Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 15 — Mad Dog Mateo And Crazy South Africans

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Chapter 15. Mad Dog Mateo And Crazy South Africans

 

I have a tour the day after tomorrow. A British film crew is coming over to shoot a documentary that follows a commercial pilot. Five guys total, the pilot, the director, two cameras, and the sound guy. It should be interesting.


 

I have some work tomorrow. Shooting a new rugby team in San Diego. It’s supposed to rain. It should be interesting.


 

Interesting. That’s what my life aspires to be. I should travel more instead of just receiving travelers here. Spend 6 months in a different city for the rest of my life. Writing 1,000 words or more a day in my experience in that place. 

 

Professional traveler. The dream job.

 

I’m stuck in Tijuana for now.

 

I can’t afford to travel now. Can’t afford much. Saving up to get a car. I haven’t owned a car since I moved to Tijuana. Now I need one.


 

Interesting.

 

A lot of interesting tours have happened.

 

One of the stories that I tell a lot is one that I barely recall.


 

Bachelor parties sort of mixed into one gigantic story. 

 

Then there are other special events that are not bachelor parties.


 

That one boring tour I had with a beautiful Australian couple. They were vegan and they arrived in Tijuana before noon. That tour was forgettable. The couple was gorgeous (both models), but no personality. That tour was one of the tamest most boring tours.


 

I had different Aussies as well. Three friends that were friends of the wife of a great friend of mine. Yep. Friends of friends of friends.

 

The three of them were on the chubbier side. One was ginger with long hair and beard, the other had salt and pepper hair and was a comedian who Playboy retweeted often, and the other was a chubby bald DJ.

 

All of them were hilarious.

 

I stayed with them for a couple days. The first night in Hong Kong, the comedian and the DJ started fighting. Ginger ignored them and suddenly he had a beautiful girl on his lap. The girl told him he loved gingers. The guy didn’t believe her but did buy her a couple of drinks that night. Nothing happened.


 

Next night, a similar story. Went out for food, tacos, drinks, and more. And ended up again in Hong Kong. Comedian and DJ started arguing again, and suddenly the Ginger disappeared with the same girl he chatted the previous night. 

 

We didn’t even notice.

 

Apparently, the girl recognized him from afar and they disappeared together.


 

That feels like it was many years ago. The guys loved Kokopelli tacos. They wanted to open a franchise in Melbourne because they swore it would be a total hit.

 

They promised to come back.

 

They haven’t.


 

I haven’t seen my friend or his wife in a couple years. I’ve been planning to visit them. It’s only LA. But I am stuck in Tijuana.


 

Nah.

 

The story I tell a lot it’s the one with the South Africans.

 

South Africans have broken the record of alcohol and food consumed in two days.


 

I forgot how they contacted me, but I remember when we met.


 

They booked Hotel Ticuan for the night. I met them in the lobby. Two best friends in their mid-40s. Both plenty rich, one fucker had a house and business in Malta. Both had their own businesses in South Africa. Both married with children. 

 

And every year, they take two weeks and party the fuck out in Vegas. They just spend thousands of dollars partying. Just the two of them. Their two weeks of fuck everything, we are just going to do whatever the fuck we want.


 

That year, they found me and Tijuana.

 

They loved that I knew who Die Antwoord. And that I obviously knew District 9. I fucking love that movie.

 

I lived in LA when they install them fake benches announcing District 9. They didn’t look like movie posters. Just said that aliens aren’t allowed to sit on the bus benches, humans only. They were awesome. 


 

We got beers in the lobby’s bar. Three each to be exact. In less than 20 minutes. Before 4 pm.

 

We got the check. $9 dollars in total.

 

They thought it was $9 per beer.

 

Nope. I informed them that beers are a dollar each in Ticuan. The hotel is owned by the same owners that have multiple bars and hotels. Beers are less than a dollar at most of their establishments.

 

South Africans started laughing. They couldn’t believe such a nice hotel would be selling beers for a fucking dollar.

 

They dropped a $20 and we left the hotel.


 

Tour was typical. Food. Craft beers. Drinks. And then strip clubs.


 

Before going to the best strip clubs, they requested a shitty one. Just as a warm-up.


And I knew exactly where.


 

El Zorro Bar. “Well… cum… to Tijuana! Exxxotic girls!!!”

 

That’s what the cheap sign on the front of that shit bar reads. It’s next to one of my all-time favorite bars here. Nelson Bar. You’ll find me there constantly. Or maybe not by the time you read this. Probably not. 

 

Who the fuck is reading this?

 

Maybe once I’m dead.


 

We went to Nelson before going to El Zorro.

 

And here is something I found out about myself. Don Julio tequila makes me black the fuck out.


 

That’s why I say I don’t really remember what happened… Just little flashes… of debauchery.


 

We took two shots of Don Julio each. Again, guys were rich, so they were just throwing money with no regard. They were used to Vegas. Tijuana was nothing.


 

I woke up the next morning to find my wallet, my phone, and a crisp $100 bill on my desk. The very same desk I’m typing this crap right now. I barely had a memory of what happened the previous night.


 

I seriously checked my butthole.

 

Why would I have an extra $100? 

 

Nope. Butthole was safe.


 

Checked my Uber history. Saw that I got an Uber before FUCKING midnight from Hotel Ticuan to my house. 

 

I didn’t even fucking lasted till midnight.


 

I called the guys asking them if they were alright and confessing I had no idea what happened the previous night…


 

I was so fucking hungover and confused.

 

They told me not to worry, that I was a great host.


 

I told them I was going to cure my hangover at Telefonica Gastro Park, the trendy food truck location that opened in Tijuana in 2015 and has grown since. Featured in the New York Times and shit. 

 

That place.

 

Before it was huge. But still pretty popular.

 

Especially for a Saturday at around noon.


They met me there.


 

And yes. I’m listening to Die Antwoord while I’m writing this crap.


 

 

Mad Dog Mateo!

 

That’s the nickname they gave me.

 

Mad fucking Dog Mateo.

 

Pachangas Matt and Mad Dog Mateo.


 

Those days are behind me… I think.


 

Saturday morning. Well… morning for hungover people. Brunch time.

 

South Africans order food from a lot of food trucks. And then we hit the bar. Too early for craft beer. So we got caguamones.

 

And…

 

Shots of fucking mezcal.


 

We stayed there eating and drinking for three hours. Wasted before 3 pm. 

 

Those guys could fucking drink.


 

We were being obnoxious and they were telling me all that we did the previous night… at a family-friendly place.


 

All three at some point had two girls on top of us. I can’t even imagine how much money we spent. 

 

It was way before 3 pm and I saw them spend around $200 on drinks and food….

 

The waitress would bring us shots of mezcal, they would pound it, and ask for the next round before the waitress was even done serving them. We finished a bottle and a half from that bar that day. 

 

Drunk and obnoxious telling stories of prostitutes, strippers, and debauchery surrounded by families. At least it was all in some weird English that I’m hoping not that many people could understand. But we were still fucking loud and drunk very fucking early. 


 

By 5pm, one of the guys requested cocaine. So here I go to call my guy. Obviously, he took hours to get to me. But there. $50 worth of cocaine. That’s shit tons of cocaine.


 

Oh fuck. I haven’t even explained how I met my coke dealer.

 

It was at a poker game with my weed dealer. 

 

I was winning. He provided coke. He got irritated when I was clearing the table. The bets weren’t much money. So I let him win a couple times. Then he became my contact for cocaine. And he has the best cocaine I ever had.

 

Disclaimer… haven’t seen this dude in years.


 

The Korean tacos were still around back then. We had some of that shit. 

 

And then… they wanted to go back to El Zorro.


 

We virtually repeated the previous night.

 

I told them that Don Julio was probably the reason I blacked out.


 

So we had Don Julio shots again. 


 

I became friends with the manager of that shit strip club that night. He told me that he has never seen that much money spent in his shitty club. And that they keep bringing me girls or drinks and I kept just saying no with my hand. One older woman stayed on my lap for the most time. 

 

The South Africans were doing drugs, whores, and drinking like crazy.

 

Keep in mind this shitty strip club only has five or six girls working at the time. The place is a shithole. The private rooms are little improvised cubicles. The wall where the shitty tiny stage is located has broken mirrors in a horrible fashion. Like they tried to do something creative but executed horribly. 

 

It’s a shit strip club. But it’s also anarchy.

 

The beers are cheap for a place with naked women.

 

The women are cheap. And you can see the battle-scars. And one of them is obviously a transsexual.


 

But that’s what they loved.

 

They loved how nitty-gritty it fucking was.


 

They also loved Hong Kong and Adelitas. But they said it didn’t feel real. And they were too big. Too many girls.


 

At shitty El Zorro, it was as if they owned the place. And for the hours that we were there, we basically did own the place. That place can’t be worth much. 


 

Those two nights those fuckers probably spend over a thousand dollars each.

 

Definitely more.

 

And I got paid $300 for two nights of partying with crazy South Africans.


 

I blacked out both nights.

 

Now when I walked by El Zorro, the manager likes to tease me with what happened that night.


 

I am pretty sure I recognize the older prostitute that I had in my lap most of the time. I am pretty sure she doesn’t recognize or remember me. I still see her from time to time on my way to Nelson.


Can you imagine the stories that a 40-year-old prostitute can tell? 

 

I don’t really want to know.


 

I live too close to all the debauchery.


 

And I’m obviously desensitized to all that shit. 


 

Like most of the people that come on a tour with me, they promised to come back. They said they had forgotten about Vegas after experiencing Tijuana.

 

I haven’t heard back from them since those two crazy wild nights.

 

I wouldn’t mind going full Mad Dog Mateo again. As long as I’m getting paid for it…


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 12 — Shit Attempt at Writer. Frenchmen and Other World Travelers. Eating in Hong Kong.

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Chapter 12. Shit Attempt at Writer. Frenchmen World Travelers. Eating in Hong Kong.

 

I have a weird phantom pain on my right leg. I hope it’s not because of my horrible diet of tacos and hamburgers. That’s not a proper diet. 


 

I have so much work this week. I didn’t do any last week and just let all the shit mount. Haven’t written dick. The one story I sent hasn’t been published and I have low hopes. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t very good. Pictures were great, the text wasn’t.

 

That’s what I’m into now. Taking pictures. And I have a bunch of those gigs this week. It should be fun.


Instead of working, I ended up partying for four nights in a row. It’s incredible how easy this city does that to you. I didn’t even plan to do any partying at all. Wednesday, the young freckled brunette that was mentioned earlier who thought I was the love of her life texted me. She is back in Tijuana. She wasn’t even living here. 

 

She is now a blond. She’s also now 24.

 

Things happened. They shouldn’t have. 


On Thursday, another girl contacted me for pictures. Things escalated quickly when they shouldn’t have. 

 

Tititijuana.


Friday, buddies from San Diego came over and we went bar hopping and ended in a meh ska show.


Saturday, friends from Mexico City came over with tickets for the Xolos games. They were great palco tickets and included free drinks and food. Pizza and wings were shit, but they were free. There was only light beer available, but also bottles of Black Label.

 

From there, the partying continued until almost 3 a.m.

 

Titititijuana.


 

Two important things happened which turned me into a writer. Somewhat. Up to this day, I still have no idea what I’m doing.


 

Meeting Chad. He inspired me to become a writer and to try to get published for the magazine I currently work for.


Meeting Vincent, the Frenchman world traveler. 


 

Besides announcing on Craigslist, I also had a Couchsurfer account. A lot of people stayed with me through there. I don’t use it anymore, but back then I used it to practice giving tours.


 

Vincent messaged me for a couch and to help him with a project called You Make My Trip. He was basically traveling the world asking the internet what he should do in the city he was staying in. 

 

For Tijuana, the voting was between partying his ass off or investigating what the life of the migrants and deportees that lived on the river by the border was like.


 

The internet chose the deportees. I wanted the party for my own sake and to grow the tours.


 

This was the turning point in my life. Vincent stayed with me for almost a week. After a drunken tequila night, Vincent met and fell in love with my friend Shappu. 

 

Their romance ended up in disaster years later, but that’s beside the fucking point.

 

The point is that with Vincent and Shappu, we explored the Bordo area and more of Zona Norte. Really gruesome stuff. People doing heroin or meth on broad daylight. The disgusting Tijuana. 

 

The Tijuana that I got addicted for a while. Nueva Pachanga.

 

The lowest of the lowest of the fucking world. 


 

It’s like staring at the face of death and walking away.

 

So much misery. So many drugs.


 

I knew I had to write about what we experienced.

 

This was my first failed attempt at writing for a magazine.

 

Pretty much like this is my first failed attempt at writing a book.


 

Can’t wait until I throw all this shit to the garbage. Or just post it online somewhere for free and make no money.

 

There goes all my pride.


 

My article got rejected.

 

Not only was it plagued with grammatical and spelling mistakes, but it was also just purely bad. “I this. I that. This happened.”

And wow!

Bad.

Horribly written bullshit.


 

The editor rejected it and told me to rewrite it. It took me a long time to write it… so I wasn’t happy. I thought it was good.

 

It wasn’t.


 

I rewrote the article. But I just fixed grammatical and spelling mistakes and cut down a lot of the fat. 

 

It was still a horrible fucking article.

 

No details.

 

Nothing interesting.


 

It got rejected again.


 

My gamble didn’t pay off. I quit my job to spend more time doing Tijuana tours and attempting to be a freelance writer.

 

I was rejected and was left with little to no money. But not much money is needed to live in this city. 


 

The editor ignored my following emails and my attempts to rewrite the story. I had destroyed his patience and the door was closed. 


 

I did a couple of more free tours through Couchsurfing. Another Frenchman and world traveler named Alec. Also, guys from Montreal that I randomly met playing chess at what used to be the only craft brewery in Tijuana.


 

Tijuana has changed so much and will continue to do so.


And Tijuana changed me.

 

I like to say that I’m not a writer, Tijuana is just easy to write about. Tijuana transformed me for the better (maybe). Tijuana transforms people, not always for the better.


 

Random little tours kept me a bit afloat. One was with a guy named Jesse and a dude named Max who carried a banana suit wherever they went. 

 

I’ve done way too many tours and have fucked with Tijuana too much to remember how things went down. We did the basic Tijuana tour to Playas and dive bars in downtown. Again, back then the craft beer or food scene was nothing to what it is now. Options were scarce.

 

All I remember that his time we didn’t do Hong Kong, we ended up in La Malquerida.


 

La Malquerida is a much cheaper strip club that’s mostly for locals. Beers are cheap and it has more of a wild cantina feel than that of a strip club.


 

The guys got plastic looking women sitting on their laps. The one I liked was cold and not into it, so it didn’t pan out well for me.


 

For them… I had to negotiate.


 

Mini-pimp translator.

 

That’s basically how I made some of my money.


 

After buying the girls plenty of drinks, the guys were tired of having them on their laps and wanted more. 

 

I negotiated blowjobs for $20 + the private room.

 

They left immediately to the private rooms and came back a few minutes later to share the stories. One got a raw blowjob with no condom, the other was forced to use a condom. Both were very happy with the outcome. 


 

That’s all I remember.

 

And that I got paid.

 

Paid to party and to be a mini-pimp.


 

After that tour, I had a tour with what I thought was a perverted old Canadian man. After giving the basic tour around the city, I learned sadly, that his wife had passed a couple years ago, but now he was free to do as he pleased.

 

He owned property in Jamaica and had his own business in Canada. His two sons were old enough and married. He decided to travel the world and ended up Tijuana.


 

The first time I ever had food in Hong Kong was with this fellow. He ordered the breaded shrimp on rice.


 

He stayed in the Hong Kong Hotel (Las Cascadas) and book the master suite (not the penthouse). It was a super nice room that looked like a porno set that I described before. 


 

After the basic tour, we went back to Hong Kong. He picked a girl that he liked and kept buying her drinks.

 

Then he told me to choose a girl that I like.


 

I walked to a girl that I like but she gave me the cold shoulder, so I picked the one next to her.


 

As soon as we got back to the table, the girl jumped on me and said: “güerito, que bueno que me escogiste.” She said she had been checking me out and was so happy I picked her out.

 

The young girl with the older Canadian wasn’t happy, but I told her that the dude was willing to spend a lot of money.


 

The Canadian gave me $100 and told me to keep the girls with me while he goes to his room to shower. He told me to specifically not let go of the girl that he picked. 

 

It took him almost 30 minutes to come back. The hotel is a crazy maze, so he had trouble finding his room and finding his way back to Hong Kong.


 

We stayed with the two girls for a couple of hours buying drinks, food, and tequila shots.

 

Then it was negotiating time for the Canadian.


 

My girl was all over me without the necessity of paying her. She was just happy we were buying her drinks (she makes money that way). And she was happy it was with me instead of some other pervert.

The tequila man with a whistle that comes around and forces tequila shots down your throat to ask for tips after swung by our table. Instead of getting tequila directly poured into my mouth, it was poured down the navel of the chick I was with down to her pussy and into my mouth.

Yuck. But drunk and having fun. Don’t judge.

Also, tequila should’ve killed bacteria, right?

Or so I told myself.


 

His girl… 

 

She was not very happy.

 

The Canadian made his offer. $300 for a couple hours with her. Way more than the usual average pay. The girl was hesitant but she took it.


 

I am not sure what happened after. I went home. The Canadian stayed with the girl in his hotel room.


 

He paid me more than the rest. My tours started to have value. But I was just taking guys to strip clubs and translating for them.

 

Cupid translator mini-pimp.

 

Not a good thing on my resume.

 

Not a good thing to be writing about.

 

But that’s how I stayed afloat for a while.


 

 

 

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 2 — First Time in Hong Kong in Tijuana

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Chapter 2. First Time in Hong Kong in Tijuana.

I started doing Tijuana tours before I moved to Tijuana. I remember thinking that my brother was crazy for moving from San Diego to the shittiness of Teejay. The first bar that my sister-in-law took me was a horrible preppy bar called Red Lion. It was shitty, but beers were cheap as fuck. I was disappointed but intrigued. Nothing dangerous ever happened, which was my main concern. The only thing that was scary was hearing police sirens and see police trucks rushing down the street on a group of four or more, running the traffic lights.

 

Tijuana is the ugliest city I’ve ever been, it’s even uglier than Pachuca. My sister-in-law got infuriated by that comment. But it is. Even now that I have grown to love it, it’s an ugly fucking city. 

 

Streets crisscross randomly and traffic signals tend to not work, there’s garbage everywhere, people are constantly out on the street doing nothing, the whole city smells, at night there is little to no light, the neighborhoods make no sense, big luxurious houses are next to poor looking shacks, it’s a shithole.


But I kept visiting my brother, and escaping to have my own Tijuana Adventures here and there.


I remember the first time I walked into Hong Kong. Tijuana’s most luxurious strip club. It’s more luxurious now than what it was back then. The city has changed so much in so little.

 

 


 

My co-brother-in-law took me to my first strip club ever, and HK is much more than that. It was after a game of bowling with the family. We had been drinking and my co-brother and I stayed longer in the bowling alley by ourselves drinking more. I told him I wanted to check it out… The Zonaja.

 

His eyes lit up. Let’s do it.

 


 

Going to Hong Kong is a crazy experience. And taking people there for the first time is like introducing them into a new world that you didn’t know it could be possible.

 

It’s like walking into the internet. Your desires materialize in front of you, except the porn isn’t free. 

 

I didn’t have much money with me in my first visit. But I was still visiting from Los Angeles  where everything was expensive. Paying $3-4 per beer with naked women all around was nothing. Buying my co-brother some beers was no problem either.


“Give me a dollar,” he said as soon as we walked in. 

Two naked girls covered in shaving cream were right at the entrance. The layout back then was different, but the “show de espuma” is still as prevalent as ever.

My co-brother slid a dollar in between one of the girls legs while looking at me. 

HOLY FUCK! You can touch their pussy with just one dollar.

“Go ahead, your turn,” the girl looked at me with her legs spread. 

One dollar gone. One pussy touched.

Two dollars gone. The other pussy touched.

I didn’t have that many singles. That was my first impression at my first strip club ever.

One more beer and let’s go. I couldn’t deal with what my eyes were seeing.

I don’t remember what else we did that night. But I remember I didn’t have more than $40 and that went out quick.


I’ve been to those places so many times now…


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