuffed with ground beef, cheese, peas, and black olives, then baked. The cheese oozes out from the top. I’m not much of a stuffed peppers guy, but rocoto relleno is damn good.

It’s served with pastel de papa, or potato cake. Layers of thin sliced potato baked with cheese and eggs. If they skimp on the cheese and eggs, it’s too dry for me. But when they’re generous with cheese and eggs, pastel de papa is the perfect compliment.

Soltero de Queso

Soltero de Queso

I almost never order vegetarian meals, but it does happen. Soltero de queso would be considered a salad in the States. It’s a good one and it inspired the style of salads I make here in Colombia year round. Dice up all the vegetables I can find, add olive oil and vinegar.

Soltero de queso doesn’t use all the vegetables however. It has queso campesino, butter beans, tomato, onion, corn, rocoto, parsley. Served with potato. If trying to burn fat, nix the potato and corn.

Queso Helado

Queso Helado - Cheese Ice Cream

Interesting dessert from Arequipa. It’s made from evaporated milk, condensed milk, vanilla extract, and sugar. Cinnamon is added on top. It’s good but I prefer real ice cream.

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Americanos, Dobles, Triples

The American

Arequipa picanterías offer Americans, doubles, and triples. These are combination plates of Arequipa’s specialties. I don’t know the difference between the three, but I know Americanos are the biggest. This one has rocoto relleno, pastel de papa, estofado de res, and chicharrón de cerdo. Plus lentils and chicken spaghetti, but those don’t come standard. That’s just what this particular restaurant had extra to pile on the plate.

All these combo plates should be served with CHICHA DE JORA to be real Arequipeño.

Chicha de Jora

Chicha de Jora

Chicha de jora is a fermented beverage made from corn. It’s lightly carbonated and slightly alcoholic. They make it in huge orange clay pots. These pots are typical decoration for Arequipa picanterías.

Some chicha de jora formulas make a sour tasting drink. These ones can be trifling. Like drinking dishwater. I love chicha de jora when it’s colored like in the picture. The sour ones are lighter and cloudier, almost resembling dishwater.

At weekend lunches you’ll see people mixing chicha de jora with dark beer, Cusqueña Negra. It mixes well.

I’ve heard about a restaurant in Bogota’s La Candelaria, in the Chorro de Quevedo, that serves chicha de jora.

Kola Escocesa

Kola Escocesa

Not many cities of 1 million have a regional soda, as Arequipa has Kola Escocesa. It hasn’t grown out of the region because it’s not great. It tastes like a cross between Dr. Pepper and Black Cherry soda. Like a sweet cough syrup. Not great but not bad.

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I don’t have shots of Papa Ocopa because I can’t imagine anyone ordering a boiled potato in a creamy sauce and calling it lunch. But that’s another Arequipa dish.

Other Drinks from Peru

Inca Kola

Peru’s most famous drink is probably Inca Kola. It’s the color of plutonium and tastes like bubble gum. I love it. The brand was bought out by Coca Cola. Read the interesting history of this soda on En Peru.

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Chicha Morada

If any drink is more famous than Inca Kola, it’d be Chicha Morada (purple chicha). Similar to Chicha de Jora in that it’s made from corn, Chicha Morada is sweeter. It contains no alcohol or carbonation. I made it once. You boil the purple corn on the cob until the water turns dark purple. Then add diced apples and boil until they’re cooked. Add sugar if you like. It’s not the same, but it is drinkable without sugar. For some reason I find this stuff great when hung over.

This article still doesn’t do Peruvian food justice. I’m STILL missing some good plates like Giro de Zapallo, Caigua Rellena, and over half of the Arequipa soups. If you have pics, send them in and I’ll put them in.

The richest areas of Bogota are littered with Peruvian restaurants. There’s a district of them on Carrera 15 just south of Calle 100. Just when I thought there wasn’t room in the market for any more Peruvian restaurants, I heard of a new one near 76. Now we just need some priced in the 10,000 – 20,000 range!

Related posts:

1. Colombian Food: 1st Impressions
2. Weightlifting in Latin America
3. Alcohol and Sensitivity in Latin America
4. Buenos Aires, Argentina = Italy Meets South America
5. Colombia’s Culinary Hall of Shame

Peruvian Food: The Best in Latin America

Santa Catalina, a top tourist destination in Arequipa, was a monastery built in the 16th century and operated well into the 19th century. It takes up two square blocks of downtown Arequipa. Inside is a small town closed off to the outside world. It’s a concrete maze of hallways leading to living quarters, dining rooms, kitchens, and gardens.

The convent’s stated mission was to liberate souls stranded in purgatory, where nuns pledged to a life of simplicity in hopes to reach the highest spiritual level. However, Santa Catalina became quite a party house. Women had servants, drank wine, were entertained with music, and rumors allege that male studs were occasionally brought in. In the eighteenth century its reputation got so bad the Pope ordered a house cleaning at Santa Catalina.

See Santa Catalina’s website.

For easier picture viewing see the Santa Catalina album on the Expat Chronicles FB page.

Related posts:

1. Pictures of Arequipa, Peru
2. Colca Canyon in Arequipa, Peru
3. My First Earthquake in Arequipa, Peru
4. Cusco, Peru for Corpus Christi
5. Combi Strike in Arequipa, Peru

Santa Catalina Monastery in Arequipa, Peru