Throwing gringos

A group of Saffers in Colombia try their hand at the local pastime

'You guys feel like playing Colombia's largest non-official sport, Tejo? There'll be beer." Roberto had us at beer - we wouldn't want to break the impressive cerveza tally we'd racked up during the course of the day.

Roberto beamed as the gringos consented to join him in his favourite pastime. Laura, his daughter and our host in Colombia, rolled her eyes: "Just don't let him convince you to get two crates."

It was a busy Saturday night at the local Tejo ring. Judging by the dishevelled figures hanging by the courts, or rather alleys - we couldn't come to a semantic decision - the regulars had been at it for most of the afternoon. Admission was a case of beer, a petaca, which arrived in multiples of 30.

As we waited for our petaca, Roberto outlined the game for us. Once participants have been divided into teams, Tejo follows the time-honoured sports tradition of throwing objects at distant targets. Taking aim with your tejo, a heavy iron disc, and steadily holding onto your cerveza with your free hand, you aim at a propped-up square patch of clay. In the centre of the patch are four triangular folds of paper enclosing the bullseye target. True glory only comes to those who strike a fold. As opposed to the polite clank of bowling skittles, hitting a triangle ends with a far more satisfying result. Roberto delivered the last bit of the rules with relish, and we were hooked.

The first tejo was thrown. It struck the tin roof, narrowly avoiding a neon light. Roberto assured us our performance would improve as the petaca decreased. Sure enough, my form came in at around beer five. The locals had begun to gather around our game. We'd become the entertainment for the evening. I rested my beer on the ground for the next throw. This turn could determine the outcome of the game. The sound of murmured Spanish echoed as I took up my tejo.

"They're saying you're not too bad for a gringo," Roberto chimed in as I lined up my throw - as if the pressure wasn't already enough.

In my mind, this was the most significant moment in South African Tejo-playing history. I released the disc. The tejo sailed through the air, carrying with it the hopes of a nation, or at least the hopes of three drunk South Africans in rural Colombia. It found its mark. The sound of a gunshot reverberated through the tin stadium. A moment of shocked silence was soon replaced by riotous cheers. The paper was filled with gunpowder. It instantly became my single greatest sporting achievement.

Roberto delivered a truly magnificent last-ditch bullseye throw to win the game. His team took it by a point. By this stage, our petaca empty and me still revelling in gunshot glory, the result mattered little. Everyone's a winner in Tejo.

"So what do you guys think of our little sport?" Roberto enquired as we slowly made our way back "home". We considered what we'd just experienced. A game that requires the consumption of beer and rewards success with explosions? Our stunned silence said it all.