The rest of the week flew by. On Wednesday, after school, Eleanor and I took a taxi into the centre of Lima. We’d intended to take the bus, but after being advised against it by some concerned staff in the school office, decided to take a taxi, as suggested by one man who seemed convinced that we were embarking on some sort of life-threatening expedition. After ascertaining that we were, in fact, fully capable of going into town in the middle of the afternoon, he printed us off a map and walked with us to the end of the road to see us into a taxi. He’d even taken Eleanor’s number and phoned twice to check on us before we’d even arrived.
Fortunately we did arrive perfectly safely, but only to find that the cathedral was already closing to visitors. Since we had a few things to do in the city anyway, it wasn’t too much of a problem and we decided to come back to see the cathedral another day. Our shopping trip was relaxing and, thankfully, uneventful, since neither of us had anything robbed. I managed to buy a phone and, finally, the appropriate materials for school. The only slightly awkward moment occurred whilst I was waiting for Eleanor to pay in the supermarket. I’m beginning to notice that huge, slow-moving queues are quite normal here, so I’d decided to wait slightly outside. I was casually standing eating my dried fruit when one of the security guards ambushed me and started a conversation. Before I knew what was happening, he was introducing me to his friend and arranging a double date. By the time Eleanor finally appeared, I was running out of excuses and just had to grab her and say “Run!”
On Thursday, we were celebrating El día del niño (Children’s Day) at school, which is apparently quite a widely-spread festival in countries where there doesn’t always have to be a very well thought-out and justified reason for celebration. Although it was officially on the Sunday of that week, celebrations were held in school on the Thursday so the children could enjoy it with their friends. This was fine with me; I happened to be assisting in the Third Grade during the period that had been designated for parties for the Lower School. As a consequence, I spent the whole of fourth period drinking Inca Cola and eating chocolate cake with an excited bunch of eight-year-olds - and it was good cake, too.
The rest of the day also went well. By now I was even getting to grips with the French class, even if my conversations with the teacher are a bit comical; I can understand exactly what he’s saying, but when I reply it just automatically comes out in Spanish. It’s incredibly frustrating because even though my written work is good, when I seem to be completely incapable of responding in the correct language, I must seem like a complete cretin. On the plus side, I woke up yesterday morning suddenly able to recite all the numbers in French, and with a peculiarly extended vocabulary. I tend to learn quite a lot when I’m not actually conscious; a couple of months ago, for instance, I dreamt an entire documentary on the history of Scotland.
Anyway, on Thursday evening, I helped Nicole with her English homework (we did some exercises and then wrote a fantastic story about a girl and a piano), before going back, yet again, to my travel plans, which are still not confirmed. Then it was time for an early night in preparation for the next day.
The following morning, when my alarm went off at 5am, there was very little that would have dragged me out of my bed into the cold other than the thought of being in the warmth very, very soon. At 6.30am, Joe, Amy and I were taking a bus to Ica for the weekend, where the temperature was a balmy 28 degrees.
My concerned Peruvian parents had already booked me a taxi with Pily’s nephew (who happens to be a taxi driver) the night before, and when he arrived, Omar walked me to the gate and saw me into the taxi. I’d tried to tell him he didn’t have to get up, and I felt awful when he even insisted on carrying my travel case down the ten flights of stairs (since the lift was still broken). He even asked Pily’s nephew to walk into the bus station with me to exchange my receipt for tickets, but when we arrived and I saw that Joe and Amy were already there, I assured him I would be fine.
The bus journey exceeded all my expectations, especially since I’d only paid 19 sol (£5) for my outbound ticket. The bus was modern and comfortable, with TVs scattered about playing Pitch Perfect followed by Thor. Not only that, but you have to check your baggage in at a separate desk like at the airport, so there’s no worry about getting your bag nicked.
We arrived in Ica at around 11.30 and, having retrieved my luggage, left the station in search of a taxi. We were barely out of the terminal building when we were approached by a guy offering us one. I’d realised on the bus that I had no idea of the actual address of the hostel we were staying at, which was in the neighbouring town, Huacachina, so had texted my mum, who always seems to be getting me out of these kinds of scrapes, even from the other side of the world. She’d not only sent me the full address, but a few handy travel tips. Consequently, when the taxi driver asked me which Casa de Arena I meant, uno or dos, I could tell him with absolute authority that I knew full well there was only one. I was also able to successfully barter down the next taxi driver, who was asking for S/.10 when the journey was only worth five.
Slightly perturbed by the fact we had nearly been involved in a scam within ten minutes of arriving at our destination, when we got to the hostel we were more than a little suspicious of the guy on the front desk. When I told him I had been quoted S/40 (£10) for the room, he said we could have it for S/.25 (£6) which just seemed too good to be true. He showed us up to our room, which was a private triple with its own bathroom, and we couldn’t believe our luck; there had to be a catch.
Not wanting to waste valuable sun-bathing time worrying about money, we were back down at the pool in a flash. We spent the rest of the afternoon soaking up some much-needed sun before it was time to go for the main event of the weekend: sand boarding and sand buggies in the desert.
I should probably take this opportunity to explain a little about Ica and Huacachina. Ica is the capital of the Ica Region and is situated along the Ica River, along the desert coast of southern Peru. It’s also home to the famous Pisco liqueur that the Peruvians love so much. Huacachina is a small town built around a small natural desert oasis, which incidentally appears on the back of the S/.50 note. It’s a tiny little tourist town in the middle of the desert: beautiful and surreal.
At 4.30 we were picked up by some giant sand buggies with room to seat some ten people, and headed off in a big fleet into the desert. At first, it was quite a relaxing ride, but as soon as the driver realised we were getting complacent, it turned into some sort of sand buggy roller-coaster - the only difference from an actual roller-coaster being that, if we turned over in that thing, we probably would actually die. To make matters worse, my seatbelt had clearly been designed for someone who eats about ten more Big Macs a day than I do, so I was literally being flung two feet in the air every time we careered down a near-vertical drop.
The sand boarding itself, in comparison, was relatively tame, although it did seem equally terrifying in the beginning. We were simply abandoned in the desert, left with the immensely unhelpful advise of “Lie down on the board and hold onto the straps. Do not stand up, you will break your bones. Keep your legs together.” He said this whilst doing a physical demonstration with his legs wide open.
Needless to say, when we all lined up at the top of a very high, very steep dune, I was more than a little apprehensive. After a couple of others had managed to descend to the bottom without incurring any fatal injuries, I decided to test it out - and it was incredible. After that, we quickly got into it, and it wasn’t long before our driver came to pick us up and take us to some more slopes.
At each new location we had the opportunity to see yet another spectacular view and take some incredible photos; this was a welcome relief after the battering I was taking during the physical activities. By the end of it, I’d scraped away the skin on nearly all my fingers, ripped both knees on the seat in front of me in the buggy, and banged my head extremely hard on the metal bar behind. Sitting at the back had not been the best choice.
That evening, we went out to a barbecue that was being run by one of the hostels down the road, which turned out to be a complete rip-off, by Peruvian standards at least. After eating as much as we could from the buffet to get our money’s worth and trying our best to get through the disgusting free drinks, we decided to cut our losses and look for somewhere else. It just so happened that a few doors from our hostel was a promising-looking establishment simply named ‘Pub’, with a Happy Hour selling two cocktails for S/.15 (less than £4). it seemed the perfect opportunity to try out the exciting variant on the Pisco Sour, the Maracuya Sour (made with passionfruit).
The next morning we were up at the ungodly hour of 5.45 ready to go on our trip to the Islas Ballestas. Typically, the event was apparently running on Peruvian time, which meant that we were the only ones ready at the arranged time of 6.30. In our efforts to catch a sneaky bit of breakfast, not only did I have to down a pint of orange juice but we missed the transfer - luckily they came around again, but we ended up with the last seats and a less than impressed driver. Joe and I were put in the front seats next to him, and even our cheerful and well-meant attempts at banter weren’t going to cheer him up.
Arriving at the town of Paracas (near the Pisco Province) and emerging into cold coastal air was a bit of a shock, especially at 8 o’clock in the morning, but we were soon on the boat on the way to the islands, which we hoped would make it all worthwhile. Our boat, which was a large speedboat under the name of Pingüino III, was totally open to the elements, but the advantage of this was that we got a completely unobstructed view of the surroundings.
As we were speeding towards the island, the guide informed us that we were about to see over half a million birds, which seemed slightly optimistic. However, as we got closer, I saw that we were approaching one of the most enormous flocks of birds I’d ever seen, diving down to the water like rockets to catch their prey. I realised that maybe we shouldn’t have scoffed at the guide after all. When I spotted several seals swimming close to the boat, I felt like the tour couldn’t get any better.
Then, when passing the Paracas Peninsula, we were able to see El Candelabro (‘The Candlestick’), a large-scale geoglyph, in the hillside. A geoglyph is a large design on the landscape formed by rocks or other durable elements, and Peru is home to the most remarkable geoglyphs in the world, the Nazca Lines. Despite ongoing speculation, their origin and significance remain a mystery to experts. El Candelabro gets its name from its form, which bares a striking resemblance to a candlestick. It’s almost impossible to describe, but amazing to see.
When we reached the islands themselves, the first thing we were confronted with was the sight of thousands more birds nesting on the cliff face. Throughout the trip, we saw thousands more; most were guano birds like pelicans, cormorants, Inca terns, gulls, patillos and some birds that are called, I kid you not, Peruvian boobies. The highlight was seeing several groups of tiny Peruvian penguins, as well as the many pods of seals and sea lions fishing, playing and sleeping on the rocks.
I could have stayed watching the wildlife for hours, had it not been for the cold and the insistence of all the boat drivers to get as close as possible to the unsuspecting sleeping seals, which sparked the niggling doubt that maybe this ‘nature reserve’ wasn’t quite as kind to the wildlife as they might have us believe. Fortunately, the animals didn’t appear to bothered by it all, and I didn’t want to let it spoil the otherwise amazing experience.
When we got back the the shore, we were told we had twenty minutes to look around before heading back to Huacachina (which, of course, meant forty minutes in Peruvian time). We passed the time looking at the seaside stalls in search of a woolly llama jumper like Joe’s, which we have strangely become slightly obsessed with finding. When we arrived at the meeting point and no one was there, we bought cake from one of the street sellers (who, by the way, patrol the streets carrying a whole cake on a tray), as well as a slightly peculiar banana milkshake clearly made from Peruvian condensed milk.
Eventually we decided to head back to the minibus, thinking that maybe we had missed something and we had to meet there instead. When we got there it was almost full; we’d obviously missed the memo because we’d definitely been at the designated meeting point five minutes early. Anyway, it appeared that there was no room for Amy or me on the bus, so we were instructed to stand back and wait. When Joe looked around, we’d completely disappeared from sight as we’d been escorted to another bus, and we could see him through the window, looking around, completely bemused.
Getting back to the heat of Huacachina was absolute bliss, even though it wasn’t as warm as the day before. We sat by the pool until lunchtime, when we walked around the corner into town to eat in a restaurant next to the oasis. After eating lunch, having a quick explore of the souvenir shops and making a hasty escape from some dodgy-looking guys, Amy and I walked around the oasis, which was stunning. Then we had fresh passionfruit juice overlooking the water and chatted to the cafe owner.
By this time, it was late afternoon and I decided I’d better go to the Internet cafe to contact my mum, who’d been texting me all weekend with increasingly frantic messages as my replies weren’t getting through. At least I’m better than Joe, whose only update to his mum since his arrival in Peru has been an email containing a copy of this blog. Then, after another relaxing hour or so by the pool, I watched the sun set beneath the dunes and sat out on the terrace until the chill of the evening set in.
We were ready to go out before it even got to 7 o’clock, so we decided to go for a drink by the oasis before dinner. It was like pre-drinks with a Peruvian twist, drinking vodka and Inca Cola amongst the dunes of Huacachina. It was all very nice and civilised, if you discount the guy who asked to take a photo of us with his drunken granddad, and the dodgy guy who came cycling up to us for a chat. Joe informed us afterwards that he was trying to peddle cocaine; if Joe hadn’t told us, Amy and I would have been none the wiser. I still wonder why he came up to us, of all people; we don’t exactly look like your usual suspects.
For dinner, we found a bustling Peruvian restaurant on the other side of the oasis, where I, for some unknown reason, opted for a salad. This is really an epic error when you consider that a) I was in the middle of the Peruvian desert, where tap water actually comes out brown until you let it run for a bit, and b) I’d been drinking vodka and Inca Cola, two drinks that, even consumed alone, aren’t advisable to put into your body, so combined with a near-empty stomach, could prove disastrous.
Needless to say, the rest of the night passed in pretty much a blur. We had a hilarious conversation with our tiny waiter, who had his sights on both Amy and me until I pretended (almost too convincingly, I think) that I was a lesbian and pointed to my Gay Pride band. I was actually quite concerned at how ready he was to believe I was a lesbian. I had decided it was a necessary measure of protection after he attacked me with a hug, then saying he’d have to stop, or he’d “have an orgasm”.
When we got back to the hostel and sat outside by the bar, we made some slightly more normal Peruvian friends. Our hostel happened to have its own club, which appeared to be the only form of entertainment in the little desert town. So, there was nothing for it but to head up there with our new Peruvian friends - and then buy whole bottles of tequila and pisco, of course. The walk home was the shortest I’ve ever had, literally down one set of steps and up another.
The next day, I woke up from an amazingly deep sleep at just after 10, dreading the onset of an epic hangover worsened by a possibly anemia-based, possibly intolerance-based, hangover. When I got up to discover that I wasn’t showing any of the usual symptoms, I couldn’t believe it (not that I was feeling absolutely my brightest, healthiest self). Thinking that the cool water would be the ultimate cure, Joe and I dived into the pool before tucking into breakfast with Amy.
A few hours later, after a spot of sunbathing, I realised that one of my bracelets was missing and went to the office to enquire about it. I was mid-question when I felt myself blacking out and had to lie down. Before I knew it, I was being proffered a bottle of water by another guest and an unidentified plant to sniff by the hostel owner.
An hour later, Amy returned from town and we decided to take a taxi back to Ica, in the hope that finding something substantial to eat would make us feel better. When we got there, however, all we could find were chicken restaurants and we started to lose hope. Catching sight of a tiny shack-like restaurant selling Chinese food was like a heavenly sign, as I really could have eaten anything by that point, and I knew Chinese places were quite good at vegetarian food. In hindsight, it really was a dingy little shack, but we got a two-course meal of soup and sweet and sour rice for S/.8 (£2) each, which actually tasted pretty good (or maybe I was just craving carbohydrates by this point).
The bus back was pretty horrific, as by this stage I just wanted my bed, but we made it back to Lima in one piece at any rate. From there, I took a taxi back to the apartment. Pily and Omar were out and I was stuck in typical Lima traffic, so I received a worried phone call to make sure I was on my way. Pily had phoned a couple of times during the weekend too, just to check I was ok.
When I got back to the flat, I sat and ate with Nicole, who was bursting to tell me about El día del niño. She showed me her present and couldn’t contain her excitement when she told me about all she’d done that day. Apparently, the custom is to go out for a family lunch and then to go to the shops so the children can choose their present. Nicole had been given little packets of biscuits and mini chocolates too, two of which she gave to me as they had Despicable Me on the cover. I think she thinks I really love this film now, as she gave me a Despicable Me sticker, too.
When Omar and Pily came home, we met downstairs to chat about our weekends over picarones, the Peruvian answer to donuts. They originated in the colonial period, to replace the Spanish buñelos, which were too expensive to make. A new dessert was therefore formed out of squash and sweet potatoes, pressed into a ring shape and covered in chancaca, a sweet sauce made of raw unrefined sugar crystallized with honey. So, we all sat around the table and shared the picarones whilst exchanging our stories. It had been such an incredible weekend, and now it was strange and comforting to be back in the care of my Peruvian family.
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