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.

Peru Part 1: Fun with Sand Dunes

I am finally getting around to writing about my trip to Peru. It was years ago, but it hardly seems like that much time has passed since I was there, but my fingers don’t lie.

Knowing that I would be alone on my trip I wasn’t too keen on leaving Guatemala. It was hard to say good-bye to the G family and take that 4 am shuttle bus to the airport. I would have been happy to stay longer, not in the school, but with the family. However, it was the 18th of August and I had already postponed my trip by about two weeks. My flight took off over an hour late, there was a two-hour layover in Costa Rica, and then at about five o’clock I landed in Peru. The sun still shone through a thick haze and I was glad that night had not yet fallen. From the airport I booked a hotel room and opted for the taxi bus as my form of transport. My second suitcase had to be gotten rid of, so I took it to the luggage storage. It cost fifty bucks to store a jam-packed, nearly-bursting-at-the-seams, ten-year-old suitcase. They had lost a group’s luggage and were frantically searching the entire room for the missing bags. The people were antsy; their flight had started boarding. After waiting an hour (checking in and checking out bags is apparently a time-consuming process) I was down to one bag, my backpack and a bus ticket to my hotel.

The hotel was close to the bus station and far from the city center. It seemed like I was the only guest in the hotel. After playing in the bathroom sink, it was my first opportunity to see water drain out counter-clockwise,I went out to find a bakery and bought some food for the night and the next day. That was the first time that I realized that my Guatemalan Spanish differed from Peruvian Spanish, the pronunciation was different and certain words just didn’t work for me. In the end I got what I wanted and returned to the hotel in a light drizzle. I ate, took a hot shower and memorized the next day’s itinerary. My nerves made it impossible to sleep for most of the night, but early in the morning I drifted off and only reluctantly responded to my faithful alarm clock.

Around 8:30 I bought a 9:00am bus ticket to Ica. The bus departed at 9:45. Unbeknownst to me I had managed to get myself on the Royal Class bus, which as you might guess from the name, was the most expensive. It was approximately a three-hour ride through sand dunes to Ica. After about twenty minutes the landscape became monotonous and I happily watched “Anna and the King” on the TV screens. It was subtitled in Spanish, and for most of the ride I was forced to read them because the sound was inaudible. About an hour before arrival we were fed our Royal Class meal, which consisted of a bun sliced in half, generously stuffed with one thin slice of chicken and one leaf of lettuce. Two nutty cookies and a cup of Inca Kola accompanied this miniature feast. Inca Kola is not for me, this Peruvian beverage is florescent yellow and tastes of bubble gum.

Ica was the first stop on the bus line and the first stop for me as well. After collecting my things and inquiring about the next day’s bus schedule to Nazca I walked around Ica for a bit trying to locate the bus station for a different line of buses, but couldn’t find it. Near the center square a young man who desired to escort me to a reasonably priced hotel and show me around town accosted this innocent little fish. The traveling fish repeatedly told him that she wasn’t interested but he wasn’t interested in taking no for an answer. Traffic whizzed around the square and wouldn’t you know it, an empty taxi pulled up right next to the gringa without her having to even lift her little finger. I asked the taxista how much to Huacachina. The young man continued to help and the taxista thought that he was the gringa’s enamorado. I quickly clarified the situation and he became distressed saying that perhaps the joven had followed me from Lima. From that moment on, he regarded himself as my guardian angel. He recommended the local museum, which even had a replica of one the Nazca biomorphs on a smaller scale, but it was already closed for the day and would open only one hour before the bus to Nazca the next morning. The taxista was reluctant to leave this little fish in Huacachina, he told me that the hotels were expensive and that they were probably full. But I insisted on staying so he drove me to my hotel of choice and had to be reassured that I would be alright before he would drive off and leave me.

The room was the cheapest I was to stay in. At the time 10 soles was about $3. That is how much the room cost. Mind you, cheap hotel rooms are usually lacking in certain luxuries. This room had a private bathroom, with no hot water, no toilet paper, no soap, and no toilet seat, but it wasn’t cold at night.

I left my things and took off to walk around the laguna. It was small with a row of buildings around three sides of it. Most of the buildings appeared boarded up with peeling paint in bright 70’s seaside colors, but there were plenty people about. Some took out pedal boats, but the majority played in the sand. Huacachina is surrounded by tall sand dunes. There are sand boards for rent, which are a bit like snowboards, and anyone can spend a few hours sliding down the dunes. This little fish, who is not fond of downhill skiing, riding a bicycle down hill or even of being a passenger in a car in Seattle or San Francisco contented herself with a hike up the dunes. I picked the one that looked the tallest and set out to climb it. I must have been crazy when a few years earlier I had asked a friend to climb the tallest mountain in Malaysia with me. The sand fought me. The wind deposited grains of sand in every imaginable crack and crevice of my body, covered or not. My lungs insisted that they were not trained for climbing anything more than a flight of stairs. So I stopped, sat down and admired the view. When they had stopped their whining I continued, eventually reaching the top. I practiced my tightrope act at the summit following the hills over to the other side of the Hauacachina oasis. Only a small trail crawled across the top of the dunes and then the sides went plunging down. I remembered how when I had taken MF and P to Iximche they had rolled down the grassy hills like human logs. I fought with the childish temptation to do the same, the height alone dissuaded me from attempting it. A plastic bag carwheeled down the dune and I lived the moment vicariously.

After sitting awhile along the ridge and enjoying the view, I tired of how the sand would jump up over the peak and sting me, not to mention that my ears were filling up with sand, so I decided to walk back down. But I wasn’t ready to leave them just yet. This little fish forged a new trail down the back, running half way down to the side of the next dune. There I found a cauldron like area where I could play games with my shadow. Inspiration struck, I was traveling alone and would have very few pictures of myself, not that it bothered me, but usually those were the pictures that people really wanted to see. So I planned a self-portrait. I positioned my shadow against the side of the tall dune, framed the picture and CLICK! My shadow was in the box.

At one point, our little fish found herself on top of another dune with the only trail leading back the way she had come, but she refused to return by a path already traveled. I so she plunged down the side of the dune into a valley where I had earlier seen a small ant-like person crossing, his singing rising with the wind. I weaved in and out of smaller dunes wondering how much longer it would be until the sun set. Coming out of the dunes on the way back to the hotel this little fish met with a family of four who were curious to speak with her. Their oldest son, K was 9. They were from Ica and wanted to know all about our little traveler. They had already spent a good twenty minutes talking when the mother asked me if I liked “bitha.” This fish claimed no knowledge of anything called “bitha.” Eventually I understood that “bitha” was pizza, but this only after the mom insisted on bringing me a “bitha” that evening to my hotel room.

This little fish returned to her room, took a cold shower and only managed to remove a fraction of the sand that had invaded her body. Sleep kept calling me to bed, but I reminded sleep that a “bitha” was coming and that I couldn’t turn in yet. Until 9pm I waited, but they did not return. I crawled under the covers and slept gratefully.

Maunawili Falls

Another day of hiking in the backyard. Our choice the stream crossing-intense trail to Maunawili Falls. Our easiest hike so far, but also the wettest and muddiest. It rained all night and early into the morning, but by the time we met blue streaks were conquering the remnant clouds on this side of the mountains. There was no telling what the weather conditions would be on the other side of the range. We would not be stopped by the lingering smell of wet asphalt.


After a quick jaunt on the highway we turned into a verdant valley. We stopped off for a moment at the local park facing what must be one of the Olomana peaks, not knowing any better at the time I named it the Truffelo. Unique things should have names I argued. It looked strong and powerful, like a buffalo and it was triangular so I fused the two elements. My private naming ceremony over, we continued on the twisting, narrowing road deep into the valley, up to the trailhead.


Once on the trail, it became apparent that my mission was to make it to the falls and back without soaking my shoes and drowning my socks in river water, painting on a pair of mud pants, or collecting scores of mosquito bites. For the first portion of the trail we stalked the stream. The trail steeped in mud, not just at the crossings, but through the gulch, wound back and forth across the stream. Thick foliage shaded us from the harsh strength of the sun, and prevented the mud from drying out more quickly.


Only when we reached the summit of the hill did the path dry out. The giant green tapestry of the Ko‘olaus hung from the clouds enveloping us on three sides; the 360 degree view was completed by a Kaneohe and Kailua. But the panoramic view was brief and we soon plunged back down again into the sloshing and smacking muck for a last stretch before reaching the falls.


The trail ended abruptly at the side of the shallow stream. It trickled out from a deep pool at the bottom of a 12 foot waterfall. The herd already gathering at the watering hole balanced on some of the larger drier rocks in the stream. Most chatted and laughed, a few deposited their shoes and belongings and plunged into the water. A few even more brave climbed up from the other side to the cliff above to belly flop into the water from 60 feet up. When they collided with the surface of the water we could almost feel the reverberation from the echo in the valley.


At the end of the trail and bathing suit-less, my only options were to 1) abstain from swimming, 2) dive in fully clothed, or 3) strip down and enjoy the pool of potentially bacteria-laced water at the bottom of the falls. My adventurous side screamed swim, but I had no desire to tromp out of the gulch any wetter than my sweat had already made me. And far too many people had converged on the site to even consider the third option.

So instead we watched the water gurgle over the falls and brave swimmers jump from the cliffs. They slapped the water and sent out thunderous ripples. Unable to play too, or unwilling to do so, we left again after a short break. We braved the mire and stumbled across the stream collecting more mud splatters with each step. By the end the clumps of muck stuck to my shoes had added several inches to the width of my sneakers and had climbed onto my socks. Rinsing them in the river and stomping them on the road just didn’t get them clean. The hike ended with a ride back to the park and a makeshift sponge bath at the drinking fountain. Unfortunately, the attempt at improving our appearance didn’t make our waitress at the restaurant where we had lunch any more friendly. I guess to appreciate our efforst she should have seen us before we tidied up.

Misadventures at Makapu’u

This story starts out biased, let me just warn you from the start. On my first trip to travel around part of the island I chose the shortest loop, which, in my opinion, is the most stunning. My principal form of transportation was, and remains, the bus. The sapphire and cerulean waters glimmered like a perfect island postcard (unlike my pictures today). Waves rhythmically thumped the white sand beaches with a warrior’s ferociousness. The bus bounced along from the Hanauma Bay parking lot past Sandy Beach toward Makapu’u.

As we crested the hill at Makapu’u, the sunlight teased out the full beauty of the ocean’s palette. The entire coast down through Waimanalo glistened lazuline and turquoise, fringed by the majestic ruffled, emerald Ko’olau Mountains. So why did such a beautiful seascape send an eerie shiver down my spine at that moment? I hadn’t yet heard of suicide from the cliffs, or any such foreboding stories. It looked perfect, and yet I had no desire to stay.

From that day it would be almost two years before I actually stopped at Makapu’u. Friends called a beach day early last July and before I knew it there we were pulling into the parking lot at Makapu’u Beach. There for less than five minutes, not even near the water, I tripped, not on one of the many protruding basalt rocks lining the path to the beach, but on the sand. Plain sand. Greeting the ground with a thud, I chuckled at my clumsiness and pealed my sprawling body from the path. At first glance, only my ego was bruised. A few steps later a sticky tickling kind of feeling began crawling down my right leg. A cleaning of the dirt and blood revealed a quarter-sized nick just under my knee. I’ve always been lacking in gracefulness, but only in Hawaii has proof of this been twice branded on my body.

Of course, I wouldn’t blame the place for my injury, but it might make it more understandable that I do not associate fond memories with that little beach. Until today I never ventured back. Yesterday my legs finally stopped quivering from the climb up Koko Head Crater earlier this week and my mantra became, “hiking, hiking, hiking, yay!” The plan was to try a new trail not too far away. The trek above the beach to the Makapu’u lighthouse won out. However, a grey cloud was spitting on my house and my chanting became less adamant.

With more favorable atmospheric conditions I set out today in the trusty old city bus. After puttering through Wakiki and whizzing down the highway we reached the eastern tip of the island a mere hour later. As we closed in on the parking lot for the trail I pulled on the cord to order a stop, but there was no yellow bus sign and the bus flew past my destination. Watching the road narrow and the shoulder shrink as we descended I realized there would be no room to climb back up without being grazed by oncoming traffic. It was already late in the day and I knew there wasn’t too much time to figure out what to do. I crossed the road toward the beach hoping to find a trail up from sea level, but I didn’t see one. When my phone rang with an important call I knew I would have to postpone the hike. Along the way home I noticed that the bus stop before the trail though down the road a bit was not as impossible to navigate. Perhaps the next time I venture toward Makapu’u I can finally enjoy my time there, or perhaps there's actually a reason not to go back.

Budget accommodations - Five lacunas to plan for

Almost all of my travel has been done on a short shoestring budget. It makes no sense to scrimp on expenses related to the things one actually wants to see and experience, so this little fish finds other economical ways of affording travel. One of these is staying in cheap hotels. They need to be safe, but since I spend so little time actually in a room it doesn’t make sense to pay too much.

On my last trip in Peru I tried not to spend not more than $10 a night on a hotel room. This was a habit I picked up while in Guatemala. And the same basic principles applied, if you are willing to forgo five ‘luxuries’, you can easily find a room for $10 or less.

My survey found that usually at least one (but sometimes all five) of these items missing from my budget accommodations:

1) toilet seat
2) soap
3) toilet paper
4) shower curtain/door
5) hot water

If you come prepared, know how to give yourself an effective sponge bath, don’t mind squatting, and aren’t sharing your room with anyone you don’t want to see you naked, then your money can be better spent on transportation, entrance fees, food, and souvenirs. These quirky details add to texture to your story. After all, how many travelers come home talking about the exquisitely soft toilet paper in the room that they didn’t have to buy from the little old lady in the market, the ambrosia scented soap, and those two weeks of divinely hot showers? A five star hotel just isn’t in my definition of an adventure holiday.

It only takes time and sweat to make it to the top

Unfortunately, my international travel plans are temporarily on hold. But that doesn't mean that adventure cannot be found in my own backyard. Last week when H invited me to go hiking I was ready. I recharged my camera battery, laced up my sneakers, filled my backpack with several liters of water and set off like a pack mule. Our destination was the top of Koko Head Crater.

The sun played hide-n-seek behind the clouds, a light breeze occasionally succeeded at lifting the humidity, and the near-by shooting range echoed like the threat of a faceless battlefield. We basted ourselves in sunscreen and followed other hikers to the trail head. I wasn't intimidated until I stood at the bottom and looked straight up.

The trail is made up of an abandoned train track that climbs straight up the southern side of the crater. The wooden tracks form steps to the top. I half expected a roller coaster car race down and flatten us.

A few years ago, I gave up the stairmaster and quickly found that the train track trail showed no mercy. With frequent photo and water stops we eventually reached the bridge a little over half way up the hill. This was by far the worst part of the trail. An incline, no hand rails, and a few missing tracks made the trip up an effort in consentration and balance. On the trip down my fear of heights got the better of me and I crawled down like a crab. It was a great pec and tricep workout.

Once we finally reached the top we were congratulated by a strong wind and multiple views from Diamond Head and Waikiki to Hanauma Bay, and from Hanauma Bay to Makapu'u. We explored the old graffiti-covered bunkers at the top, took more triumphant panorama backdrop pictures, and refueled for the hike back down.