Peru Part 2: Nazca

The morning after summiting the Huacachina sand dunes this little fish rose early, packed, caught a three-wheeled put-put taxi back to Ica and bought a ticket to Nazca. So far Peru was nothing like I imagined. After all, a desert oasis is not the first thing that most people think of when they hear the name Peru. Ica itself, when I first entered it on the bus, had appeared as a large rundown colonial graveyard. When I left this impression remained with me. Huacachina on the other hand, glimmered in my memory like a mirage.

The seat assigned to me had previously been assigned to another passenger who had boarded in Pisco so I had to take another seat. Next to me sat L the First. As it turns out L the First was a tourist scout (if such a title exists) for a tour agency in Nazca. He rode the typical tourist bus lines and chatted up the tourists. He spoke Spanish (of course), English, German, French, Italian, and was learning some Japanese. His objective: to get the tourists he met to stay in the hotel he recommended and to get them to book trips with his agency for the Nazca lines flyovers, cemetery, museum, and aqueduct tours, and any other possible kind of visit that a tourist to Nazca could imagine.

L #1 kept this little fish swimming in conversation throughout the entire trip. More sand dunes and moonscapes sped past outside the bus windows. We discussed the last election, from which slogans remained painted on the sides of the adobe houses in the small villages they passed - “Toledo más trabajo” and “Alan dio y dará trabajo.” Some must have been even older, they were praising Fujimori. We talked about Nazca, we talked about me and time elapsed quickly enough. When we arrived I agreed to give the hotel he recommended a look and the German guys sitting across from them on the bus were also in for a trip to the hotel. No sooner had we all checked in and freshened up a bit than L the First took out his map and started pitching to us all in German and in Spanish the different tour possibilities that existed in Nazca. I agreed to the flyover of the Nazca lines, the German boys to the cemetery tour.

For one reason or other this fish tourista ended up spending the afternoon and evening with L #1. We bought some flavored rum and went to visit his brother’s family. Night had fallen and L the First, his brother (who claimed to be a huaquero or grave robber), his sister-in-law, their daughter and her one-year-old baby sat around outside their two-room dwelling slurping down shots of the sweet alcohol and talking (the baby had breast milk, not rum). When a decent interval had passed, L the First, his brother and I left to take the party elsewhere.

In the pizzeria service was awkward. L the First explained that the owners usually did not treat Peruvian customers well, but bent over backwards for the tourists, and since one tourist was with two Peruvians they weren’t too sure how to act. After pizza and beer I claimed fatigue to returned to my hotel; but before I left, L #1 promised to return to the hotel in the morning to see me before the flyover and again at noon to take me back to his brother’s house for a lunch of typical Peruvian food. He also told me where he and his brother would be if I decided that to go out again later that evening.

Upon returning to the hotel I actually intended to go to sleep. But the nice guy at the reception, L the Second, kept me engaged in conversation for a long time. Jessica who also worked in the hotel joined us. The three of us had a lively conversation in the reception area; and finally, at about 11 or 12, I dragged myself off to bed claiming that I would never wake up in time for the 7am departure for the flyover if I did not get enough sleep. Luis II promised to buzz me at 6am, just incase I overslept.

The next morning my alarm clock, ever faithful, reminded me that I should have gone to bed sooner. In an hour I dressed, packed, and moved my things to the hotel storage. I waited for some sign of L the First, but I would never see him again. To L the Second I explained part of the reason why she wanted to see L #1, I had decided to go on the cemetery tour after all. Luis II told mw not to fret that if Luis I did not show up that he would arrange for someone else to take me to the cemetery.

I was whisked away to a flyover, in a tiny four seater, where I made the unfortunate decision to sit on the same side of the plane as the pilot. For the viewing of all of the lines the pilot favored the right hand side of the tiny aircraft. Therefore, this little fish continuously leaned over and strained to make out the shapes in the sand. Mycamera did no better. In fact, it objected to working at all, until I put it on manual, a thought that only occurred to me about a third of the way into the flight.

The Nazca Lines managed to be impress and disappoint me at the same time. Soon the flight was over and I returned to the hotel for breakfast (tourists are discouraged from eating before flyovers). I suppose a few people have reacted negatively to the low altitude turbulence and the weaving and leaning and turning of the erratic flight pattern. It was around 10:30am. The bread was hard, the butter close to frozen, but it mattered little to a stomach that craved no food.

L the First had not returned, so L the Second stopped the first tour agency guy to walk through the door and asked him how much for a trip to the cemetery to see the mummies. His price was 5 soles less than L #1’s price. A few crumbs of bread slid down the my throat followed by a cup of tea and I was off again.

The Chauchilla Cemetery waited in the hot sun. Thatch awnings sheltered the mummies. They were seated in the fetal position facing south. Some still had bits of their clothing, others braids of their hair. Adults and children waiting for the afterlife. I thought of L the First’s brother, the huaquero, sneaking out like a zombie in the night to ravage the graves of the dead and steal the only evidence that remains of their lives. Somewhere in the dark night he would come face to face with relics like these from the past. This though crawled under my skin and whispered goosebumps across its surface.

From that macabre sight, our group continued on to a Nazca pottery making demonstration and another demonstration on gold mining techniques in Nazca. It was better than doing nothing, but not spectacular. Then, tired from the heat of the day (in Nazca this little fish ran around in shorts), I returned to the hotel. There I took a tiny nap on the sofa in the reception area.

However, sleeping like a bum on a park bench made me a bit uneasy so I set off in search of souvenirs, a bus ticket to Arequipa, and food. I booked the 11pm bus to Arequipa, which would arrive the next morning at about 7am. Half a dozen postcards of the lines and a little silver monkey pendant became mine. The food was once again, dare we admit it, pizza. I thought that any minute L the First would pop out at me, he had offered to travel with me to Arequipa, as has had his sequel, L the Second. The later half of the evening I spent in the hotel talking to Jessica and L #2. We watched an episode of Betty la fea and I practiced my salsa footwork in the lobby while we chatted. Finally, the time rolled around to take off for the bus station. Luis II wanted to walk this little fish a half way to the station (he even carried my bag). He gave me a small present, a tiny figurine of a panda. Earlier, L the Second had careful noted down my e-mail address and given me his. He promised to write and told me that before I arrived in Pisco near the end of my trip I should call so that he could run off to see me. He hugged me, gave me the customary besos, and left me to crossing the road and continuing on alone.

The packed bus smelled, especially whenever anyone opened the bathroom door. It wound its way through indiscernible landscapes. The passengers snored, slept, talked, and watched movies on the small onboard screen. The heat had been turned up to tropical jungle. When I woke up in the middle of the night people boarded the bus, others disembarked. Typical vendors raised their goods on sticks up to the windows hoping that any hungry or thirsty tourist would opt for a bottle of Inca Kola, a bundle of tangerines, a candy bar, or anything else they had to offer. The night passed with a few identical stops along the way. Shortly after sunrise a rooster riding somewhere in the front part of the bus decided to send his daily salutations to the sun and all on board grudgingly woke up. For another hour the bus wove down into a green valley until finally arriving at Arequipa’s main bus station.