Sand Trapped Brain Fry

I think I’ve got a perma-case of Jello brain. Seriously. Actually, I feel the haze slowly lifting, but it’s been awhile. Almost a week, actually. With any luck, normalcy will soon be knocking at my door. I think a huge contributing factor is that I’ve been unexpectedly travelling across this vast expanse of desert (see photo) that apparently encompasses a huge chunk of South America. Hey. And it’s at the same latitude as the Sahara. Go figure. It’s definitely messing with my mind. Every time I wake up, I feel like I’m still on the set of some  bizarre  movie. It’s like the way the scenery used to repeat itself in old films.

When we got back from the Colca Canyon/Condor tour, I wanted nothing more than to bury my head in a pillow and let my mind go blank for eternity. Unfortunately for me, I had enlisted the ticket-booking services of my hotel pre-departure. My $55 soles worth of bus ticket was waiting for me at the front desk, leaving me no choice but to dive headlong into the next leg of my journey. It’s probably better. I’ll get the same brain rest on the bus sleeping: it’s just getting to the bus that’s the challenge. If I was with someone else, it might be more relaxing to stay put. Alone, however, I can’t do anything to make my brain feel any better, and I’d make a terrible new friend, so why not keep moving?

A dinner of Snicker’s bar (oh, for shame!) and chunk of bread I bought off a vendor on the corner accompanied me to the bus station. The taxi driver wouldn’t have said a single word to me if I hadn’t asked him about seat belt laws while he was strapping in.

The ride to Nazca was relatively uneventful. My backpack wouldn’t fit under the seat like it usually does, so I had to sit with my knees against my chin most of the way. The woman I sat next to and her travelling companion were really funny. The younger one complained as a man sat down next to her, “Jeez. I always have to sit next to a guy!” Definitely within earshot of the man settling into the window seat. Polite comes in very different shades down here.

I’m finding out, as I’m thumbing through my guide book, that this trip couldn’t have been timed any better. Not that it really was timed. I’m hitting all the seasons just right everywhere I go. In the south, I missed the summer crowds but made it before the winter rains and snows. In the north, I missed the rainy season and am just beating the winter crowds. Awesome!

Also awesome was the dinner on the bus. Usually I just pick through the “airplane-food-like” offerings and nibble whatever looks most nutritious/tolerable. But the food was amazing this time! Some kind of pineapple, chicken, sweet and sour rice business. Not to mention, I slept fantastically. Almost too well. They had to physically shake me away when we got to Nazca. Good thing they were looking out for me, or I would have woken up in Lima!

It was at this point (my arrival in Nazca) that things took a turn for the… well, less preferable. They said ten hours minimum for the ride, which meant we should arrive in Nazca at 5 am. My plan was just to hunker down in the bus station and wait for the sun to come up. But as I fumbled for my glasses and my alarm clock (my only time-piece), I swear I read 3:25 on the display. No way. Couldn’t be. Yup. It is. I had been so exicted about arriving early morning and not having to get a hostel. As such, I firmly resolved that I would still wait it out, even though it meant two extra hours at the station. “The station” it turned out, was actually just a little office with a bunch of plastic lawn chairs, a desk, and television.

The young woman working the nightshift, Maribel, was super nice and really funny. I was asking her about bus schedules for Cuzco, since I would have to return to Nazca to go east. She walked me around to all the different agencies and helped me get info. In our travels about the area, it struck me how forward people are about appearances here and in Mexico. At one station, the counter wasn`t being attended, but Maribel knew who was supposed to be there. “Gordito!” she yells. “Venga!” Translation? “Hey little fattie! Get over here!” I explained to her how funny I thought that was, because it would be so offensive in the states. Do people here have a healthier body image?

Speaking of healthy, by the time I arrived in Nazca, I had pretty much run myself out of food. I dozed a little in the station between the poundings on the window by the folks trying to lure me to a hostel or sell me tours of the Nazca lines. The Nazca lines were what I had come to see, but I wasn`t about to take a tour. The “lines” are actually several giant figures of various things (monkey, lizard, tree, hands) made from removing lava rock from the surface of the desert and exposing the lighter colored sand underneath. No one is entirely sure how they got there, but due to their immense proportion (some several kilometers in length and width!), they`re a huge draw card for the area. The lines are best seen from the air, a plane ride that costs about $1 a minute and lasts for half an hour. There is also a viewing platform out in the middle of the desert that allows you to see three figures. It costs $0.30. That`s my kind of tour! I thought if I learned about the lines first, just seeing a few examples would satisfy me and keep my pocketbook in check.

As soon as the sun came up, I was itching to feed myself and build up my knowledge base about the lines. Being this close to the equator, though, means that the sun comes up awfully early, even in the winter. From 6 – 7:30, I wiggled in my seat anxious for things to open so I could get moving. Maribel offered to watch my backpack while I ran around town, so I was able to set off without the usual weight on my shoulders. I`ve become accustomed to creating my own tour by visiting agencies as a potential customer, where-upon they give you all the maps and info you need to be able to do it yourself. Score! Worked again. I found a shop a few blocks away that had internet to serve all my research needs, and then asked a street sweeper where I should eat breakfast. I`ve found that if you ask someone from the working class for food suggestions, they`ll generally direct you somewhere with fantastic food for bottom dollar prices. If you ask a shop-owner or a police officer, they`ll usually send you to a place they think best represents their community, which means top dollar items. As I ate my scrambled eggs with toast, jelly, butter, and coffee, I savored the rare moment of being the only gringo in sight. The coffee here is served really strangely. It sits in a container on the table right alongside the salt and pepper. I actually mistook it for  balsamic  vinegar, complete with cork. When the waitress brought me a steaming hot cup of water, she felt compelled to push the  balsamic  vinegar  towards me in response to my confused look. Turns out the liquid in permanent residence on the table is like espresso to the power of ten. You just pour in a tablespoon or so and you`ve got a fantastic cup of coffee.

Belly full, I went back to the station to pick up my pack and catch a local bus out into the desert. I have to say that I really LOVE the way transportation is done here. I lament the fact that we don`t really have anything similar in the U.S. If you want to go anywhere here, all you have to do is find out the location of the transportation hub. Then, you just stand around waiting for drivers and fare collectors to yell out the name of your destination. You can go by car, van, truck, or bus, depending on how much you want to pay. When you hear your destination, you can haggle over the price a bit and give your business to the lowest bidder. Everyone is vying for passengers, and they have some HILARIOUS tactics to pull folks out of the woodwork. I heard my  destination  called and saw the bus closet to the vendor start to pull away. I nodded my head as I hurried toward him, and settled into my seat with a sigh of relief and my pockets $0.60 lighter. Thank god I made it! We started to pull forward. Then stopped. Then the driver revved the engine and started yelling out the  destination  again. Funny! They never intended to leave. Empty seats mean lost money. They just want to scare up as many people as quickly as possible. So, I sat sweating in the heat for ten more minutes, amused as grandmothers, teenagers, and families trickled onto the bus. Finally, one of the engine revs was real and we jetted forward, packed like sardines and rattling down the PanAmerican Highway.

The sun burned through the window onto my arms and face as we passed mile after mile of vast nothingness. No sign of life. They say the Nazca lines are hundreds of years old, and have survived mainly due to the fact that not even the wind inhabits this bleak environment. Suddenly the ticket collector approached me with, “Mirador?” (the viewing stand). Befuddled, I nodded, wondering why he would think anything had changed in the past twenty minutes. Understanding slowly washed over as he motioned toward the front of the bus. They don`t like to waste time down here, and I recollected that buses rarely come to a complete stop, both getting off and on. He wanted me to get ready to jump! One problem. Here we are where I can see for miles, and where exactly is this watchtower? Why, hidden behind the driver`s shoulder, of course. I said a sheepish thank you, having subtly accused them of trying to dump me in the middle of nowhere, and crossed the deserted highway to the very out-of-place pile of scrap metal.

Three locals sat at the base of the tower behind tables full of local handicrafts, and one woman was hunkered down in a weird cement building (no fourth wall) directly beneath the tower. I paid my $0.30 to climb up, and was greeted with one of the most peculiar sights. Out of all the figures (26 in all), three can be seen from the tower, and only two in their entirety. While quite compelling, I was immediately content with my decision not to take a $30, 30 minute flight. I was shocked to see that the PanAmerican Highway had been built right through the middle of one of the figures! And just as the figures have been preserved over several hundred years, so had the lines left from the equipment used to construct the road. Not to mention other lines that weren`t part of the figures randomly etched across the desert-scape.

After two or three minutes of lingering alone at the top, I was joined by a young woman, probably 15 or 16. We exchanged a few words and I realized she was selling postcards and other tower memorabilia. I declined the offer, but we got to talking. She explained that she had made the enterprising decision to turn herself into a guide for the tower. She had several bits of information in Spanish, and asked me to help her translate them into English. I was delighted! Not only did I get to learn quite a bit of information about the lines and the tower that otherwise would have escaped my attention entirely, but I made a new friend! I let her know that I needed to hitch a bus to Pisco, and she turned out to be entirely helpful in this endeavor. Silly me, I assumed I could just flag down whatever came my way. She, however, could tell the difference between local buses, tour buses, taxis, and long distance buses.

While we were hanging out at the top, a car-load of mostly gringos dressed in slacks, button downs, and ties pulled up. We watched them approach the foot of the tower, looking much like little ants from our perspective, and I was shocked to hear Janet (the guide) comment that they were probably Mormons. Right she was, I found out, as they arrived at the platform, “Elder Jones, Smith, Jenson, etc.” name tags intact. I introduced myself and had them take a photo of us. I have to admit I have certain stereotypes about Mormons even though I am acquainted and/or friends with several individuals who claim ownership to the faith and don`t fit the mold. So, because I automatically assumed that they would all be radically religious and probably too chaste to talk to a woman, I was a bit bewildered and overwhelmed by their enthusiastic interest in me. I felt like I was the star quarterback being interviewed by the press as they swarmed around me firing question after question in my direction. All of them were anxious to hear about what I had done, where I was going, what I did for school/work back in the states, etc., and they were shocked to hear that I was travelling alone. (This only seems to surprise Americans and some South America men. Why?) When it was time for them to head back down the highway, I felt like the president as they all lined up for a farewell. The fact that none of them felt compelled to mention anything about my handshake left me smiling. Almost unfailingly, men will comment on my firm grip, not bothering to hide their surprise. It never ceases to annoy me. Why am I always guilty of being fragile until proven innocent!? ARGH!

Five minutes post-departure, I finally managed to flag down an Ormeño bus, after two failed attempts (a tour bus, and a long distance). I ascended into the sweltering heat that takes up permanent residence on a desert bus without air-conditioning and settled in for the four hour ride. Two hours down the road, my bladder was cursing the lack of toilet facilities. As the bus slowed to stop at the outer limit of a construction zone, I realized I hadn`t crossed the threshold of a bathroom door in well over 5 hours. Great. Just great. Is it worse to have to pee and be sweating bullets, or to be freezing? I concluded hot was better. When you`re cold, doesn`t your body reflexively want to get rid of the useless liquids (read: urine) that it has to waste energy keeping warm but can`t use? I was still lost in thought about the physics of evolutionary biology when the bus lurched into motion.

We arrived in Ica, two hours from my ultimate destination (Pisco) and seemed to be making an official stop. However, with buses down here, you just never know. For this reason, I almost never get off. And if I do, I don`t go far, because I can pretty much guarantee you that driver will shift into first faster than a newly licensed teenager as soon as the ignition turns over. No matter. By this time, I had to go so bad my back teeth were floating. I tried to make the driver promise me five minutes before I attempted to run cross-legged to the bathroom. Frantic with thoughts of all my belongings heading for Pisco without me, I barely finished pulling up my pants before I was back out the door. Plenty of locals stared at the strange gringa zipping and buttoning her trousers as she ran back through the station. Just as I suspected, the bus was ready to pull away without me, shifting into gear as I sprinted across the parking lot. I flashed the driver a smile as I leaped onto the stairs and landed grace-lessly in my seat for the final two hours to Pisco.

My guide book had warned that Pisco was located too far from the PanAmerican highway for the busses to stop in town. Indeed, most just dump you at the turn off. Between the PanAmerican and Pisco, you have to fend for yourself, both coming and going. Therefore, I was hardly surprised when we stopped alongside a few shacks and the bus steward announced, “Pisco, Pisco!” I gathered my backpack and food sack and headed toward many of the VW-type vans I have come to know as public transportation. For ten cents, they would cart me into the city. I piled in with a bunch of locals (I just LOVE the few and far between gringo-free zones!) and tried to learn the layout of the city from the map in my book. Once I got my bearings in the main plaza, I searched out a recommended hostel and came face to face with a huge man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. There was no end to his cheeriness as he showed me the rooms and bathrooms available. He reminded me of Moon Pie, this guy I worked with on the blasting crew at the coal mine.

As for the rest of Pisco`s citizens, they weren`t near as smiley as the hostel receptionist. In fact, people almost seem to leer here. I sought out a laundromat and tour information before I headed back to a long-awaited shower (had it really been five days!?). The tour I was looking to join was a boat adventure to the Isla Ballestas, often referred to as the Galapagos of the poor, since the wildlife isn`t quite as unique or abundant on the island. I found a place that wasn`t trying to charge an arm and a leg and booked a seat on the 7:15 a.m. departure.

Back at the hostel, I was once again faced with a shower sans curtain. I think it says a lot about the financial status of the area when shower curtains are a luxury. The shower was electric, a moronic irony if you really think about it. I`m constantly afraid of getting electrocuted as I turn them on and off, and they are never comfortable. They may tell you “agua caliente (hot water)” but they always turn out to be agua warm, IF you`re lucky. I`ve recently discovered that my electrocution musings aren`t silly in the least. I`ve heard tales of electric showers catching fire and also shocking a guy mid-wash. Yikes!

After I was clean, I searched out the cheapest dinner possible, which turned out to be roasted corn kernel (not popped!), raisins, and graham crackers. It really makes me appreciate the times in my life when food was just automatic.

Right next door to the hostel, there was an internet shop, but no computers available. I pulled out my journal as I waited my turn. I was to find out later that evening that this place seemed to be the best deal in town. Usually the queue (the British word for “line”) was at least three long. I spent a healthy portion of the evening enjoying my cheap internet and catching up with journal entries. Tomorrow I will get to see my first wild penguin! I hope they`re chubby!