Journal of Pirate Lingo*


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* not an actual journal
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09.18.03 - 10:49 a.m.

My brother's in Peru.

We got this email from him today. I thought it was pretty funny.


I write to you from the heart of darkest Peru.

Chuck and I have successfully made it to South America, and I just wanted to share a few of our experiences so far. No point going into great detail but here are the high points:


Lima, Peru is the fucking scariest place I've ever even heard about. We arrived at midnight and everywhere there were sullen looking teens milling about in hoodies, obviously looking for an opportunity to tear the door off our taxi and rob us. Packs of stray dogs wandered the streets, braying and salivating at the scent of man-flesh. We spent the night wide-eyed and awake, huddled in the corner of our hostel room clutching our pocket knives with open blades.


Cuzco, Peru is much nicer. Located at 11,000 feet, it promptly caused Chuck to nearly pass out at the table in a fancy restaurant due to altitude sickness. I am sad to say that I am a poor friend; I didn't even notice anything amiss (I was chatting with someone else) until our well-bosomed waitress stopped by to flirt with him and instead said, "Holy shit, what happened to you?" A few cups of coca tea later, and a snort or two of the good stuff, and he was fine. (As per Chuck's request, I will not mention the part about him nearly passing out in the bathroom of the restaurant, and I'll definitely not mention the loud clunk we heard from in there as he may or may not have hit the floor).


Cuzco's primary industry appears to be people jumping in front of you and screaming "AMIGO! FRIEND! YOU LOOK AT THIS MENU! FREE DRINK! AMIGO! FREE GIRL! AMIGO! GOOD FOOD! YOU WANT FOOD?"

Secondary industries include six year-old children selling postcards, using the following script:

Urchin: "Buy postcard, mister?"

Aj: "Gracis, pero no.Ļ"

Urchin: "Okay, two then."

Aj: "No."

Urchin: "Okay, three then."

Aj: "No!"

Urchin: "Si."

Aj: "No!"

Urchin: "Si!"

Aj: (blank-eyed wonderment at what is going wrong)


At this point, I wasn't entirely sure what to say, but Chuck stepped in with a very polite, "Son palabras malas." (To which the urchin had a well-thought out and articulate response, consisting of, "YOU FUCK MOTHER MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCKER!")


Under the mistaken impression that we are mountain men, Chuck, his friend Matt, and I set off on a four day trip to Machu Picchu using the over-land route. Some might say "big fucking mistake," but not manly men such as ourselves. Nearly 30 miles, in the rain, with over a MILE of ascent, including 1,200 meters on ONE DAY, all the while without beer.

I will not bore you with the details of the trip except to tell you that we were very grateful that we were not the tour group that shared the bus to the trailhead with us, because their trail guide LOST them. Lost them in the heart of darkest peru, on a mountain. Soon the wolves were after them. One of them was an australian massage therapist who had managed to pack a rubber fish, a lot of chocolate, two useless woven shoulder carriers, a walking stick, a hairbrush, a water filter, but no tent or sleeping bag. More on her later.

Our guide did not lose us, and Chuck spent the entire trip making eyes at a gorgeous girl from New Zeland who had a ridiculous olde englishe name (Morgonon or Beowolf or some shit - actually Imogen). The only problem was that her boyfriend was there too, and he spent the trip growing increasingly sullen and giving Chuck the Death Glare with increasing frequency. He finally got his revenge on Chuck by having loud and presumably athletic sex in the tent next to us on the third night at about 3,900 meters. Chuck then switched to alternately making eyes with a blonde girl from holland (boyfriend, also present) and the 24 year old peruvian guide. But I digress.


Two of the other people on the trail I mention only for the sake of curiosity. Employees of a well-known chocolate company, they professed to have a distaste for chocolate and then proceeded to stuff themselves with chocolate for four days while lagging a half-hour behind the group on the trail. In the end every object they owned was stained by chocolate.


I mention this only because Chuck will if I don't. The massage therapist mentioned earlier met up with us in a bar after the trail, and proceeded to tell raunchy sex jokes and offer advice on pick-up technique. She pointed out that because Mars was in retrograde motion, none of us would be getting any, except possibly, especially if I would come back to her hotel with her. As this is not my style, I did not persue the invitation, mainly because she was a class-A freak. In case you donīt believe me, as evidence I offer the fact that she has changed her name not once, not twice, but six bloody times. The last three iterations were "Aaren", "Aaron", and "Janet". So any stories you may or may not hear about me possibly going back to a crappy hostal room with a massage therapist in the heart of darkest peru, are categorically denied and I am pretty sure I didnīt black out.


LanPERU, our Airline, fucked us quite properly. After screwing up our flights to Arequipa (a mining convention was taking all the seats -- a MINING CONVENTION?!), we spent five hours in two offices to get our tickets rerouted to Lima and Santiago. Naturally, when we went to go on the plane, they cancelled the flight due to "bad weather" (perfect blue skies) and told us to come back tomorrow. So we're stranded in Cuzco.

That is all. I hope this missive finds you well.

Carry on,


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