BeJesus Part 2 (deux)

We struggled to retain a grip on reality as we ended our tour of Henry's tiny village and returned to his house. Everyone we met was very friendly; As in friendly like they were more concerned with the disposition and eventual destination of our everlasting souls and could give a rat's ass about us apart from that. So the ladies had prepared a big spread while we were walking, and though we longed for the cool embrace of the ocean, we felt obligated to eat. These are poor country folks with no electricity, no running water, no cars, nada fucking mucho. So when the women lay out a spread of mystery meat and homemade bread and beans and rice, you eat, regardless of how hungry you are or the fact that you are currently tripping balls. So as we ate, a wiry little dude walks up (pictured playing guitar with Paul in part 1) shouting Dios! Dios! Dios!. Fucking great, the preacher. He's over the moon with the two whiteys with biblical names right in his backyard. He asks me if I want to talk about the Word of God, and I reply, "No, I don't." The little man is dumbfounded, and Aura quickly informs me that I actually said "I don't believe in your sky god." The little dude is truly speechless and retreats to the corner where he proceeds to gossip quite loudly with the womenfolk about how sad we are. Well, an already uncomfortable situation has been made all the worse by a little communication fiasco. All these women and the preacher and Henry and a couple other dudes are looking at us like we each sprouted 7 heads. We all just kinda stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, until finally Henry picks up a guitar and strums a bit. Paul quickly picks his up, and they sorta strum along together. The preacher slinks over and the next thing we know, the boys take turns playing and singing all kinds of churchy songs in Espanole. The Preacher is a mean guitar player as well, so we sit there for over an hour while the women sing and clap and exhort us to change our wicked ways. The preacher, unawares that Aura practically speaks more Spanish than he does, whispers to his congregation that he will "have us" before another hour is out. Not fucking likely. I'm watching the sweat bead up on Milner's face as he struggles to play through the pain this is obviously causing him. Finally, we conclude that we have performed admirably, and Aura informs the group that everything has been wonderful but we really MUST be going. Due to the music, things weren't quite as awkward anymore, and we leave relatively unmolested. Although we discover that Paul's favorite sticker on his guitar case, a gem that reads "keep music evil", is missing! No joke! The sticker is gone.....Trippy, to say the least. We immediately head to the store and begin pounding beers. All in all, a truly interesting and uncomfortable experience I wouldn't trade for the world.

Happy Birthday, Burt!

I'm tossing and turning in bed tonight 'cause my shoulders are killing me and this mattress is soft like concrete. Relentless surfing is starting to take a toll on the body. Anyway, while pissing away the night I uncovered an interesting fact on the interweb. Namely, today - 2/11 - is Burt Reynold's B-day. Burt, since we gave Aura a picture of you on her birthday, seems only fitting that we give you a picture of her: Here she is giving you the thumbs up!

BeJesus Part 1

As posted earlier, we've naturally befriended all that come within a 40 kilometer diametre of our Can of Lard. Our buddy Henry, a local boy and our guard at the Coco compound, is a great guitar player. He plays the local genre, which is all 3-3 timing. He can make the guitar sing. Sweet melodies and interesting runs up the neck keeps us interested.
I've lent him my guitar a couple of times. He would take it home, about a 12km bike ride, into the jungle. For this simple favor he has been super friendly and most appreciative. He has asked to buy my guitar or have me donate it to his church. I can't do it because it's my only acoustic, one that my family bought me long ago. And sorry churchy people, I think the church, whatever denomination, are blowing it and the dark side has it's benefit's too.

So Henry - being a quality guy - invites us to his home. He lives in the jungle close to the coast, down a burly road with giant old growth trees and cattle patches. We eat some acid and mushrooms which we had smuggled into Nicaragua, against all common sense and guide book advice. We arrive. We meet some of his family, then go on tour into the woods to check out the sights and meet the rest of family, which, as it turns out, is the entire village. We see Howler Monkeys, which is delightful, because I can now communicate with them. I've trained one to get me a beer from the fridge, and another is now our driver. We also ran into a 3 toed Slough. He just smiled. Just like us...the trip was starting. Armando rolled on by with his mighty team of yoked up oxen, he carried the biggest chicken I've ever seen on the side of a belt strap. He told us that is particular chicken was a descendant of the most vicious fighter in all of the country. His name was Clubber Lange. While telling us stories of Clubber's greatest fights and that of his ancestors, the sky turned a blood red and thunder shook the ground. We knew the Beach Witch was close......

Janjaweeeeeddddd!....This image encapsulates the rum fueled vibe a couple nights back. Our merry band of heathens joined forced with a neighboring cabal of degenerates from the great Canadian North. Together we decided a wild night in town was in order. These boys are an interesting and well traveled lot, many of whom work white collar jobs abroad, as in Yemen or Saudi Arabia. They were understandably a bit leery about our drunken enthusiasm for nighttime high speed travel on poorly maintained dirt roads. "People get robbed" they said. Yeah, other people, not us, we replied. "If you get in an accident you will be responsible" they whined. Get in the fucking car and hold tight, we said! We stacked the land cruiser 7 deep and proceeded to town. As we rounded a curve a couple K's from the casa, the wheels came off. Not figuratively, literally......as in, the rear fucking wheel spun right the hell off and we were driving -skidding- on brake drum, till we ground to a stop on a downhill curve. Kind of a buzzkill. Our tiny jack was insufficient for the job, so we began to stack rocks and boulders trying to lift the vehicle enough to get the wheel back on. Short story long, a nice fellow came along with a second jack, Milner somehow found most of our lug nuts strewn out along the road behind us, and we managed to limp home a couple hours later. There was no pillaging that night. We licked our wounds and bided our time. Oh, and we got a new ride.

We have been remiss in our blog duties! Please excuse our absence over the last couple days as things have been pretty hectic. In fact, we have much to report: a Christian evangelical revival featuring Milner on guitar (seriously); The wheel coming off our ride necessitating a skidded stop on the brake drum; Outstanding surfing progress; and last but certainly not least, the arrival of much needed reinforcements bringing us up to full fighting strength! All will be covered in due time! For now, though, just a quick note about Bob's B-day (Feb. 6), which we celebrated on the beach at a surfside reggae bar. Bob is truly the global icon of our time. I was reminded of this again last night as we chilled at the reggae bar, groovin to Marley videos. Lotsa locals enjoying the vibe along with the requisite gringo contingent of smelly Euros and vain Americans. On our beach, people from many nations and backgrounds gathered to groove, one more time, to a man long dead in body but clearly still vital in spirit. Last night, in South America, Africa, Europe, and even Asia, people gathered to pay their respects. Anywhere there is sand, surf and mellow times- or conversely - war, oppression and strife, his voice can be found! Here's to you Mr. Marley!

Rum Dumb?!!!

Rough roads shook us like no other tonight. Thanks to the BeJesus i heard the sweet sounds of REO Speedwagon to set my mind and rattled bones at ease. We drank a scrumptious concoction of rum and fruit mixed with rum and listed to power ballads in a cheezy little seaside bar. The sun went down.

Out of nowhere, with 02 seconds left on the clock, I decided to step up to the 3 point line and let 'er sail! Like a sky beast, Kareem launched from the shadows, beer in hand, and floated across the lane to soundly rejected my 3 point effort. For this Kareem will die!!! We met a woman who was poisoned by scorpions; we were not impressed, and proceeded to tell her thus. Afterall, we had felt the wrath of an angry stingray! The night deterioated from there. (Note to self: Morning rations of rum are ill advised!)
The decision was made right away. Abandon ship! We continued, Stagger Lee style, down the cobbled streets, searching for a friendly face or funky rythm or the chuka chuka of a reggae guitar. Clearly we are on the right track....
The FJ40 skidded a U, and we rallied down the costal boulevard, also know as cow trail. Cliff, El Hefe, burped a warning. We were taken aback, for this is the first burp in a the E tone that we've heard. Flatulence? No!
The cieling is tall, yet the rooms are small, and as I sleep, somebody creeps.....the rum is killed, the beer is swilled, the song is played, and we will live again..... tomorrow!

We've got Crabs!

The battle between the 2 southpaws was an epic one. Both were vying for the right to inhabit our front porch and reap the tastiness of our carne leftovers! Since they are both missing their right claws, I'm guessing they are evenly matched warriors or offspring from the same inbred seabeast!
So today is the day when the rum consumption continues! We've made a tally and our sweet liquor tooth has downed 6 litre's of the finest Nicaragua has to offer! Down here rum is cheaper than water, so rum it is! We're heading to the big city of San Juan del Sur today for birthday festivities. Living 17km's away from town, down the knarliest dirt road, driving a beat up, somewhat sketchy, 1970's Landcruiser, with no suspension, makes one not want to venture into civilization to often. Ahhhh, livin' in the boonies is a good time!
I will leave this blog with a lovely picture of the harbour in SJDS, with my new boat, on which I will be hosting drunken nude yoga and various games of 'Hijack that Boat'! All the best!

Dreaming of Back Home.

The hot local and international chicks who dress in sexy bikinis and are actually nice, have nothing on our Jackson Hole hotties!
Had a fine day in the surf. The water temps were the same as the air, a balmy 82! Only a handful of people in the line-up. Listen to me, sure there were a few people in the lineup but I was no where near because I was on the inside catching the residual breaks. I did catch waves though, as did Christian and Aura is one day away from slaying it! I did manage to get stung by a stingray, Stingrays 2---Whitey 0! So all is chill on the Southwestern Front and we can't wait for our backups, The Horn Diggler and Amy "Flashdance" Kreps to join us in our quest for waves and corruption!
Well, it's Aura's birthday tomorrow, which means we will try our best too get her hammered and bring out her alter ego, the lovely and charming Sataness! In the mean time we are working on getting her a stripper that looks as good as Burt! Happy Birthday Aura!

Good times!

Holy Wow! I thought I was in Nicaragua, but for the last 2 days, this picture shows what my life has been really like! Don't know what I ate or drank, but man did it ever go through me like a freight train! I am not a fan of medicine, except for the green fluffy kind, alas, thank whomever for the senor poopy pants pills! Surfing resumes tomorrow!

Everyone in the house but me is hemorrhaging out both ends. Our Casa is thick with a sulfurous cloud that clings to everything. The crew is listless. Intake of rum has dropped dramatically, and consequently morale is low. So I escape for a solitary walk down the beach, fishing line in hand. Alas, only the pelicans are pulling fish. As I trudge back to our reeking hovel, I step on a goddamn stingray. Yep, that fucking stings! Aptly named little bastards. On a side note, this particular episode once and for all disproves the notion of karma. You see, I had not but two days previous rescued a fucking stingray from certain death. It had been stranded by an exceptionally big wave that washed it far ashore and it was gasping its nasty little life away. I watched it for a minute wondering what to do. Do I intervene? Do I try and help it? Will it sting me If I try? I answered yes on all accounts, and carefully helped the nasty little fucker back into the water by flipping it several times like a frisbee. As an aside within a rather long aside, stingrays fly very much like a frisbee, being flat and all. Anyway, I tossed this bitch twice more till it made it back into the ocean, and it swam away, no doubt thankful for my intervention in its miserable bottom dwelling existence. So what happens today? I get fucking stung by a goddamed stingray! Probably the same one! Well, I got the point...from here on out its all about me. I ain't helping beast nor fowl nor fish. I'm looking out for Numero Uno. And, I'm gonna offer up a stingray sacrifice to appease the Gods, who are clearly angry. They turned the ocean cold for a day, and afflicted my mates with poopy pants, and they sent a vicious beast of the sea to attack my foot. I will find something to kill tonight!

Anyway.... our amigo Henry rode his horse to work today, and he insisted I take it down the road. So I did. He snapped this photo, which I think clearly depicts the delirium of the last couple days. I think it is a very old and tired horse. It might make a good sacrifice. I will ask Henry.

Tortuga chronicle

See these slimy little bastards? This is a clutch of turtle eggs freshly delivered via a long turtle tube attached to one tired mother turtle. We watched her claw her way onto the beach and slowly drag herself up above the tide line. She then dug a deep hole using only her rear flippers. Pretty neat to watch. Finally, the aforementioned turtle tube comes out and these eggs pop out two at a time.....upwards of 150 eggs. Lastly, one lucky Nicaraguan gathers up all the eggs and makes omelets and soup. Seriously. This particular turtle had the misfortune of choosing a non-protected beach to lay her eggs. She was quickly spotted and 'claimed' by a couple young Nicos, who were patiently waiting for her to finish. The beaches can get a little dicey at night with Nicos skulking around looking to rob turtles or gringos. You can't spell "endangered" without "danger", and I wasn't about to deprive these enterprising fellows their payday. Better the turtle get robbed than me, right? These dudes were pretty friendly, but there was never any doubt about the future of these particular eggs. Their empty shoulder bags and lotto-winner smiles transcended the language barrier; Winner winner turtle dinner!

We win again.

We win again. Photo from our digs. Internet is sporadic at best down here, so we've burst posted our last several entries.  Enjoy!

Radio shotgun!

This is a late night shot of a little impromptu jam we had. After steadily plying the guards with sodas and beer, Paul lured them in with his guitar and a song. A couple hours and much rum later, we took this photo. The fellow with the tactical shotgun has an amazingly sweet and pure falsetto that belies the heavy weaponry he carries. He had to be coaxed into singing, but eventually he launched a fusillade of cheesy latin love songs. Henry has an astonishing dexterity on the six string; nimble latin progressions akin to a Nico Eric Clapton punctuated by soulful strumming and backing vocals. Surprising, indeed, for one armed with an instrument as blunt and crude as a .45 revolver. Yeah, everyone packs heat here. Christ, even the gringos on the beach wear gunbelts with speed-loaders; Goddamn Wild West lives STRONG! Thankfully, the boys think we're friggin crazy, and they are on our side.  Our little band was completed by a coke bottle filled with rice  and a water bottle drum. Paul also produced a harmonica tuned to G, which was enjoyed by all present, but soundly despised by sleeping neighbors.

Today was a good day. We got our collective asses handed to us on the big, steep, hollow waves of southern Nicaragua. The surfing is difficult; no fucking joke. I can't ride a tube, let alone an overhead right to deadly closeout on a shallow shore break. We were all a bit scared and tentative today; a couple of rinse cycles will do that to a brother. When trying to surf in conditions beyond your ability, there is a brief moment - a pause, if you will - when you know you are about to choke on a mouthful of shit sandwich, yet a peaceful feeling envelops you. You stroke for the gathering horizon and feel the swell lift your board. The momentum is with you! Somebody yells "Stand up like a man you fucking puuussssyyyyy!" You steel yourself to pop up, and in the blink of an eye 6 feet of empty space opens beneath you and you're pulled ass over tea kettle into the maw. Game fucking over, good luck finding your teeth. Tomorrow we either find a wave that crumbles a bit and doesn't rain tons of pain from on high, or we snorkel for something delicious to eat and nurse our bruises with a generous ration of rum. Which brings me to chicken nuggets. So as we enjoyed this evening's half bottle, a Nico strolls up with a plastic bag he waves under our noses. Turns out this fellow has a sack of freshly hatched baby sea turtles, each about the size of a chicken nugget. I figure we're about to barter for dinner. As cute as the little buggers are, I know they're delicious with BBQ sauce. Alas, this Dudley Do-Right collects eggs on the beach at night as the mama turtles lay them. He gathers them up to protect them from poachers, dogs, birds, gringos, and whatnot. When the eggs hatch, he returns the turtles to the beach so they can make their way in the big, bad world. Whatever. Sounds like a scam for the white people. Anyway, baby turtles are pretty cute......and surely delicious.

Zombies On Tour?!!!!

Witchy! There is no doubt that I love a good time and this picture of my compadre's definitely show that they do as well. Reminds me of when I first listened to Ministry's 'Thieves and Liars', blaring out of the St.F.X. radio room, volume in the red, screaming and yelling at the top of our lungs, and knowing no one could ever hear us. Possibly because no one ever listened to our radio show and of course, the building was empty. I don't really know why I reference this song. It has nothing to do with the lyrics, the sound makes me want to rage in all things that I pursue. Knowing my buds, if they've ever heard that song, would make them or not, go big then go bigger! Satan was present in those early days and he sure was welcome! Living at 6200' feet, working our collective asses off, skiing, biking, playing music with the boys, pounding beer and burning the sweet herb, is definitely a great life. Yet, living on an empty beach with sweet friends, and more friends too come, with all the amenities too make one feel comfy and free, is pretty darn sweet! I love getting thrashed by huge waves, getting sent through the wash, coming up and being no worse for the wear. Yes Sir, may I have another! Thank the heavens and hell below because we're all gonna go!

Cliff, Aura and Christian enjoy beer, sunsets, medium sized walks and games of dice. Its the weekend here and we currently have neighbours. The family next to us are expats from Arizona, living in Managua. Why? I didn't ask, but if I were to guess, it would be they enjoy moving from one shithole to another?!

We have rented an old ass LandCruiser, and surfboards for the month. Our ride is a funky ole jalopy that rattles, emits the filthiest of dirty exhaust and will climb anything. Yesterday we visited a beach a few kilometers to the north; Playa Yankee. Tis a fun drive to get to this secluded, white sand beach with primo waves. Alas we were unable to surf because our trusty vehicle ended up being not so trusty. We parked the rig, then were asked to move it by the local gun-toting Nico. No worries, we can drive and park this sucker anywhere! I hop in and turn the ignition, and the key just spins! Trouble. Waves are breaking, people are surfing, good times abound and all we can think about is "Shit we're going to have to walk out of here in the late afternoon, with flipflops and surfboards!". Thankfully a fellow from Vermont and a pickup full of surfer dudes pull up. Everyone loves a redneck moment, so within seconds the hood is popped and the inspection begins. After much diagnostic talk, the only remedy is too pull the rig up the steep ass hill, release it, then pop the clutch. Voila! Houston we have ignition! So while Christian kept his foot on the gas Aura and I reloaded the surfboards and we peeled out of there pronto-pronto! We arrived back at the pad, called Irish John, told him what the deal was and he drove out from San Juan del Sur, with his mechanic, who apparently likes to fix shit with duct tape, zip ties and paint. They had to tow the rig back to town for further zip tying!

No worries for us though, because @ around 5pm the surf really goes off ! We were happy in the waves, and celebrated our triumphant good luck with our daily rations of rum!

Is that a candle sticking out of your ass?

Wow, what a night. After swimming all day, we decided to go for a small booze cruise to the south of our new homestead. Such a fine idea. We stocked up with rums and juices, for the 3km tour, and after perhaps 100m, we came across a solemn moment, a dead pig in the middle of the road, surrounded by mourners. In reality, they were probably trying to figure out how they were going cook and savour such a wonderful blessing! As we continued we came across a pile of monkeys chillin', and to the best of my ability I could not summon them to rise up and join us on said booze cruise! Silly monkeys. We eventually made it to this town where the roads were unfinished, and setting out on foot I searched for beer, 3 beer. Now, my spanish is limited, and under pressure, is non-existent. Alas I spoke the word cervesa and was given the 'Si'. This is where I neglected to speak my limited spanish and busted out with french and italian, the latter I don't even know, other than 'belisimo'! Thankfully we got the beer, turned around, and headed back home for a fine dinner at a local restaurant, which by the way, if you ever come to this neck of the woods, they will take you for all you've got! Long live Flor de Cana!

Sandy vs Farrah

Farrah always looked sweet, but there's just something about the way she wraps around my beer and keeps it cool....

Check the shifty look in Sandy's eyes; she's like a lioness on the prowl! Don't laugh, she will drink you under any table, anywhere, any time! This is at a bar the morning before we left in Cocoa Beach, Florida.

Playa de la Coc0

So, we made it safe and sound to our beach after a couple of hours of driving from Managua. It was quite surreal driving our own car through the country side. All modes of transportation were seen, from thousands of bicycles, donkey drawn carts, funky buses and the national rig, Toyota, which is very good for jihad. We passed one active volcano, on an island in Lago Nicaragua. Our casa is 30 minutes down a goat path, which we carefully negotiated in our rental Kia. Definitely need to upgrade to a 4X4. Our beach is empty....seriously, a fucking ghost town. Picture endless white sand bays encased by rocky outcroppings filled with big fronded trees and cacti. Add in one salty local Nica fishing with a handline, and there you have it; Not another fucking soul. Apparently all the Gringos stay in San Juan Del Sur. We snorkled in the cays today. Not much to see, as it is the Pacific side. Still, fun as hell. Now, RUM!

Since there is no snow in Jackson Hole, and conditions are that of a death sentence, a few of us winners have decided to go to Nicaragua. Plans include much surfing, much sampling of the finest rums, enjoying the local bush meat and doing our best not to end up in jail or being sold on the black market! In the meantime, enjoy this fine animation on our favorite subject; fucking paramarkers.