A South American adventure

Thrasher Magazine, March, 2005 by Michael Burnett

Alberto has a straight job and had to work weekdays, so Jorge and his brother drove us around in the two rental SUVs. Much has been written about the sketchy driving conditions of the developing world, but after trucking around with Jorge's brother (whose name I shamefully never actually caught), I realized that the wild driving style is less the result of poor roads and narrow intersections, and more of a cultural thing.

"You know, you don't have to drive this terribly," I told Jorge's brother as he lurched us through the city in the Peruvian jam-on-the-gas-slam-on-the-brake-honk-honk-honk style.

"Que?" He asked.

"Oh never mind," I responded, bracing my hands against the dash. There were a few points where the crew was on the verge of revolt, so horrible was his driving--but other times we would all just laugh, kind of like when you laugh on a rollercoaster.

"Oh shit! We're gonna fucking die!" Ethan giggled from the back seat.

ONE NIGHT we were invited to a party at a rich kid's house in suburban Lima. After stopping and buying boxes of wine at a gas station, we arrived to armed cops directing us into a parking space. From there, a teenager who spoke almost accent-less English greeted us.

"Hey, dudes. Welcome to my party!"

When I was a kid in junior high I had a very skewed idea of what high school was going to be like, mostly because I'd gotten the bulk of my information from the teen boner comedies I'd seen on Cinemax. In addition to the exploding brassieres and toilet bowl swirlies, I knew another important part of my high school experience would be attending wild parties in gigantic suburban homes with naked chicks in the pool, pizza on the turntable, and dudes crushing beer cans on their heads,

While reality was a harsh wake-up call (with the gigantic homes replaced by some losery 23-year-old dude's apartment and the naked chicks with a fully-clothed, frigid and heavy-set new wave girl), I was given something very rare in this life on my trip to Lima--a shot at redemption. For after walking through the gates of the compound (and that's sure as shit what it was), I realized I'd finally arrived at that wild party that had alluded me so many years ago. Though I never entered the large modern, style home, the yard was vast and featured an empty Olympic-sized pool (unskateable) flanked by a large bar area on the left and a basketball court turned into a dance floor on the right. The yard was crawling with hardy partiers and I grabbed the box of wine over my head and wandered over to the dance floor that was tricked out with streamers, disco balls and over-sized speakers belting out salsa tunes and Spanish pop hits. Alberto knew many of the gifts at the party and I was quickly whipped into awkward formation by a chesty lass with a gift for spin and a halfway decent command of English. I stomped around and laughed while she wiggled, pranced and sang along to the music like all the other teenagers.

"How old are jou?" She asked loudly between dips.

"I'm 31," I shouted backed. "And married."