What can I say really? I love you; I hate you. You are a coin with two sides to be certain... kind of like losing my virginity and conceiving an unwanted child at the same time.
...Here are a few of the contrasting aspects of my time at PSF:
I met some truly kind, intelligent, funny and talented people...
I met a few I'd rather forget; one example quote: "I don't do drugs, but I want to try Ayahuasca. Sting has done it!"
The work was rewarding...
3 bathrooms were shared among 80 people, all at varying levels of mud-butt intensity.
There was usually a nice breeze...
Pisco is as hot, dry and dusty as Sarah Palin's insides.
I got to practice my Spanish with some of the volunteers and people in the community...
Pisco also smells like Sarah Palin's insides (all she eats is fish guts you know).
Despite some of the negative aspects of PSF mentioned above, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. In fact, it was the fucked up parts of my time there that made it so memorable! Here are a few stories and random facts from my Pisco days...
At PSF, I had the closest thing to a beard I've ever had. I wish I could grow a Baron Davis beard, but it was really more like a Chauncey Billups beard:
...Before basketball one night, my friend Jason from England said something along the lines of: "I've got skills like Magic Jordan." Magic Jordan, now that would be a baller.
...I played scrabble (in English) against two Germans and a Finn. I won.
...One night, I had to get up about 5 times during the night to pee... out my butt. I knew some sort of illness would eventually strike during my travels. Luckily, I took antibiotics and have been pooping relatively solidly ever since!
...It seems that the same handful of songs played over and over again in Pisco. The most catchy of these has to be "Yo no se Mañana" by Luis Enrique. Yo no se Mañana translates to "I don't know tomorrow." I think this is a pretty good lyric. But I do know one thing about tomorrow: I know that tomorrow I'm going to hear the song "Yo no se Mañana."
Listen to it here:
...For this story, I have to introduce a few characters. Frank is a hilarious long-haired British guy in his early twenties. He's always bitching about something, but in a very witty/funny way. Terry is a fifty-something Canadian go-getter. He brought his own tool belt to PSF.
Anyway, one day we were all working up at Las Dunas (more on Las Dunas later). I was standing with Terry on a concrete foundation, and Frank was standing by a house about 20 feet away...
Terry: "Hey, could you hand me that tool . . . . . . . Nigel."
Nigel! It was classic! I could see the process happening in Terry's head:
"Oh, darn I forgot his name. What's the most stereotypical British name I can think of? ...Nigel!"
And Frank didn't correct him. He just looked at me and said: "Nigel?" and I laughed.