Bullshit in Ecuador

One of the biggest weaknesses in navigating South America is not being able to count higher than six.

The best way to practice counting is to play Bullshit while waiting in line at the Ecuador border. I did this yesterday. Bullshit is a game requiring lies and deceit. The aim is to get rid of all your cards and if you don’t have the card you need, you have to claim that you do. If someone thinks you are lying, they must claim “bullshit”. The cards are turned over, the truth is revealed, and whoever is lying (or wrong) must pick up the deck.

Amy, Nicola, Guy and I traveled to the Ecuador border yesterday with the aim of extending our visas before we travel south to take on a promising teaching position in Trujillo.

It was a confusing mess. Our taxi driver Jorge (Hor:Hey?) helped us but he didn’t know what was going on either, and he knew little English to give us much insight. We were worried we might be denied entry back into Peru, or wouldn’t get the six months we needed (through our ignorance or inability to communicate).

As we waited two hours in a line (that we didn’t need to be in at that point in time, it turns out) I pulled out a pack of cards and we played Bullshit, standing around the deck. I invited Jorge to play which meant trying to teach him in a foreign language, and it only worked because Guy is naturally gifted at learning Spanish.

I decided to try to play while speaking the numbers in Spanish.





“Bullshit! That’s bullshit!”

We started having an audience – spectators that began to understand the rules. By the end of the game though, my brain was about to explode with the numbers I was trying to remember and pronounce (I still can’t get the e in Tres right. It’s embarrassing).

As we were about to be served at the counter we learned we had to go to another line in another building and that we would have to return to this same line later. Fortunately when we returned the line was shorter, but we queued in about four lines by the end.

Four hours after the game of Bullshit, we were struggling to fill out our paperwork without tables. “Write on my back,” Nicola offered to Amy.  And Amy started trying to draw on Nicola’s back! Ha ha ha. We were tired.

Finally I was at the counter, confident that with blue eyes and my Aussie charm I might be able to persuade the lady with the stamp that I should be allowed six months more to stay in the glorious Peru.

What I wasn’t so confident about was my ignorance of the Spanish language and my ability to  fuck up burnzy everything up with good intentions. But not today! I carried a slip of paper which said “Seis meses de Peru, Por Favor” (should have had para instead of de, and it would have meant ‘six months in Peru, please”.) and I even had an excuse up my sleeve if they asked “why do you want to stay?”

“La Chica,” I would say. Which is bullshit but it sounds cute.

But I never got the chance to sound like a brainless sap, because the lady at the counter tried to talk to me, and I didn’t understand, and I gave her the paper, and passport and I said “Lo Siento, no hablo Espanol”, and she spoke again, and I looked confused, and she laughed (it’s the, ‘wow, he really is dumb’ laugh and I’ve been hearing a lot of it lately, but it’s actually not a bad laugh).

“Cinco,” she said, (five) and I was glad that Bullshit had helped me with the numbers a little. And I said, “No, Seis, por favor!” and she smiled and somehow I was able to understand that because I had already just been in Peru a month, this year, I couldn’t have the full visa refreshed.

I pouted….I actually pouted! Bloody hell. It was a thinking pout, and then I grinned, and I tried again.

“Seis muy bien!” I said, (six very good!*) and in a tone where I was pleading, but she shook her head, with a genuine wide grin, and said ‘cinco’.

I didn’t dare push it, I was already winning, and I hope I thanked her, I hoped I showed the gratefulness on my face, and I think I did. I left with the final stamp and waited for my friends, and they had gained what they needed to, more or less.

Then we went back to the hotel for a pool party where we could drink as much as we wanted in three hours. I got changed in a red flannie and I sang Mambo No 5 and Black Betty on karaoke, and scared the nearby school children at the party by doing it in a heavy raspy voice, and I drank so much that I threw up by a palm tree (making Australia proud) and nearly passed out in a hammock, and made a real arse of myself. The end.

*With my ignorance of the local language I’ve wondered how on earth I’m still alive. But I am alive and there will be plenty of embarrassing stories to come, I’m sure. Keep safe out there, and I’ll make sure to do the same.

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We were born to run in Peru

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I’ve been listening to a lot of Bruce Springsteen lately. It’s a bit blasphemous to soak in his voice while living in a small Peruvian town. But right now he speaks to me. Maybe without him I would have quit this teaching course that nears its end – stressed with the pressures of perfectionism I can’t quite achieve.

I’ve been jogging on a Peruvian beach a lot lately. Maybe without the run and the power of La Playa I would have quit this teaching course that nears its end – or stopped giving a shit about whether I pass the classes I’m to teach.

We have days until this TEFL course finishes and while I may be the moody blogger of the group – the cynical and over-analytical Jughead who wears a Brixton instead of a super cool beanie –reflecting his stresses on his sleeve, I am not the only one being challenged.

Some of us wonder about the job we were promised by companies who charged us a lot to come to Peru with assurances that if we passed the course there would be a guaranteed job. This has changed to ‘you will be given a job offer but if you don’t take it then there’s not much else we can do’. We’re weighed by the burden that we might not get a job anywhere, let alone the job in the places we wanted to go. Some of us wanted Lima; some of us wanted Cuzco.

We wonder what to do next, who to follow, what the back-up plan is. There is comfort in being with friends, and there’s a promising job opportunity that might allow me to have that in the coastal town of Trujillo. All I know about the place is that you can hire a hitman for US $50 and I can blame Amy for knowing that fun fact.

Thanks Amy.

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Another stress is the last classes we have to teach, and pass, and the last two classes I’ve been showing the strain beforehand. I don’t get why I’m so anxious about the lead-up and organising of a lesson. I’ve done prominent things in the past, but maybe I always set excuses. I’ve walked on stage in a modelling comp, but if I didn’t do well, I would have blamed it on the fact I didn’t have rock hard abs. There’s a safety net.

There’s no real safety net here. No excuses here in the town of Zorritos. You are prepared for class, or you are not prepared for class.

On Monday evening I was unprepared for a class I was to teach, and I decided to trade half an hour of preparation for a run on the beach. I put on my music and Badlands and Born to Run play after each other, and I jog, and the locals laugh or giggle as I pass them with the hair pushing over my eyes. I jog furiously past the boats and spook the crabs into their holes.


sea seal.jpgThe stress floods through my legs as my toes splash through the higher reaching waves. I jog and I speed up and then I run and I breathe and I run and boys call out to me as I pass their football game but I ignore them and I don’t stop until I’m out of breath. I breathe in the words of the smooth bastard Springsteen. I feel good. I feel sweaty.

Baby, we were born to teach in the badlands.

I walk past the football game and somehow get suckered into the game with the teenagers. I join one of the sides and kick two goals but smash my foot into one of the other kid’s. We both scream in pain and laugh about it. Soon I stop the game because I’m unfit, and one of the boys calls out to me. “Inglish!” he said, pointing towards the school, and I realise he’s one of my more troublesome and cooler students, the one I previously nicknamed ‘the Bart Simpson boy’ but judging how he was in class later, I have earned his respect. As he leaves my class we high-five/do the cool handshake, and his mates are saying something like, “see you on the beach”.

I can’t meet them though. I’m their teacher. Dammit. But it’s cool to be cool.

P.S. I failed the class, but I enjoyed the teaching and so did the students. They learned from it.


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The Tortuga Bubbler

I remember swimming with the turtles, and I will remember that for a long time.

I remember standing on a pier out on the coast south of Mancoura. There were tourists but none that stood out like myself and my friends.

I remember the squeals from these tourists as I looked down at the water as they swam with these turtles.

I remember putting the red floating vest on and getting in the cool water and waiting on my own. Amy was chasing turtles with the Go Pro, Nicola couldn’t stop grinning, and Lutie and Adriaan sat balancing on the buoys.

Suddenly something scrapped at my feet. The turtle pressed up into my feet and took my weight as if it was a Pokémon using the HM move Surf for me. But just for a moment.

We could see their shadows in the water, popping out again and again, and I thought maybe I could attract them by bubbling in the water.

I could be the Tortuga bubbler. And suddenly, unexpectedly, one swam in front of me, and then around in a sharp u-turn. Its head popped out the water.

I could lean forward to kiss it, almost, and it stared at me with a large eye. In my memory the eye was the size of a tennis ball, but I exaggerate. It opened its mouth and grinned showing small and pointed teeth, and then it ducked back underneath, and I was speechless.

And I stared, in love for the first time truly for tortugas, and I wanted it to come back, so we could swim together and share journeys under the sea, and ride into the sunset, and become the world’s greatest Pokémon trainers together.

The feeling of love died a little when the next turtle whacked its flipper into my nuts, as if to say, “shut the duck up with that bubbling.”

” I wish I took a picture,” I groaned to Adriaan, who was still sitting on the buoy. And with his South African accent, he pointed to his eye, or the side of his head, and he said “you have a mind picture in here, bro.”

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On trying to be that foreign gentleman


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Saying goodbye to Mount Isa, my home in North West Qld. Photo: Jemloco Images.

When we visit a place far  from home, we absorb a new role.  Something different to who we normally are. A facade without us even realising it. Sometimes it’s a facade encouraged by others around us.

Some of us might like to pretend to be the super-fun drunk foreigner, others maybe might like to pretend they are some brooding philosopher, and even still others may want to be the drug experimenter or the womaniser.

I put on a role for Peru. I wanted to be the foreign gentleman. Someone acting out of honour not because of fear, or not because I don’t have the capacity to be bad, but because I know I can be this guy. I wanted to be a man who didn’t use people, and who made them feel so much better about themselves. And there is a power to being who you want to be. There is also a danger to thinking you’re the innocent, the good guy, because in all likelihood that’s not true, and you judge yourself too much when you fail.


I just want to be proud of myself.

And I am. I am bloody proud of myself, not because I’m in Peru but because of who I was before that and because I know there is a community in Mount Isa that supports me, no matter how distant it is. This community is used to distance anyway, that doesn’t stop it from being there for me.

But being proud of yourself is a daily battle, and when you take away everything that is part of you (your job, your friends, your car) and you move overseas and don’t even know where you’re going to be in a week’s time, it puts on certain pressures.

I guess in a way having the role of good guy gets in the way of the other role I should be having. I am the storyteller. I was running away for stories, and I have them, I suppose.



The stores stock beer and shampoos and tampons and chips. No paper. One store sells board games. At that time of the night and in my sickness haze, I consider buying scrabble as a gift for a friend, but no, that’s stupid. There’s a fine line between being considerate, and an awkward friend.

My sickness seems to disappear along the road at night, although at that point I’m not sure if it’s night or the early morning. Spanish words call out along the store fronts of the promenade as the lighthouse shines down at us. Groups sit outside stores eating food, dancers outside the bar beaches sniff cocaine, and motocab drivers yell at me asking if I need a taxi. A bouncer promises me ‘chicas, fucky fucky’ and somewhere then, after ages of being unable to find paper and pen to write with, I realise this world around me is superficial bullshit. Right then I hate it and this isn’t why I came here.

Earlier that day the party city of Mancoura seemed a much nicer place. Not quite as harsh, or not quite as extreme. I sat sunburnt under an umbrella with my lunch and yet another beer with mates when one of the many hawkers walked up. This one was different from the ones carrying cakes or sombreros. She was a small elderly woman clutching a plastic bag. She had few teeth but it actually exaggerated the loveliness of her smile, and even the kindness that glowed in her eyes. She spoke to me in Spanish and I said the few words I knew like “no comprende”, “no hablo espanol”, “lo siento”, “idiota” and when she knew this was true she said one word, again and again, but I didn’t know it.

I saw her later and I waved ‘hola!” but this time I had a translator, and he exclaimed, “she said you’re beautiful.” It’s in the same street I was in 12 hours later but the feeling I had then was the anti-thesis to the zombie haze of the night.

This better feeling was similiar to that of a week earlier in this same hostel when I was on the dance floor trying to dance to spite the superficiality of it. This Peruvian girl turned to me, and she said “you’re Australian?”


“You are fucking beautiful.”

And I thanked her, and it meant a lot, and I focused back on my white-guy, strictly non-latino dancing. It took me a week to figure out how she knew I was Australian. She would have seen it on my Tinder profile, and I forgot that could happen considering I hadn’t even thought about using it in a week.

I’m not sure why beauty is so important, and I hope they meant that it shone from the inside, and I think it did when it came from the old hawker, because I trust her eyes. I trust the eyes full-stop.

I’m not sure why I made the tangent to beauty, or more strictly to a self-endorsement of praise of myself (isn’t that so wanky?) but sometimes the praise from others helps the facade so much better. If I’m the beautiful foreigner then what an honour that is. It’s better than being the bad guy, the fool, the arsehole.

The point of this blog post really was that I was searching for meaning, to be a better person than I found myself to be, this cold and distant figure in control of his words and his world. I was sick of easiness and compromise, and I just wanted those fairytales I used to believe in (we all know the ones), and that’s why I chose Peru.


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Dancing with the Peruvian elderly


RUNNING away to Peru may sound romantic but the truth is that if you’re trying to go there to escape your inward shit you may find yourself having to confront these issues in more extreme forms.

I talk of course about anxiety and taking on the blame for what’s going on in the world around me.

I left a relationship six months ago in which I was unhappy, and I was unhappy mainly because I was prisoner of my own anxiety – unable to differentiate blame and fairness and therefore unable to express myself without feeling I was doing something wrong.

If you’re a regular reader of my blog you may have noticed a sudden change in my written voice in the last week. I fell into a dark patch in Peru, when these feelings of anxiety remerged. What’s shocked me is that I can’t quite explain why I fell in this mood except that it was a combination of stresses that built up into overload.

The more I tried to pretend things were okay, the more I put myself under this pressure, the worse I was in my mind. It was like jumping out of my skin, and I was beginning to feel crazy, in a country far from home. The worst thing is that this has until this morning caused me to question who I am. It felt like nobody around me could understand this intensity, but I couldn’t either.

Last night I wanted to sulk in my room but my new friends came round to play Bullshit (cards involving lies and deception) and eat street pizza, drink beer and listen to music. I played but my heart wasn’t in it for a while, and I was sculling a beer so I could hurry up and make my excuses to leave.Someone suggested the loser of the game jump into the pool and I thought self-sabotage of the game and a swim would be the fastest way to get out of there. I jumped in the pool and I floated underneath the water for a little while. And it felt so fucking good, and it shocked me, this feeling, fighting against that tension that had been irrationally building up within. I left the pool to the sounds of other people laughing, and I went into my room to brood. And it occurred to me that such behaviour was the reason everyone around me think I’m a bit of a weirdo sometimes.

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Having a good time at the bar between dances. 

I changed my clothes but didn’t put on any underwear – not out of sexiness but more because I’d run out of clean ones – and I left the room to keep playing. I was finally allowed to choose the music, and I chose Tash Sultana, and San Cisco, and Band of Frequencies, and Gang of Youths, and I was in an ecstasy because this was music I loved before – when I was at home and in control of my feelings – and it still sounded the same. It still sounded relevant.


I have a friend called Ingibjorg who lives in Iceland. She is one of my group of online friends I call ‘the side shovels’. She said something the other day that meant a lot.

“Intense people are interesting people, passionate people, people who shine through the greyishness of every day,” she said to all of the side shovels.


I feel intense people are touched by madness. They have felt something powerful and creative and secret in that madness, and through some quick snap or release they have come out the other side to share those emotions with the world around them.




A bunch of senior Peruvians were having a dance party at the hotel next door, so we decided to check it out. And we did. We bought more beer at the bar and slowly a few of us ended up being on the dance floor with these elderly ladies.

You know the stereotype of the drunken Asian tourist making a fool of themselves on the dance floor? This was me last night.

Except I was a terrible white dancer surrounded by Latinas.

There I was dancing with no shoes or any underwear on and all I knew about these dances were what I could copy from my partners – half my height. I danced with a mask on with a group of elderly women who were having the time of their lives – and so was I.

I copied these dances and the ladies on the sidelines helped show me the motions, telling me how to spin around when I needed to.

Dancing is its own language and what I needed was a release – and this was the release. I was myself, I was me, I was shining, and I was making people happy.

I’m out of that madness, I hope, knowing that I haven’t changed, that I’m still the same person. We fuck up sometimes and can’t help how we feel. And I know I’m a dancer even if I’m out of the rhythm of everybody else.


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Homesickness while hating those damn Aussies


Last night while deciding on the next great adventure in Peru, I suddenly felt homesick.

I had my first drink of Milo in ages and it tasted like home. I think Milo is Australian but I could be wrong, and it doesn’t matter anyway who claims it. All I know is that I was caught by surprise by this feeling. I’ve never felt sick for home before because in reality, I am a nomad and I never saw myself as having one specific home.

It wasn’t one town I missed, it wasn’t Mount Isa. It was Australia I missed, and I don’t exactly know why. I don’t care about looking back, I want to focus on my Peru journey, but you have to admit it’s a little funny that I am regularly interested in what my Prime Minister’s Instagram story of the day is.

The strange thing is that in my travel experience, the further from Australia you are the more likely it is that you are going to see more Australians in a hostel or working in a bar. And they don’t really like running into each other. It gets old and fast. I’m not sure why, but I suspect it’s that Aussie men find an advantage in having that mystique, that drawl, and that’s taken away when others put on that exaggerated act. Other Aussies must fight that stereotype of being drunken bogans who cannot speak well and who bullshit a lot, and who think they are funny and really aren’t.

I never understood that dislike of running into other Australians, but after speaking to a few at a hostel recently, I was turned off by the “fucken hell” and “mate” from every sentence. It felt fake, but it also made me see that trait in myself.

It’s strange. I miss my country and I miss my land, but I’m not sure I miss the people who don’t have the current attachment to that.


But then…

Suddenly this afternoon…

One of the teachers I work with is Australian and she hates fidget spinners. Adriaan my South African friend and I snuck up behind her playing with the spinners and we made her turn around to look at us.

“You are fucking arseholes,” she drawled with a smile and with twinkling eyes the color of a Queensland sky. These were the exact words and tone I needed to hear. I missed this humour, and I walked away laughing.

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Super gringo divertido

I have heard the most beautiful sound in the world and that sound is pre-schooler children calling out in the street, “hola senor!”

I just want to call back “hola Bambinos” but I don’t in case I burnzy it up and confuse them. I’m not even sure bambinos is correct in the context. In mount Isa it’s the name of a coffee shop. I just stick to the Hola from my lips and warmth in my heart, returning from the market in the middle of the day.

I wish I was as innocent or as naive as these cuties, and then I think that maybe I am. Or at least, I aspire to be. There is nothing wrong with goodness and love and kindness and grace, without agenda, and yet at some point at time I could say I resented these traits. Or, more accurately, the people that bragged they aspired to these traits but weren’t quite sure of the subtleties of the opposites.

I’m getting preachy, I think, because I’m tired, and exhausted, and I’ve just returned from a weekend of partying in a nearby resort town in which I had a great night, and a not so good night, and it makes me wonder if alcohol is worth the price to body and especially to mind and connections.

Right now I wait to teach school children English and I’m not as prepared as I could be, because of my tiredness, and mainly that’s from a stomach bug. And I know my friends also teaching feel the same.

Maybe I’m being harsh to alcohol, and I’m really on a soap box but let me keep this going while it’s in my heart because I need to say this. I did not come to Peru to piss my money away on grog. And I have.

To be fair, some of my best moments this year and maybe my life have been while drunk here. And maybe that takes the validity away from what I’m saying.

But I spent more than three months without alcohol before I came here, to eat healthy, and it changed my life. It was the happiest I had been in Mount Isa. It wasn’t intended to have so much benefit, but I made a close group of friends who helped me rely on sobriety, (we called our group Side Shovels and we enjoy Doctor Who and Taylor Swift and Nintendo Switch). Suddenly, I was fitter and happier and stronger and confident, and I was free in my mind from anxiety. And then I came to Peru planning to maintain this sense of freedom and somehow didn’t.

My Side Shovels haven’t actually said it but I sense disapproval from our correspondence, as if my partying had let them down, as if I’m no longer being that guy our relationship was built on.

And yet I don’t quite know what to do. I really like my new friends around me, and fortunately alcohol doesn’t define them either,but suddenly I find myself uncertain on how to act sober. That’s silly, I know. I am me and I can carry on being that decent bloke I KNOW I am, but I find myself using alcohol as a crutch to try and imitate my best moments here.

I am a fun gringo, I am a super gringo divertido, and I can be that while taking it just a bit easy on the Crystal (beer) and the dinero.

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Perdon, I want to be serious for a moment


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One thing I’ve learned this week is friends do not have to speak the same language. 

When I first pitched this blog, it was supposed to be about my awkward exchanges conversing in Spanish. Yet this week there was little time to buy food at the market or to go to a restaurant or even to drink (until Wednesday night anyway).

I’m not sure when I’ve been more stressed before this week in preparation for the classes I had to teach.

I failed my first class which had been with young teenagers. I still have a bruise on my head from that occasion.

When I thought I failed my second class, it was with young adults. I taught them directions and at the end of the session we played blind man’s bluff. The Spanish speakers have difficulty with vowels, and S. For example, one lady keeps adding an ‘e’ before stop. ‘Estop’. By the end they did well, helping each other navigate the room.

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Watching the football game between Peru and New Zealand. A spot in the world cup is at stake.

‘You!’ one student pointed at me, and they were so enthusiastic that I didn’t have the heart to say no. They guided me clearly to my destination. I was proud, but my lesson was 15 minutes short. I made exercises up but I left rather sulky that I had failed again. I didn’t fail. Still, before I learned I was successful I was nauseous, dizzy, and stressed. I hadn’t eaten properly, I couldn’t change my 100 soles note, and I was failing at not taking it out on the people around me.

A friend suggested the solution to his and my failure was to try harder, and I stormed off, pissed off. I felt I had tried my best. But as I thought about it longer, I knew he was right. It was just advice I didn’t want to hear.

There are things I still have time for; blogging, walks on the beach, Facebook, and just being plain goofy. I can do these things, but I hadn’t given the course everything just yet.

I hadn’t actually given teaching too much thought before I arrived in Peru. I just wanted something different and this seemed to be the answer. I gave up a job I had control over, in a town in which I was perfectly comfortable. I left this job to teach English to people who only spoke Spanish and that loss of control was gone.

What did I expect from an accelerated teaching course? Did I expect that it was going to be easy? Yes, I had, because I had not taken it seriously.

Now it’s time I found a way to take it seriously, while still enjoying the good times with the people around me. Because there is something special about these soon-to-be teachers.

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Mr Burnzy’s first class

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Right now I am in an odd mood. It’s almost…a flat feeling. Yet I don’t know why. I should be feeling fantastic.

I’m in Peru learning to teach English and tonight was my first class. I taught English to Peruvian teenagers. It started awkwardly.

The classroom had a tin roof, a wall of grills on the side (windows with no glass) and a picture of Mother Mary in pride of place on a shelf at the front of the room.

The first two children arrived to the class 15 minutes late and when I started writing on the board the first time I dropped my pen. I used the bend and snap but at the top of the snap my head hit the shelf where the Mother Mary picture stood. It hurt.

Meanwhile, my South African mate Adriaan is also about to begin his class. 

I didn’t realise until after the lesson that the force of the blow caused the picture to fall forward.

It got worse when students kept steadily coming in, some 40 minutes later. I thought ‘ stuff it!” with the order of activities I had planned, and kept it to the same active exercise we planned at the start.

I made sure new students entering the classroom during group work were divided among the more experienced students. I get why my teachers were so cranky that I was 5-10 minutes late to class. It really affected my development and what that teacher could do.

But as my students went on and absorbed more I found myself talking less, letting the students take the lead.

At the end when I finished one of the brighter students handed me my pencils I had lent him.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling at me, in perfect English.

I have felt amazing several times. I have walked on a catwalk to applause, and made people laugh at my stand-up comedy. I thought these were great feelings.  But it was not like the glow I had inside me at that moment. It was a burn and this burn was purpose.

Still, purpose or not, I went straight to the bar afterwards with my fellow teachers.

Categories: Humor, teaching, Travel | 1 Comment

People and their creatures


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There are some days with no expectations tied to them that contain the best moments. Such a case happened the day after my birthday.

It began painfully as I was in a class on how to teach English all day while enduring a birthday hangover. But then I took some photographs across town including up at the lighthouse. The people here in Zorritos love having their photographs taken. I was concerned that it might be frowned upon. Not at all! They do like being asked though.

I took photographs of a football game that children were playing. They saw the camera, stopped the game and posed! The referee was smiling while trying to get the kids to keep playing.  I also captured a photograph of a surfer returning to his motorcab.


There’s a cheap burger place called Trota Mundo where you can grab an excellent Pollo burger for six soles. It is in a beautiful wooden building that looks almost like a tree house. The company and conversation were fantastic that night and so was the music playing in the background. Iris by Goo Goo Dolls, and Wonderwall (Oasis) played from a speaker near our table outside. The laughs grew when the waitress-owner came out to tell us something in Spanish.

The best Spanish speaker (Guy) hadn’t arrived yet so we tried to bluff our way through understanding. The woman grabbed her phone to translate what she meant and this is what came up. Nicola - translation.jpg

We laughed so much.

Poor creatures 😦

And I also feel sorry for the woman because she didn’t know why we were laughing. It turns out she wanted to know what sauce we wanted on our burgers.

Beers, and more beers. And after those beers Nicola, Guy, Amy and I walked back to our villa and bought beer on the way and drank it. At the hotel bar we brought out a pack of cards and we stayed up until 2am playing Bullshit.

It turns out I’m a terrible liar but what is also unfortunate is I have a tendency to shout ‘bullshit!’ when I’m losing in a game when I’m drunk. But it doesn’t mean I’m accusing someone of cheating, which is what I’m doing in this game when I say ‘bullshit.’

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