It's Peru, Baby.

Have just returned from two nights camping at the beach. It was as fun as you might expect camping with ten people with whom you can only communicate with through using gestures, and basic key words from several different languages, to be. Challenging, but much improved with lashings of rum. Camping in Peru is different to other experiences of camping I have had (mostly in North America). Firstly, it did not involve tents. Secondly, it did not involve hot dogs. And, lastly, it did not involve any trees whatsoever. The location was in the middle of nowhere, an hours’ drive along the beach from the nearest town. Behind the beach is a vast desert, so there was absolutely no shortage of available sand. In fact, other than sea, there is nothing but sand as far as the eye can see, in every direction (except up, obviously). The blokes who organised the excursion took provisions of three very fresh chickens, feathers and all, plus veg and rice. This is what we ate, three times a day, except for the first morning, when we had tinned sardines. It was always cooked to perfection and absolutely delicious, but being next to the ocean we naturally had hoped to eat fresh fish. It was not to be. The menfolk spent all of the second day hooking up an elaborate and extremely long fishing line get-up, which was to be taken far out to sea by sea-doo. They would then drop the attached rock, and leave the line out for a hour or so before pulling it in and figuritively feasting on multitudinous fruits of the sea. Unfortunately, they failed to test run the sea-doo, and it proved impossible to penetrate the breakers. Thus giving further evidence to a theory I have been working on for some time: men are stupid.