I see the Austrian brother and sister I met the night before in San Marcos. They’re sitting in an elaborately decorated hole-in-the-wall bar. There are only four stools, all of which are being used. I decide to join them anyway, a decision that will eventually become one of the most unusual bar experiences I’ve ever had.
Elias and Elize are happy to see me and so is the bartender who immediately pours me a shot. His name is Homer, I’ll liken him to the blind poet later in the night; this he will like. He serves us shots and mixed drinks, all of which he has created. His bar is filled with fresh fruits and vegetables and the small room is lit by candles and coloured pulsing Christmas lights. It seems like almost everything is made out of recycled material, from bottles to wooden crates. Homer continues to smoke cannabis out of a carrot he’s turned into a pipe while talking about his past, death, weed, and other nonsensical topics. Most of what this large bald Guatemalan says is trivial and quite funny, but occasionally he fits in moments of wisdom. “The gods are wise,” he says, “I am stupid.”
He speaks of his grandpa on his death-bed, “He was 87, dying, and still hitting on the hospital nurses. Now that’s the way to die!” Later he’ll talk of the dried fish that we eat with a smörgåsbord of tapas like foods he offers us for free that we heat by candle flame. “When Jesus came back from the dead he ate this, fish. Now we just call it Omega 6.” But, while he talks about how important the natural world is he lines up coke for himself on his bar. And while he talks of the crucial existence of love he makes cat-calls at touristas that pass by the open door. He found black Christ, the Rastafarian Jesus, in prison he tells us. He twitches, he smiles, he laughs, as he offers first experience after first experience to his patrons. All while a rotation of characters make their way in and out of his reggae filled bar.