Relationships are difficult. That´s why we kill for the insurance money. But I lost all my money on that infomercial investment. I had no choice. You must believe me.
Life as a single person requires no compromises. No sacrifices. No arguments. And some might add…..No companionship. But that´s why the Lord Almighty gave us two hands and deregulated Cable.
When a person sans compromising companionship travels solo the rewards are many…..countless invitations to strangers homes (due to your perceived loneliness?) where you are free to eat the organs of endangered species without your partner exhibiting severe signs of nausea and disdain for your barbaric hosts. Gross. These people are gross. I AM LEAVING. An independent party can easily choose a night´s lodging without the vocal accompaniment of bedspread criticism and faulty tile grouting. And perhaps, most liberating, more then a pair of pampers, after a night of bad fish, on a 21 hour dirt road bus ride, would be……the freedom to wander, in search of the weird, wonderful, & wacky without the constant chants of , ¨Can´t we go to that store, I want to stop over there, I don’t like this neighborhood, I understand local traditions, but I still don´t think he should be putting his finger there. Its hurts goddamnit. Are you listening to me, you selfish bastard?¨
Naturally, I was a bit concerned when a good friend asked to join me for a portion of the current South American Adventure, never to be seen in a theatre near you. Despite his being cloaked of the same gender, relationships are relationships.
But what would we do? Would I be totally removed from local culture, spending countless hours chatting with my fellow gringo, while opportunity after opportunity passed me by due to my reluctance to leave the non-spanish speaking compatriot stranded? Would I be railroaded into staying in faux Marriott style hotelpenitentiaries that promised a complete removal of character in exchange for a wonderfully bland sterile air conditioned environment and an Incan bellhop named Jake. Well, I consoled myself with the fact that the incredibly appreciative & rewarding American employment system only allowed its servants a maximum of two weeks holiday. Uh…that may be an exaggeration. I think after at least 10, or maybe fifteen years, an employee may receive an extra week holiday. And a promotional certificate to Magic Kingdom with a coupon for half off your second purchase of an 84 oz. Mickey CocaCola Cup. Fuck, Mickey´s made it this long, with all those lecherous bastards yanking at his tail, and molesting his Minnie. I could make it 12 days. Right?
I met George at the Lima airport. 6 a.m. And a typical gray Peruvian sky welcomed his arrival.
Hey.
Hey.
Your no longer George. You are Jorge. When people ask your name, don´t ever say George. Got it, Jorge.
Are fuckin´nuts? My name is George, dude. I´m sure they can say George. Geoooorge.
I know you’re a white American. But trust me, the people have more respect when you give them a Spanish name. Think about it. Would you rather bitch about your system being down to your Indian tech guy by calling up and saying, ¨yo, Hajmantabali, my computer just crashed¨ or ¨yo, Bob, can you fix my damn computer?¨
Jorge soon learned to enjoy his new identity. Once, I swear, I saw him practicing the pronunciation while he brushed his teeth.
My fears were soon allayed. Jorge would not be a hindrance. He would actually motivate me. As if I was deputized some kind of Caucasian ambassador for the great land of Peru, I immediately displayed the hospitality of the locals.
She was a stunning, full-bodied (that is to say, she hadn’t read Cosmo´s groundbreaking story from this month´s issue, 10 ways to stay Thin. The Waif is back in.) brunette with a chest enlargement to satisfy the most persnickety of Boob men. Jorge was head of the Boob men at his local Lion´s Club.
Dude. I don’t get it. Is she some kind of hooker? She´s just going to leave the airport with us, and spend the day, hanging out, like she´s our buddy.
Yep. People are genuine here. You’ve got to trust. Its probably just a good opportunity for her to guide some strangers and share her culture.
You’re an idiot. Watch your wallet. And don’t say I didn’t tell you so.
Her name was Lolita. Really, Lolita of the jungle. We met her in the airport terminal of our first destination, a small, but hectic city bordering the Peruvian Amazon. She soon learned that Jorge refused to stay in a place without air conditioning. We were finally recommended to the only place in town with refrigeration. A perfect example of a hotelpenitentary.
Fuck you. Ok. Its 20 degrees in Chicago. I don´t care if people here open their windows. Its hot. You think these monkeys wouldn’t die if they landed in O´hare. You´ll be thanking me by the morning.
Lolita spent almost 2 days with her Gringo masters. Mostly it was a translation fest. Jorge would pepper me with questions to ask our Amazonian Lolita. One such occasion took place in the town square, the Plaza de Armas, where families and young couples gathered to enjoy the sounds of harmonically challenged musicians.
Ask her if She believes in Christ.
No way man. It’s a catholic country. That’s like asking a guy from Texas if he believes in Bush.
Just ask her.
Do you believe in Jesus?
Yes, but of course.
I told you, jackass.
Ask her, if she knows that he´s a false prophet.
Are you crazy? These people will lynch me. Go learn Spanish and then you can tell her.
Ok. Just ask her why she believes in God.
Jorge believes in God, don’t you think its important to believe in one God?
Yes. Yes, I do.
So. What did she say.
She has no problem with extramarital sex.
At the time, I didn’t realize that a vacation of blasphemy was about to begin.
Later that evening, Jorge retreated early to our Freon den of Blandness.
And I got to know our little Lolita better. Not like that, though.
She talked about her clothes business. Apparently, she bought fabrics in Lima, and had them designed into clothes, that she sold in smaller cities throughout Peru. She was a new breed of Peruvian woman. Independent, and in complete opposition to the early marriage values that surrounded her. Actually, she seemed like a poor Peruvian Oprah. She had a dynasty of incredibly unsuccessful businesses. A rice and corn trader. A re-seller of books. A part-time television host. And her most recent pursuit….guinea pig farmer. This beautiful jungle empresario had a dream to raise guinea pigs. And then sell them around the country. Granted, guinea pig is a delicacy her, and quite valuable. But its hard to picture an undiscovered cover girl covered by a swarm of Richard Gere´s favorite rectal treat.
My self-invitation for an ensuite late night cup of tea was denied.
A fuckin´guinea pig farmer. Dude, your kidding me, right? That hot chick is not farming guinea pigs.
I swear. And by the way, they are not called guinea pigs, but referred to by their indigenous name, Cuy. Pronounced like Kweeph. Minus the ¨ph¨.
Why would they name their prized meat after the female fart?
Uh..I don’t think the forbearers of their language knew English.
So, our girl, is farming flatulent guinea pigs.
Kwee became our code word for fart on the local bus. Apparently, based on recent observation, there are some serious digestive problems in Peru. And as impossible as solving PI, one did not ride public transport without falling prey to the KWEE. A smell so pungent, that even locals rushed to lower the windows.
Did you Kwee?
That was not me. It was the women in the striped poncho.
They´re all wearing striped ponchos. Its like a Gap ad for Andean people.
Well, it wasn’t me.
Lolita would become a recurring theme in our trip, but she was forced to return to her hometown, where she had some municipal bribing to take care of. Apparently, opening a guinea pig farm was not taken lightly in these parts.
With his first authentic encounter completed, Jorge was ready to fully steep himself in local culture.
Where´s the drugs? Where is all this great Amazon shit I hear about?
Like the Ayahuasca. You want to try the Ayahuasca.
Get it for me. Whatever. Let´s do it.
The theme of our adventure had now been set. Drugs, Blasphemy, & Foul Air excreting Guinea Pigs.
The taste of vomit and memories of mosquito ravaged sphincter were still fresh memories. Too fresh. I was a bit reluctant about partaking in another Ayahuasca experience. But, I felt it was my duty as newly appointed ambassador to share the mystical jungle vine with my friend. The newly evolved Jorge.
Our search for a shaman was met by skepticism. From me. After having experienced a genuine shaman in the middle of the jungle, I could not possibly except some small city imitation.
Ayahuasca is not a drug you take and go out clubbing. Its meant to be done in a ceremonial setting where the shaman, or guide, leads you on a journey through ritual and music so that you can discover truths about yourself or the world through hallucinatory meditation. Or something like that.
Her name was Jesús. My first female Jesús. What would the archdiocese think? I liked her from the start. One of those people that are so sweet, warm and genuine, you feel your big brother protective mode kick in immediately. Very strange, considering I never protected my little sister. But Jesüs….well, for christsake, we were in the company of Jesus.
We were told that our ¨ceremony¨ would take place in a specially designed retreat center, where we would be able to sink into a meditative state with ease. Jesus and her diminutive partner, Hernán would be our hosts. They were not jungle shamans, but had trained with the very best, and we would be in good hands. It´s like they read some sort of Business School Marketing strategy book.
We arrived at 9pm. We were told to not come earlier. Now we understood why. Our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ was an impoverished Peruvian Melrose Place. On Wednesday´s at 9. A courtyard of grubby one room studios surrounded a large rectangular dirt courtyard covered in a strangulating maze of undulating clotheslines. We assumed that the local building office had yet to approve their plans for a swimming pool and Tiki bar. As the neighbors socialized in the open-air, we were shown the rear of the complex. Was this how David Koresh started? A tin roof hung perilously on four crooked wooden posts. On the red dirt, several straw mats were spread around. Several chickens roamed freely over our ¨specially designed retreat center¨ Two stray dogs would chase the chickens around. And for education purposes, an enormous ayahuasca vine, producer of the much sought after magic, was planted in plain view of the seating chambers.
Dude. No way. No way. I am not tripping outside somebody´s apartment. Did you see the chickens? Did you? This is crazy. Let´s go.
Look. I know it may seem odd (and it was certainly, ODD), but we have got to go with the flow. No matter what, it will be an experience.
I tried reassuring Jorge out of my own insecurity. This place was bizarre. And did these people realize that their friendly neighbor was sending Gringos on drug altering trips in their backyard?
We took our seats under the shanty awning, and our gracious hosts passed us empty buckets.
Por Vomitar.
I understood that. We´re suppose to sit here, with the chickens, the dogs, and the neighbors, and just start barfing. This is fuckin´ crazy.
Well, at least the neighbors know the puke is being taken care of.
Assuming the universal position for the uncoordinated Buddha, we downed our foul, tobacco kwee tasting medicine, and awaited our journey.
The rhythms began softly. Just a few notes from the flauta, the five pronged native flute. And then a couple of howl out of the 3 foot long didgeridoo, an ancient tribal wind instrument. Our eyes were closed. No Peeking. (no duck either, just chickens). And slowly, we drifted off into another universe, where, tribal melodies guided our visions. Our hosts would take turns, singing songs that can only be described as Angelic. Voices so rich with feeling, that you honestly felt as if heaven really did exist. Apparently, blasphemous thoughts had been suspended. Not exterminated.
Lolita came to visit me. A simple pat on the head, but she was present. And lots of children. In non sensual poses, just smiling and staring at me. Eventually, the vines started growing. Visions full of extenuating vines, never threatening, just encompassing. Groups of people on small gondola type boats, in a slightly carnivalesque atmosphere, would come gliding by accompanied the mystical chants that seemed to emanate from the vines, themselves. And the plants kept talking, singing really. It was all quite lovely. But what the fuck was happening in the real world. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer.
I´m still not sure if I made a mistake. Never open your eyes, they tell you. Within minutes, an incredibly short, indigenous man appeared right before me. Bobbing up and down like a doll, he kept smirking and began to mock the barfing that was a common ritual in this experience. He then continued dancing in a very care-free way. I wanted to dance with him. Maybe introduce him to my parents. But I was concerned about Customs. How would I declare this creature? And how much should I say he cost? Sir. Where did you find this little man? On my ayahuasca trip. He was just standing there, so I put him in my backpack. This is your brain on drugs.
Jorge had apparently been turned into larvae and watched himself metamorphosize into a butterfly. But Lolita never dropped by to say hello.
We were out of trance now, our musicians having the life sucked from them.
We´re in a manger. Dude, this is genious. These people are fuckin´gods. They stuck us in a manger.
What´s a manger? And how do you spell that?
Your such a Jew. Manger, you know, nativity scene on suburban front lawns. Mary, Jesus, Saints, the whole gang. This shelter is the manger. And the animals. And fuck, dude, her name is Jesus. Don´t you get it?
It did appear as if we´d been transported to some desert oasis, and yes, I did agree, our noveau shamans had some type of magical voice. But he was right. I was just some stupid Jesus killing Jew. If he only equated the scene to an ancient marketplace with our hosts as nomadic merchants, then perhaps the little jewboy could transgress.
Jorge was hooked. He wanted more natural Peruvian substances. Cocaine. Well, that’s actually processed, so we opted the original Coke. Preservative free. The much maligned Coca leaf.
Interlude. We are not drug addicts. We are not the people who need to get drunk every night or stay stoned all day. Granted, we were not big fans of Nancy Reagan but that’s simply because of her poor taste in dress. All that Red. A bit dramatic, don´t you think? Most Peruvians refrain (disdain, actually) from all drugs, and can´t understand why America buys so much of it. They have seen Miami Vice, and for some reason, they still think Crockett & Tubbs were dealers. We were simply two foreigners looking to find significance in local herbs. And, well, I guess, get a bit fucked up while we were at it. Bathroom break is over.
Lacking the time or interest to see the famed ruins of Machu Picchu, Jorge decided on visiting a lesser known, more dramatic, pre-Incan city. With Coca, of course. It was long mountainous climb to the 11,000 foot ruin site. We were joined by a typically anal retentive German, who donned an unkempt beard and a medusa mane of permed Bavarian curls. Our other guest was a young, blue eyed, idealistic Finn. We assumed his ideal was to spend his day drinking vodka, wondering when the world would stop confusing Finland with the bastard Swedes. Our two EuroUnion guests agreed to spilt some Coca with us. And the guide simply laughed at us. But since most mountain dwelling indigenous people chew the Coca leaf to help provide stimulation in the high altitude draining environment of their laborious farm work (which probably consists of harvesting more coca), the much adored leaf was widely available. So like getting hot dogs from a 50´s style drive-thru, we pulled up in the three shop town, and the toothless storekeeper brought to our window a small garbage bag full of coca leafs.
Dude. Is this enough, or should we get more. Its only a buck for the whole thing.
In da willage, dez is normal. Ve no need more. You trust me, ok.
Yah. We drink vodka too. Its better. Really. Ask the locals.
If we chop the leaf up real small, can we snort it?
The four foreign stooges tramped up the mountainside, mouths full of bitter tasting green leaves.
You fucked up, yet. I don’t feel anything.
Ya do not get fahcked up. Only make you mah clear.
Thanks, Hans. But we´re trying to get fucked up. Like the locals.
Its Heinreich,not Hans. And how many times I tell you…dey don’t get fahcked. Have respect.
You know. In the Finland, we don’t have such thing. I like it. Not like to drink vodka. But I like.
And so the asinine conversation continued. We barely dented the one kilo bag, before Jorge and I agreed, through green stained teeth, that the only reason these people chew so much of this crap was because they couldn’t get afford their own byproduct. They were probably hoping we´d give them some of our own Peruvian Flake.
Really, why are Germans so fastidiously anal. Mr. Liederhosen spent the entire trip wandering through the ruined city arguing with our guide over the percentage of lime used to cure the concrete. He just didn’t understand the tourguide´s proportions. And I thought Americans had issues. No wonder their cars run so smooth and their gas showers are so functional.
Having been relegated to a 1-1 record on our drug procurements, we developed a new fondness for the original inhabitants of this ruined fortress city, known as Kuélap. According to our incredibly jovial young guide, the original inhabitants were descended from Vikings. And honest to the local Rain God, there is a town in northeastern Peru (whose name will not be disclosed in order to prevent its pillaging by the migratory group of tourists, known as sex tourists) that has remained sequestered from the Incan and Spanish bloodline. That´s right, imagine hot Swedish women speaking Spanish and conveying that salsa attitude. An entire region of tall, blue eyed blond hair residents.
Our Finnish friend seemed to doubt this.
I don’t think my people would come here to live. No. They wouldn’t.
The Vikings were from Norway. Your descended from an unwanted batch of Mongolian and Russian sperm.
Vat? Vat you say?
Germans had old cities like dis one, too. Have you know the Teutonics?
You know the ancient city of Auschwitz?
Globalization had reared its head in the remote Andes. But where were those telenovela speaking Vikings?
Traveling across these mint candied labeled mountains requires time, patience, and more patience. Things Jorge was severely lacking.
Dude. Uh. I am not riding in that thing for 18 hours. We can barely fit in there.
(2 hours later)
Dude. Are you kidding me. Did you see how far down that was. Its gotta be a 3000 foot drop and this mini bus is all over the place.(3 hours later)
Kwee. Somebodied Kweed. I know you smell that.(15 minutes later)
Jesus fuckin Christ. What died. Somebody keeps Kweeing.(35 minutes later)
Get me out of here. The smell of Kwee. This road. This is insane. How do you do this all the time?
(about 8 hours into the trip)
What the fuck. We are not going across that. There is no way Im crossing that. Get me back.
A landslide had just buried the road. And in a scene that would have driven most Americans into a cellphone dialing seizure, the locals simply laughed it off and took turns digging out the mound of rock that had inundated the ¨highway¨, our half lane dirt road clinging to mountain cliffs, forcing uncontrollable motion sickness vomit from the elderly indigenous women who were our kweeing co-riders.
21 hours later, Jorge arrived, and seemed to be a new man. Telling anyone that would listen about his death defying ride across the grueling, unforgiving, paralyzing, not crossed sinced Incan times, Andean mountain pass.
But the relationship had only grown. Maybe it was our honey moon phase. But we laughed at absolutely everything. Nothing escaped our giggling sophomoric attitude.
So with drugs and guineas on hiatus, we reverted back to the holy spirit. A mutual friend of ours claimed lineage from the yet, another remote, mountain town that the arduous journey had delivered us to. She was a Sephardic Jew, and this small town was apparently full of them.
Three hours of intense investigation led to the following:
People with paintings and statues of Jesus hanging over their storefront windows don’t like to talk about Jews. They never existed and no one here has ever heard of them. Our friend is a liar, and we are welcome to attend mass at 7 o´clock.
We thought we finally hit paydirt. What is paydirt, anyway? An overly accommodating man sent us to the local synagogue. He promised we would find our bit of history inside. Well, our friendly fellow seemed confused. The Church of Israelites were not Jews. But we did get some lovely Jehovah´s calendars.
Time for more drugs. What was left, on the natural circuit of dosing? San Pedro, the patron saint of Texas. We had both heard of this jungle derived herb, that apparently had its own psychedelic affects. Jorge knew of a certain friend back home, the Prada Hippie he claimed, the kind of girl that makes the average Chinese stir-fry sound like it was descended from Ming, himself, and tasted so outrageously delicious that even Chung Fat could not have created such a delicacy. This respected purveyor of the overly exaggerated truth was our source for the San Pedro.
She said it blew her mind away, and was so intense, she didn’t know where she was.
She also thinks her Yoga teacher can levitate.
Lets do it anyway.
Apothecaries, they call them. Druggists before Johnson & Johnson sent out scantily dressed women with Recreation degrees from SouthwestEastern Missouri State to push their products on the local medic. We needed the local apothecary, whose shop was overrun by a stack of discarded garden twigs & funny smelling leaves. He needed an hour to mix our potion.
Dude. It looks like urine. And its warm. Are you sure we should drink this?
We´ll drink it tomorrow. Let it cool down.
But if we want to get off, maybe we should drink it now.
So your grossed out that it may be a bottle of piss, but your so desperate to get high, that you´d drink it.
Aren´t you?
Yeah, your right. Piss it ain´t so bad. The Prime Minister of India used to drink it. And now look at their economy.
But maybe that´s why its so fuckin hard to understand when I call my credit card company. They all have a mouth full of pee.
We waited two days. Cause in the end, we weren’t that desperate.
Our next Peruvian mountain city had a bizarre natural landscape that hovered on it´s outskirts. Giant 300 foot rock faces hugged to the sides of steep hills, kind of like fusing Easter Island statues with Stonehenge. A little papau wau wau with your shepherd´s pie. This mystical setting would be a good place to pay homage to San Pedro, patron saint of Peter the pissboy. And like all bizarre places in Peru, some ancient tribe had lived there. Maybe San Pedro would bring them back to visit us.
After disclosing our intentions to our guide, he fled, staying a minimum of 100 yards in front of us. But it´s natural,man. These guys don´t like any drugs. Just fry up some guinea pig and they´ll be happy.
So the two gringos carried their matching recycled soda bottles of possible urine, slowly sipping, as they awaited the rocks to begin their chanting. And the more we seemed to drink, the further away our guide went. Each time we passed a solitary boulder, an Incan smurf would pop out, offering us a wool pancho.
Dude, did you see that. Who were those people?. This shit is strong.
No. We´re sober. Drinking some foul tasting mystery juice, and those people live here. They´re native. They want money. And whatever you do, don´t call them ¨little people¨
An hour went by, and no hallucinations. All that sewer tasting liquid for nothing. But my head did feel tingly. And the body kind of light.
You feel anything?
Dude. I feel like I´m on fuckin´ X. I´m so goddamn horny. This is sick.
Maybe you should go behind the rocks and stoop a little old Inca lady.
Im serious, dude. This is ecstasy. I´m going off.
Shortly after our illuminating conversation, I realized Jorge was right. We had drank some kind of herbal ecstasy and instead of transporting ourselves back to pre-Incan times, we were two horny guys looking for anything that would breathe. So much for singing Rocks and talking mountaintops.
You want a massage. I´ll give you one, then you massage me.
Get the fuck out of here. This is serious. Im going off.
As Jorge drowned himself in a trance of fawning concubines, I came up with a plan.
There were thermal baths nearby. We would go lounge in the healing baths, again, a relic of some Incan history, and then luxuriate to a massage. Not by me, but by the Incan goddesses they would employ to pamper the San Pedro infested gringos. A new tourism campaign. A lanky white man drinking a urine colored beverage while being shoulder massaged by a sultry Incan princess. Come to Peru. San Pedro is waiting.(this message is brought to you by the Peruvian Tourism Board, and we take no responsibility for any adverse reactions people may have to our ancient Incan urine. Please recycle)
As we gyrated ourselves in the Incan baths, which were really used American whirlpools with sulfur smelling water and poor grout jobs, we imagined our awaiting decadent massage. Who was she? Maybe there was two? Could we pay extra for the Special?
He looked like Henry Winkler. An older version, but unmistakably, Henry Winkler. He had relocated to northern Peru, to massage SanPedroing tourists as part of a new Peruvian Tourism Board campaign.
Did you ask Fonz for the Special?
Fuck you.
Time to follow Nancy´s advice. We were done. We were saying no. What was Lolita up to?
I had emailed her to invite her to meet us during our trip, even offering to help with the expenses. She never responded. Not once. And Jorge, he had 4 emails in less then a week. He didn´t speak a word of English. Insulted her religious beliefs, and even mentioned that he was married.
Apparently, she had misunderstood my heretical questioning and sent Jorge two ¨Jesoid¨ e-cards with Corinthian quotes. He was her ¨pretty eyed¨man, and I was simply the guinea pig to lure the real meat.
Jorge was now rhapsodizing about his opportunity to give up corporate life and move to Peru, where he and biblical Lolita would raise the Kwee, and maybe run an ayahuasca center on the side. On the side. This was insane but she had him hooked. Then again, a wooden pole, with fleshy breasts, would cause him to kneel down and prostrate uncontrollably.
Maybe this whole Lolita the guinea pig farmer and her mute American love were a running commentary on certain facets of our culture. Was life so monotonous and dull in the states, that a fairly intelligent man would give up his secure life to run a guinea pig farm? Would he name is first pig after me, the matchmaker? Or reaching beyond America, were certain people so drained of their local women´s quirks that anything outside the borders presented an exotic eroticism? No. I think this analogy touches deeper into the concept of the unknown. Mystery.
As humans, we seem to want to project our hopes, our desires, onto those things which we can not understand. Including. Those things, those people or animals or objects that we are unable to communicate with. God must be a loving, caring soul who wants to reward us for all the good that we do. The rain surely must want to fall to provide us with food and bring us life so that we can survive and prosper. Our dog is a saint. He (or she, but can´t the feminists cut some slack, just this once) loves us, he needs us. He thinks we are the best.
OR, maybe the dog has got no other place to go. He realizes we are hypocritical, insincere, and sloppy purveyors of meatloaf. He doesn´t forgive us. He doesn’t even love us. He just wants a bed and some food, so he uses us. We imagine the rest.
Jorge was Lolita´s pet dog. By not speaking her language, he could embody all those things that Peruvian men were unable to provide. He was her San Jorge. Me. Just another perverted foreigner that she had no use for. Wait until the local Chairmen of Boob Studies learns the local dialect. Perhaps, that´s how so many sects of the same religion grew. Sunnis & Shiites, Baptists, Lutherans, & Anglicans. Hindus & Sikhs. They weren’t prospering under one system. The crops weren’t as yielding as they hoped. They´re homes were not quite big enough. They´re women would´t play doggie. Maybe that new guy could provide it.
Celebrating Jorge´s penpal, we decided a disco was in order. We weren´t big fans of the club scene, or for that matter bad Latin pop music, but we figured we should lay off the local medicine for a few nights. In accordance with our religious curiosity, the dancing establishment was properly named, El Diablo. As if dictated by some omnipresent DiscoClub doctrine, the place was full of small circles of dancing girls surrounded by large circles of ogling men. In a matter of minutes, we realized our mistake. So, we ordered more beers, and joined the throngs of ogling men.
The following day, on our way to the bus station, I asked our driver if he as familiar with El Diablo. The translation follows:
Have you heard of The Devil?
Yes. Of course.
We visited The Devil last night?
Really.
Yeah. Have you visited the Devil?
No.
Do you know the Devil?
What?
Do you know THE DEVIL?
Yes. Well, no. No.
Don’t. go. The Devil sucks. Really. We don´t like The Devil.
Good. Good. Thank you.. God be with you.
It was only after the conversation that I noticed the postcard of Mary´s son, glued to his dashboard. Were we prophets, or disciples?
More translatory fun awaited us. Long distance bus journeys were prone to showing dubbed American movies. But sometimes, they kept the original language, English, and subtitled in Spanish. The significance of this rather banal topic is that many people profess to learning English through subtitled movies. Really, go ask your local busboy.
So we spent a bus ride figuring out how a perverted Spanish boy could learn English from subtitled porn movies.
A Peruvian immigrant walks into a convenience store in Chicago.
I am here to fix your cable.
We don’t need our cable fixed.
But you know you want it.
We don’t want it.
Yeeah, yeah, you want it bitch.
Excuse me. Who you call a bitch. You come here, you bitch.
No. I come on you. Wait. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
I call the police. You leave.
Yes. Yes. I am coming.
No. you are leaving.
I am coming.
You are leaving.
I am here to fix your cable.
It’s a new instructional video put out by The United Federation of Erotic Movie Producers to show the Republican party that they are serious about responsible immigration. Go Big Red.
A few days had passed since the last herbal anointment ceremony, and Jorge wanted another try.
Dude. Fuck this jungle crap. Just find us some weed.
Im not buying weed off the street. You know how long you go to jail for?
Oh, but you bought San Pedro escstasy crap. You bought coca. C´mon.
That stuff was legal.
Beachtown, Peru. Or beachtown anywhere. Why are all beach towns, regardless of national borders, full of cheap t-shirt shops, sleazy motels, and bums. Who ordained that one? Really, what Peruvian realized that people at the beach want 3 t-shirts for 10 bucks that exclaim what women look like after you drank a 6 pack. Followed by the name of the said beachtown. Well, one thing beachtowns do have is a plethora of dope pushers. I guess when you apply for your beachtown license, you are permitted an allotted number of scumbag street pushers. And somebody must be giving them dialect lessons, cause the following example can be found on the beaches of Africa, Asian, and the Mid-East.
His body was covered in tattoos. He worn a backward baseball cap and an unbuttoned baseball jersey. I think it was the Brewers. Underneath he wore a classic tight fitting ¨wife-beater¨ tank top.
Yo bro. Yo bro. I got some good shit. You want a dime. I got a dime, right here, bro.
Where did you learn your English?
Motherfucker, you want a bag or not. Why you care where I learn my English?
But really, how did you learn those words?
Man, from the street, bro. Im from the hood.
Where did you live.? Chicago. New York. Milwaukee.
Man, you stupid. I never been the states. How some punk ass like me going to get to the states. I from Lima, bro. And yeah, I watch me some dope American movies too.
Time was running out on the dueling gringo adventure. Jorge really wanted one last dip in the hallucinogenic thermal fonzy bath. I couldn’t deal with ordinary pot. Being a delegate of the Peruvian Tourism Board, it was my duty to utilize indigenous plants.
I had bought some green leaf rolled tobacco in the market. The saleslady promised me that the green leaf helped to bring on the visions. I told her the San Pedro salesman told me the same thing. She said I should only use that stuff with my wife. Little late for that.
That evening, in the solitude of our courtyard motel room, with the meows of caged cats (Our neighbors eat them, so they stay caged, our proprietor informed us) singing in the background, I found peace. And I hadn’t even smoked. I can´t believe how naïve I had been all these years. Philisophical texts. Meditations. Gurus. Hallucinatory drugs. Nonsense. True focus. True clearing of the mind was attainable through joint rolling.
An absolute art form. Forsaken by most folks in the West for the quick high of the Bong, or the creatively named, one-hitter. These were all false prophets. It was through a Zen like concentration, that one could attempt, since perfection was impossible, to create a hand rolled smoking contraption that conveyed upon its beholder the feeling of cradling some exquisitely crafted antique Incan pottery jar. My meditative ears were immune to impatient Jorge´s whining. Each shard of grass was carefully sprinkled in the jaws of the waiting paper. The magical jungle leaves were delicately placed within the narrow confines of the ganja sativa. Every roll of the cannabis sarcophagus was a lesson in patience, as one slight twitch would send the entrancing concoction to the dirty floor below. Why haven´t the Rastas, the Global Prophets of Copious Pot Inhalation, opened up a convent, The Peter Tosh, Paul, & Mary Jane School of Ganja Joint Rolling. Rasta Monks would isolate themselves in beachside caves, fixated on turning the perfect marijuana cigarette. And maybe some chocolate to munch on.
The Peruvians are so drug averse, that they have Bob Marley posters in practically every bar in the country. But almost no one, outside the capital city, dares to smoke it.
Hey Republicans, more family values. Incans for Congress.
We never did figure out what the little green leaves did to our hooch. We were stoned. We kept noticing a small shanty terrace protruding from the giant rock mounds that hovered over the beach. So, we visited a nearly homeless man who actually made a home for himself below that terrace. A natural piece of home construction. In his earthen hovel, surrounded by tourist refuse, sat a Forbes magazine. Its cover read, in English, 400 Richest People in the World. I wonder how they found him.
The relationship had certainly peaked. Two friends were exploiting every bit of humor possible from the unsuspecting locals. It was quite different from my normal, solitary explorations, which seemed more culturally heavy, then comedic. Our final days were spent back on the religious side.
Jorge has a bizarre obsession with churches. He has to see every Church, and in Catholic Latin America they are as plentiful as suburban Applebees. It’s a bizarre obsession because he doesn’t want to pray. He doesn’t want to admire the Holy Spirit, or absolve his multitude of sins. He simply wants to find the freaky shit, as he says.
You know, Jesus draped in black with specters coming out of his body. Crap like that.
So our final days were spent Colonial church hopping, hypothesizing how Mary really got pregnant. God borrowed some sperm and put it on a vibrator. He assured her this would maintain her virginity. Mary was a lesbian and was unable to get pregnant without a donor. She asked both Luke and Mark to donate, so neither would know who was the real father. Jesus was the product of a young Israelite couple´s burning lust. Embarassed by their offspring, they left it for the frigid old lady on the hill who would nobody would sleep with. They figured it was her only chance for a kid.
And so it went. A holiday that any Tourism Board would love to put into pretty little glossy brochures. That unsuspecting people pick up. Like a bottle of San Pedro, and get lulled into a false sense of exotic adventure.
I learned something. Maybe something that every relationship needs. And maybe something that a solo lifestyle can never provide…..Humor is a necessary ingredient. Without laughter, life is misery, or at best, just plain dull. And sure, you can always find humor on your own. But …but, when you have someone to share that with, the humor only grows, and grows until you actually forget that there are things in this world that bother you. There are things in your life that bother you. Drugs aren’t really the answer. Nor is religion. Or guinea pigs. Although all those things make a good canvas to laugh on. Maybe we don’t even need intimacy in the long run. It’s a partner who can sustain the comedy, the comedy that is life. Maybe this will revolutionize the online dating world. SingleBlackWhitePuertoRicanBurmeseMaleFemale looking for someone I can spend my life cracking up at the absurd shit us humans do. But I do warn you, eventually I´ll have to get laid. Then, I´ll come home and we can laugh about it.
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