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 14.5 — Rumble Fest, Acid, and Meth. 

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Chapter 14.5. Rumble Fest, Acid, and Meth. 

 

The festival ended. It was a mess. We lost a lot of money. And I barely even slept.

 

I still owed $400 to Mothers of Gut and Habits who came all the way from Los Angeles. They also had a horrible time, except when they were on stage and then partying. They had a horrible time on their way down to Tijuana. They got a flat tire, got in trouble at the border, and it was a general mess. They also got up on stage later than promised but made the most out of it.  

 

Not only that. I promised them $400+ expenses. I only paid them $400, it was all I had. As in, seriously, all I fucking had. $64 were left in the bank. And I had no real income.

 

We thought that we were going to make money with Rumble Fest.

 

Fuck were we wrong.

 

And all the signs that it was going to be wrong were there. And I knew it. But we were having too much fun.


 

I crossed the border to the US with the bands and gave them the cash. I didn’t sleep for over 20 hours and border crossing took us around 2 hours. I was destroyed. And cashless.


 

I went home, got food, got plenty of water, dropped acid, and floated away for what seemed days.


 

After everything that happened… everyone was on acid during the festival except me. It was my turn. I could see my body floating away as I blasted live concerts on YouTube by Battles and other noisy/mathy bands. I rested on acid. Again, as if floating/levitating in the middle of the room. 


 

Months before Rumble Fest, we were organizing mini-festivals. It involved bands that were going to be featured in the event and other minor bands that asked us to be in it but we couldn’t. We did one or two every weekend. This often involved music, alcohol, and drugs.

 

Sex. Sex was also included and random.

 

Everyone was single. And we ruled the stage, the entrance, and the party. The party never fucking ended.


 

The party started since the idea of Rumble Fest came about. We worked. But work was partying. And coming up with ideas. And talking to bands.

 

I did a lot of the work.

 

The website. The ideas. The actual fabrication of what was going to go down. Logistics. They never trusted me fully, and a lot of that went wrong. Logistics. I had some contacts in the music industry and other vendors.

 

David had the crazy idea and the contacts for music and party people. 

 

Chad had the contacts for music and artists. 

 

And for three months we coordinated to make it all happen.

 

 


 

 

J-Mar came later. He had contacts and his own ideas. His band was opening the festival. We needed his support.


 

After many preview shows, the date of Rumble Fest was near. Which was a week before my birthday.


 

The ultimate party celebrating that this shit was actually happening. At the gym, with our partners.

 

Tecates abounded. And we drank for a long time. 

 

Cocaine was also available. And though I don’t like the drug, I partook. 


 

Suddenly, we were running low on beer and out of cocaine and it was past midnight.

 

Someone said he had a contact for both. Forty minutes later when only one beer was left, the contact showed up with a 24-pack and more cocaine.

 

Party saved… momentarily.


 

That was harsh cocaine. 

 

In fact, it didn’t feel like cocaine at all.

 


 

 

We were at the gym. There were mirrors everywhere. So I remember staring myself in the mirror and realizing I just did some meth.

 

My hair was crazy, I felt insanely energized and powerful, my eyes were bloodshot red, and I had a sudden thirst for everything.


 

That feeling continued the next day. 


 

And the next day.


 

And almost to the next day.


 

We drank Tecates throughout the whole weekend. Mostly at Tropics Bar. 

 

That’s why I loathe that place. 

 

And many other reasons… 


 

That year, 2015, was the last time I went there, near Christmas time.

 

Except, I broke my promise of not going there last week. When friends from Minnesota came over and we were invited there. It wasn’t as horrible as my memory painted it.


 

It was on Sunday at Tropics Bar when I started to feel the fucking worst withdrawal feelings ever. Thank god I don’t really fucking smoke cigarettes or ever dabbled with heroin. 

 

Fuck that.


 

It was a fucking nightmare.

 

I was wearing sunglasses at night like a fucking douchenozzle. But I did it because my fucking head felt horrible. I was a zombie. I was fully awake but tired as fuck. I knew the only thing that would make me feel better would be more meth.


 

Or “cricais” (crick-ice) cocaine mixed with “ice.” That’s what it was.

 

That shit was fucking nasty.


 

To top it all off, there were four women at the bar that I have previously slept with. One crazy chick, one girl that I fell in love with and the feelings weren’t mutually, and two one-night stands.

 

And there I was with. Feeling like shit. Drunk as fuck and coming off from meth. And ex-lovers in the same bar talking to other lovers. 


 

“Tijuana es un cojedero, se cree ciudad, pero es un pueblito.”

 

Tijuana is a fuckfest, it believes its a city, but it’s just a small town. I was warned about that when I first arrived in the city. It was. It still is.


 

One week to Rumble Fest. Nothing was really ready. Problems were mounting. Everything was falling apart. And the solution were more drugs and alcohol.


 

Clean the fuck out of the area where the fest was going to happen. Fell behind in permits. The vendors were confused. The sound was a shitty contractor. The bands were a mess. And organizers… 

 

Organizers were kept together by drugs, friendship, Tecates, and a fucking belief that we could pull the best fucking concert ever out of our asses.


 

For some people it was. For a lot of others, it was a fucking disaster.

 

It had its highlights, for me, it was 100 Onces. That was it. That was the only moment I enjoyed myself for a second.

 

The rest was running around FUCKING everywhere answering fucking EVERYONE about FUCKING anything. And almost everyone was on fucking drugs. Which made things worse.

 

I had to kick out bands off-stage. Held the ankle of the drummer of the Wax Children to let them know it was their last song. They expanded that last song for many minutes and I had to grab his ankle again. Everything fucking behind schedule.

 

And bands always want special treatment. They are all rockstars in their heads.

 

I had to kick out one of the bands. I told them that I couldn’t be giving everyone fucking blowjobs. And they came in demanding instead of helping. The schedule was way behind, and they wanted the stage. Told them it wasn’t their turn, they got up on stage anyway.

 

Kicked them the fuck out.

 

Not your fucking turn.

 

Fucking bands.


 

Many were helpful, many were in drugs (yet still helpful), and most seemed to enjoy themselves.

 

Only one band were complete ratdicks, they don’t exist anymore, so it’s not even worth mentioning them. Great musicians. Shit attitude.

 

The other, San Pedro El Cortez, they were the fucking best. They didn’t care what happens as long as they could have beers. They played at 4 fucking a.m. The last band to play. And they were happy to do so. With a shit drum set and without checking sound over and over. They just went up on fucking stage and did their thing. 


 

And that’s the last time I tried organizing a major event. And I don’t think I ever will. Unless I get paid a lot and the investment is not my money. And that’s never going to happen. So yeah. 

 

No.


 

I rarely even go to shows nowadays.

 

This last week I went to two. That felt good. I should go to more. But no more drugs. Those days are behind me.

 

That’s what your twenties are for, right?

 

Hunter S. Thompson would disagree. But I don’t have his talent or his wit.  


 

One show was in San Diego. Kirby Dream Band. Nerdy shit. It was great.

 

The other was in Tijuana with my Minnesotan friends. Perdición. It was hardcore. It was fucking loud. Very fucking loud. Dangerously fucking loud.

 

Minnesotan friends couldn’t handle the loud. So we bounced after a few songs.


 

That was after days and nights partying in San Diego, one night in Tijuana, Minnesotans were hungover as fuck, we still fucking managed to party somehow.

 

No strip clubs. 

 

They did that in Southeast Asia. And didn’t feel the need to do it anymore.


 

My stories are enough.

 

I don’t need new stories.


 

And I only have a few left before I’m done embarrassing myself.

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 13 — Sneaking Through the Backdoor and Time ravel.

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Chapter 13. Sneaking Through the Backdoor and Time Travel.

Changes changes changes.

 

I like to talk about them. And recently, there have been many changes in my life. Nothing is like it used to be. It’s interesting what success looks like depending on where you look.

 

Getting published in a magazine felt like a huge success. The first cover story also felt great. And now it’s a job. I haven’t even done it for that long and I’m already tired of it.

 

Not writing cover stories. Those are hard to come by. Writing, in general, gets tiresome. But also pictures. 


 

This Saturday wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I had to take pictures at a hip hop show. The light was shit. But I managed. It was fun.


Changes.


“If you put more effort into your tours, you would be so successful.” Or so they say.

 

If I put any more effort into anything I would be more successful.

 

Effort is hard to come by. 

 

I’m easily satisfied with little.

 

And yet I have so much more than many others.


 

I still don’t have a car. And I should get one.

 

Sounds basic. But I’ve been fine without a car for years. I do need one though. I borrow my brother’s car way too often.


 

That’s what I’m doing tomorrow.

 

Borrowing my sister-in-law’s car for a Tijuana Adventure.


 

Changes. Those changes.


From going to strip clubs and being a mini-pimp to whoring out the city’s problems. 

 

The world-famous Hong Kong.

 

The world-famous border wall.

 

Penis.


 

It was a bit over four years ago

 

Weird.


 

Time in Tijuana goes fast.


 

That’s when I started getting published in the magazine. I now do a bunch of things for them. It always feels like I’m pretending to know what I am doing. I have no fucking clue. But it works.

 

Cover pictures are usually mine. I’ve had a handful of covers already. I have another one in mind. I get published regularly.

 

And yet.

 

Yet.

 

I get nervous every single time. That someone is going to find out. That I have no idea what I’m doing or what I am talking about. That I’m just a lazy guy that figures out how to be the laziest and still live.


 

That’s what I have tomorrow that is making me nervous. Tijuana Adventure tours always make me nervous. No matter what I’m doing.


 

I haven’t been to the strip club in almost a year. I stopped caring about them. I bet I would nervous if I had to go. I don’t really want to go, but people pay me to take them… 


 

I don’t really want to go to the thing tomorrow either.

 

It makes me nervous.

 

I just rather stay at home and play video games.

 

But I need to make money.


Journalists from New Zealand are coming over to see the border prototypes by Trump. I’m getting hired by journalists instead of by party-goers or perverts.

 

Changes.


Two are from New Zealand. The other is a famous journalist working on a book about migration.

 

Famous as in she has a best seller and a Wikipedia page. I guess famous is not the right word. More like respected in her field.

 

And that scares me.


 

I know it’s going to be fine. And it will make a great story. I just get nervous.

 

The problems of being an introvert/extrovert.


 

It’s also really early. I have to meet them at 7:30 a.m. at the border. Then a bunch of missions. And end the day early before 2 pm. 


 

My tours usually start at dusk and end at dawn.

 

This one is the complete opposite.

 

Changes…


 

This week is a bunch of busywork. I don’t want to do any of it. Just like I haven’t been writing. Because I don’t want to do it. 


Back then, I was excited about the prospect of writing. It was tough. But getting published was the best. Not only because money! I needed the money!

 

I had no idea how to make a living by writing. Every small publication I would treasure it.

 

Fuck yeah.

 

$100 bucks or so for writing things that I experience. Observe. Write. Details. Quotes. Write.


 

I also got rejected a bunch. I didn’t really have the fundamentals. 


 

I got rejected by the main editor to the point where he was ignoring my emails. That was pointless. But I kept writing.

 

I wrote a basic article about what Tijuana was becoming.

 

So many changes already.

 

I submitted it to the travel section through the website.

 

Different editor.

 

They liked the story.


 

That was my first publication with the magazine. With the travel editor.

 

The smallest of the sections in a very small magazine.

 

And I was so happy with it. I successfully snuck in through the back door. 


After that, I wrote about a music festival in Tijuana. After all, that’s what I liked the most about the city and my obsession. 

 

Music editor.

 

Nice.

 

Two editors on my side.


 

News stories were next. That pays better than travel or music and I landed a great story that involved a border wall riot. I also had the proper contacts for it and had inside information.

 

Bam!


That’s how I started writing for the magazine.

 

My first cover would come years later. And it was about beer.

 

Meeting the marketing manager came later as well.

 

And now, I know a lot of people in the office and I do a bunch of shit.


 

It all started with a shitty travel story about Tijuana’s nightlife.

 

The story talks about all the changes in Tijuana.


 

It wasn’t as easy as I made it sound. It took a lot of time. I’m still not in a great position either. I barely make money. But living the Tijuana life helps.


 

So instead of taking people to strip clubs, I tried to switch my tours to be about music. That was a stupid idea since people that like concerts barely have any money and if they are going to venture to Tijuana already, they don’t need to pay a tour guide.


 

Changes.


 

I was barely making any money through writing. So life was of cheap beer and tequila. My sensei master of a writer, Mr. Chad, drank a lot.

 

I became a professional writer because of him.

 

And by that, I mean an alcoholic.


 

Chad wrote a lot after nights of partying and encountering a deadline or inspiration. He would write through the night while drinking, and drinking a lot.

 

I’m a sleepy drunk.

 

As soon as I hit my nice limit, I usually turn off.

 

I try to never appear drunk despite heavily drinking.


 

I rarely or ever drink in the mornings. Most of the time that I drank in the mornings was because of Chad.

 

I miss him.


 

His room sat across my room. The apartment was basically empty.


 

Now my mom lives there. I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s only been a couple of days. And it’s supposedly not to be long.

 

Changes.


 

After months of living alone with my cat.


 

Changes.


 

And before that, one year of living with the same girl who I thought I was going to marry.


Changes.


 

Los caminos de la vida, no son lo que yo pensaba.

 


 

That song has a fucking exquisite bass line. 


 

Changes.


 

My friends from Minnesota are also visiting this week. From Minnesota to Tijuana.

 

It sounds strange as fuck. Minnesotans in a Tijuana Adventure. Let’s see what happens. 


 

Changes. My life in Tijuana has been nothing but constant changes. I swear I can’t predict what next year will be like. 

 

Maybe that’s what life is in every big city. I don’t know what my life could be like outside Tijuana… It’s a strange one, that’s for sure.


 

My life is much more tranquil now. I have somewhat of a busy schedule and workflow.

 

I still feel like I’m bullshitting my way through life and somehow it’s working.


 

The writing is catching up to where I am now. But before all of that… There were a lot of drugs, alcohol, and women.


 

The misogynistic writing in the era of the #MeToo in a strange world from a bizarre city continues. 


 

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 10.5 — Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 10.5

Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

 

I got busy again and I forgot where I was going with all the shit I was typing. I said it had been slow days in the other intro. Well, that got reversed. The editor accepted my pitch for a feature story, then I went to investigate another short story. I got really good material, so I pitched a lengthy story and he went for it.

 

Now I have a couple of days to finish the first story before I leave town.

 

And also… one paid photo gig to take care of.

 

And a tour…


Not really a tour. My tours have changed a lot. There’s still the occasional bachelor party, but it is very rare now. 

 

This tour is of journalistic nature, not that of gross nature. Irish reporters are visiting this weird city and they need someone to show them around. They found me somehow. And I got to take care of that this weekend.


And there are a lot of good events this weekend. And tomorrow I’m jamming with some guys to see if we start a band.


And…

And…

 

Tijuana is a lot. And I’m getting busy. Let’s get it over with so I can go back to work.


 

We left Hong Kong and it was nice and bright out. What an experience. Especially for a 20-year-old who has never been in a bar or much less a titty club like that one. 

 

I stopped feeling joy showing people that insane place. It used to be awesome to watch. How people’s eyes lit up when they see that depravity. Men and women. LGBT or anything. It’s world-famous for a reason. And getting famouser as I write this (I am aware famouser is not a word).


So you can imagine Kevin’s conflicted feelings and emotions and excitements.

 

Taking him to La Nueva Pachanga is like throwing a bucket of cold water on his face.


It goes from tempting depravity from hell to actual hell. A real one. No makeup on this fucker. Crude reality. 


 

We sat on the back near the inflatable palm tree. The only fucking decoration inside La Nueva Pachanga besides the Chivas posters.

 

There used to be a pole there. Not sure if they changed it. But there used to be one.


 

Kevin didn’t understand why I took him to this shithole. I didn’t really even know either.

 

That place still fascinates me, but I used to be obsessed with it.


 

There was a drunk older woman with a summery dress dancing by the pole. She had a date on a table. A date that was passed out and she barely paid attention to him.


Kevin kept staring. I told him not too, but he couldn’t help it. I tried not too, but I obviously played it dumb like I wasn’t watching it.


Then she came over and touched Kevin and asked for a dollar. 

 

His reaction was of “eww no, get off of me.”

 

Drunk woman got mad and said, “if you don’t like it then don’t watch!”

 

And kept dancing and making obscene gestures at us. She lifted her dress to show a very undesirable body. 


We left way before sunset. 

 

That was Kevin’s brief introduction to Zona Norte.


 

Reviewing memories of the time, my friend Nick from Minnesota was here when all this shit happened, since Kevin and Nick met at some point.

 

This is when the craft beer scene barely started occurring and my tours started to shift focus.


 

I never took Nick to Zona Norte. Just craft beers and dive bars. More like my tours now.


 

Later that same week, I had my first legit paid customer. He was not interested in craft beer.


When I started, I used to advertise on craigslist. 

 

The ad said something along the lines of “Hey, I’ll guide you through Tijuana for $25.” 

 

It probably included beer, tacos, and strip clubs as part of the ad.


 

My first client came through those ads.

 

A guy from New York named Rudy. Classic Italian New Yorker from the Bronx. Super heavy accent straight up from the movies. Never met a guy like that. Incredibly New Yorker.

 

He compared Tijuana to the Dominican Republic and to 80s New York.

 

“Me and my boys, you know, we would go to the DR and get all these girls for cheap, you know, the DR was great, you know.”

 

He sounded something like that.

 

Really funny dude.

 

“New York was like this in the 80s, you know. You would drive around, you know, and get girls to suck your dick for a $20, you know.”

 

For him, Tijuana was that. A mix of 80s New York and his experiences in brothels in the Dominican Republic or “the DR.” (Dee Ahr you idiot, not doctor). 

 

He requested chicken tacos.

 

That took me by surprise. Chicken tacos are an odd request. Or rarely even seen. I told him Tijuana is about fish and shrimp tacos or meat. Nah. He wanted chicken tacos.


 

This is how bad I was giving tours. I didn’t know where to take him. 

 

We ended up in a shitty place that served shitty tacos. He didn’t like them.

 

Again, I told him chicken tacos aren’t really a thing. Should have just taken him where it is good and not giving him silly choices.


We had a beer somewhere before going into the strip clubs.


 

He loved the shit out of Adelita’s. Again, he said everything was the same as the DR. 

 

He said that some politician came to the DR and cleaned all up.

 

“They fucked up, you know. DR was great and then they cleaned it. No more hookers. We used to fly every other month, rent a house, you know, and get girls, you know. Beautiful girls for cheap. The DR was great. But no more, you know.”

 

“You know” was never a question. More like an interlude between thoughts. 


 

I charged him $25 for the tour which he paid upfront. Then he paid for all the rest.

 

After Adelita’s, of course, Hong Kong.


 

Oh was he loving the fuck out of Hong Kong.

 

He picked up the most plastic looking girl. He said he liked that. The faker the better. He bought her a couple of drinks and told me to get a girl for myself.

 

He then said he was going to take her to the room and gave me some cash so I can drink while I waited for him.

 

He came back all happy with the same girl and kept buying her drinks.


Old school photographers roam strip clubs to try to sell you a picture of the memory of you with a hooker.

 

He paid for a photograph with him and his girl. Two actually. One of them posing as if they were the most awkward high school couple before prom. The other of him with his head between her tits.

 

$5 per picture.


 

We drank a bit more in Hong Kong. He said goodbye to his girl. And then left.


It was still day time. Nearing sunset.

 

He wanted to see more. So I took him through Zona Norte. We didn’t go to La Nueva Pachanga, but I was more confident about where to walk in the area. He wanted to see the street girls.

 

It was DR this. 80s New York that.

 

He fucking adored Tijuana.

 

We walked by where the transsexual hookers stand.

 

“I’ve seen a lot of transformers in my days, you know, and let me tell you, those transformers are some of the best transformers I’ve ever seen.”

 

I never heard anyone called them transformers. I know it’s derogatory to call them trannies, shemales, ladyboys, or many more… but transformers.

 

I think transformers is just fucking hilarious. 

 

I’m pretty sure they find offense in that. They should find it empowering. Transforming oneself is some difficult shit.


Sorry trans community. That was Rudy talking. 


 

As we walked back to the border, he asked why so many farmacias. I explained the giant medical and dental tourism we have at the border.

 

Suddenly, Tijuana was not an interesting thing for him just for the girls… 

 

Rudy needed dental care that he had been neglecting because it was too expensive.

 

He said he planned to come back in a couple of months, get dental work, and go find the exact same girl in Hong Kong.


 

Sorry, mom. Sex sales.


 

Rudy crossed back to San Diego and it wasn’t even night time. I charged him $25 for the tour, but he was so happy with everything that he learned that he gave me $50 tip. 


 

I made as much money as the prostitute he slept with. I was conflicted, but I made money. Sleazy money. 


 

I called my mom to tell her my first tour was a success and that I made more money than I was expected. And told her that I was sorry because sex sales…


Rudy did come back. It was almost a year later. And his adventure was similar to the one above, except dental work, and he lost his keys in a taxi cab.

 

Not sure if that story is worth telling.


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 7.5 — Hong Kong with Psycho.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 7.5 – Hong Kong with Psycho.

I did errands and some work and got distracted on purpose because I didn’t want to write what I’m going to write.

 

It’s not even that bad. This was years ago. I was 26-year-old and was YOLOing harder than ever.


 

We entered Hong Kong drunk and high at around 2 a.m. on a Tuesday. The place was not as lively as it usually is. Still a lot of naked women everywhere, but not the insanity of weekends in the sex emporium.

 

Before we even found a place to seat, psycho chick was saying hello to some women excitedly. She knew a lot of the dancers but didn’t know they worked there or never seen them work. She ordered a bucket of beer and gave me a $20.

 

Then she said, “wait, I’ll be back.” 

 

The bucket of beer arrived and she was nowhere. There goes not only the $20 she gave me, but the only $20 I had that was supposed to last me more than a few days.


 

First beer out of ten and I’m sitting in Hong Kong by myself with no money. Trying not to look at all the naked women around me because as soon as you give them eye contact, they’ll approach you.

 

There’s nowhere to look.

 

Stimulation overload.

 

I’m so over it.


 

For now.


 

Second beer. I’m drunk as fuck. I don’t want to drink anymore. But there’s a bucket of beer that I pseudo-paid for so I’m going to drink as much as I can.


Fuck. Third beer. This is boring now.


 

And there she is! She came back. The psycho chick.

 

With $400 in her hands.

 

She handed $200 to a waiter and told him to break it for $20s and singles.

 


She then handed me a fistful of singles and said: “I want you to spend it on my friends.”


Yep.

 

My luck turned around. Psycho chick just handed me a bunch of money. She was telling her friends to come over and be with me while at the same time she was with me… It was… magical? 


But wait. There’s more!


Much more…


Sorry, mom.


It took us less than an hour to spend the couple hundred. I kissed and touched many naked women while kissing the psycho chick at the same time. And they did the same to me.

 

The waiters were treating us like royalty as psycho told him to break another $100 and bring another bucket of beer.


 

The waiters had no idea psycho chick was also a stripper but just from Adelita’s and not Hong Kong. She was dressed in regular clothes. Tight jeans, tennis shoes, a regular shirt, and little makeup.

 

She gave me a fistful of singles again. Beer was ignored at this point but was still there.

 

And then she decided she wanted to dance on stage.


 

Waiters didn’t care. The other girls encouraged it. 

 

She got up and started stripping for me and for the general audience.


 

I helped her strip. I started throwing money that she gave me on stage. Took off her jeans and left her with just her panties and put more money as she danced… for like another second. 


 

Then she helped me strip…


 

Then I was on stage.


So there.

 

Secret out. I had sex with a psycho hooker in public for a moment. 

 

Again, Hong Kong wasn’t very lively, so it was just some waiters, other hookers, and dozen other customers that were entertained by their own naked girls on their laps.

 


 

We didn’t finish, but I was naked on stage (boxers only) with her totally naked and two other naked girls there. I think I had a moment of consciousness when I was like “dude, you can’t keep going.” I’m pretty sure we were taking it too far, but at some point, I was on the side of the stage putting my clothes back on.

 

Her, the same.


 

The other two girls that were on stage came to us and gave her back some of the money. 

 

And she still had plenty of money.


 

After what happened, waiters kept treating us like royalty.

 

They started ushering us into the VIP room where they told us we could keep it going with more girls.

 

We laughed at each other and said no thanks.

 

Then they ushered us into some private fancy rooms with a jacuzzi shower with glass windows and four-poster bed with translucent curtains and soft clean sheets. It pretty much looked like a set of a porno. And porno was playing on TV.

 

Again, we said no thanks. 

 

They tried ushering us to another place that was basically the same, with more promises of girls, champagne, and other VIP treatment.

 

I think they thought I had the money and not her. Because I kept looking at her like “what’s your choice.”

 

She again said no thanks and that we wanted to go back to the main area.


 

There we sat with her friends again trying to finish the rest of the bucket of beer.


We didn’t finish the beer when she said it was time for tacos.

 

She handed me the rest of her change. $50 some dollars. I put them in my right pocket of my favorite green hoodie.


 

I lost that green hoodie. I miss that green hoodie. That fucking hoodie was perfect.


 

We stumbled down the street for tacos. It was near dawn time. We were beyond wasted. Her, more than me. I had time to sober up after the actions occurred. 


 

She got three adobada tacos with everything. At the time, I was a “vegetarian” so I ordered nothing.

 

Also at the time “I would never be with a prostitute.” Too late to go back on that one. 


 

I still never have paid any money for it. And I don’t think I ever will. So hooray my morals!?


 

She was so drunk that she was eating the paper that came with the taco. I helped her fold that paper back so she wouldn’t eat it. Nah. She kept munching on that taco drunkenly eaten the paper and all.

 

I was hungry, so I grabbed a piece of the meat ever so carefully picking a not so greasy piece that didn’t touch the guacamole that was piled on top (I hate that green booger shit). 

 

Vegetarianism over.

 

Give me a taco without that green booger shit.


 

Almost ate it with paper and all.


 

I took money out of the right pocket of my beloved green fucking hoodie that I miss so much. Paid the taquero. And down the road, we go to her place.

 

Her place?


Oh yeah!

 

There’s more!

 

I said there’s more!


 

Her place was Hotel Velario, a hotel near all the prostitutes. And guess what happens in that hotel?!


 

It’s a really nice standard hotel. She had a room on the bottom floor. The building is weird, is sort of a labyrinth and it goes down a few floors instead of up. 

 

The room was also pretty standard, except she had all her shit there.

 

I remember I saw her official ID on the night desk. Shit. I learned her real name and her age. She was 21. I thought she was older than me at the time.


 

She opened her closet and tried opening her safe to show off her money. She was too drunk to open it. She left her purse and money on top of it. 

 

Then we had sex for hours.

 

For way too many hours.

 

I was tired. I wanted to sleep.

 

She wouldn’t let me. She wanted more and more and more.


She went to other rooms to show me off.

 

Other girls that worked with her basically also live in the hotel. The girls would come into her hotel room and play with me. 

 

Yep…


 

I was so embarrassed. But at the same time YOLOing. She just kept telling girls “you gotta see this guy’s cock. It’s perfect.”

 

So more girls kept coming to check it out.


 

I just wanted to fucking sleep. She wanted more sex and got obsessed with not being able to open her safe.


 

At some point, she called the front desk to tell them she couldn’t open her safe. Security came into the room to help her. Security dude seemed to be friendly with psycho. They couldn’t reset the fucking password so they welded that shit down and told her they were going to bring her a new safe.

 

She had over 20k in cash on the safe…


 

At some point I did sleep. Because I woke up and suddenly there were several fruit juices JUMEX on the room’s table as well as shitty Mexican pastries. At some point, she went to the store and bought breakfast. 


 

I had no idea what time it was.


 

I slept some more after breakfast. But she kept touching me trying to get my tired penis to do something. I told her I needed sleep. At least a couple hours.

 


 

I woke up no idea at what time. She was asleep but felt me waking up.

 

And started touching me right away.


 

After what seemed the 7th time I had sex in one day, I left her hotel room.


This circles back to Chapter 1

 

This is when I stumbled out of Zona Norte after the craziest fucking night of my life. I reached for my pocket to call my friend Brown. “Dude, you won’t know what just happened.” Those were my first words.

 

Tijuana happened.

When I was talking to him giving him a rough summary and telling him to meet me for beers soon, I reached inside my right pocket on my fucking beautiful green hoodie.

 

$37 dollars.


 

I told him I’ll call him later.

 

Turned around and headed back to the hotel.


 

Shit. I didn’t know what room she is in. Her first name was very common and I forgot her real last name. I couldn’t just ask for “psycho chick.”

 

I turned back around and went back to my place. 


 

I messaged her later that day to let her know that I took some money from her by accident and thanked her for the wild night. She told me not to worry about it and to buy her beer one of these days.


And wait.

 

There’s more.


A month later she texted me that she was pregnant….


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

 

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

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

 

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…


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

Brasa Taqueria and Sal de Maple (and much more) – Keep up on Instagram! Rarely posting here…

Sorry for whoever follows this blog looking for food posts in Tijuana…

I am mostly posting a lot under my Instagram: Tijuana Adventure.

Last place was Sal de Maple and I wrote:

Bennies are one of my favorite brunches, so you bet I am going to be picky as fuck with them.
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This comes from @saldemaple .
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Yes. Good Bennies. But… not by very much.
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It’s rare to complain about “creaminess,” but I am going too. They were drowned with cream. Bacon and the pretty veggies on top barely made an impact. It was all dominated by the cream.
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Again… not bad, but not great. Muffin needed more of a toast factor. .
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Again… I am an asshole when it comes to reviewing food.
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For 115 pesos it’s a great deal. The place is small but cozy and fashionable. And HEY! Nice bathroom. I like nice bathrooms.
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My buddy got the grand slam. I ate his sausages (no homo). They were good (no homo). .
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Overall: decent cozy brunch place. .
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And then there’s this place that I love:

So… I have been coming to this place almost weekly: @brasa_taqueria .
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There’s a reason for it. They are fkin good. 90 pesos (around $5) for two arrachera tacos topped with a bone marrow. It’s a thing of beauty. Both the marrow and the arrachera are a delight. Salsas are spicy (beware). They have more stuff, but this is my highlight and recommendation. Don’t forget to drink a beer at @barrica9 with your tacos (ample menu of crafts for 65-80 pesos).

 

That post gathered a lot of natural likes on Instagram… and I might give it a sponsor to see how far it can go…


THERE HAS BEEN A LOT WAY MORE POSTS…

But just no time to post on IG and then here. Afterall, I am not making money from all this crap, just doing it for the love of the city.

At some point… perhaps I will go back to doing tours.