Quiet Desert

I left Miraflores days ago. I had a flight leaving on the 18th of July en route to Cusco. I had yet to receive my bag, so when I arrived at the airport at a quarter to five in the morning, I went up to the airport office looking for it. Unfortunately, the airport office was closed. I was out of luck. Somewhere in the fray of me roaming around the airport, the travel agency I booked my ticket with spotted their logo on my ticket, and tried to help. It was a waste of time, and I ended up missing my flight. I sat on the floor in the airport. It was about five thirty in the morning, and I thought about what I should do. There was no way I was going to spend one more day in Lima. I walked up to the desk at the Budget rental car agency. My journey began.

I calculated the mileage while I looked at the map of southern Peru. My friend from Holland that I met on my first day in Peru turned me on to the idea. He was a day ahead of me on the bus. Renting a car was expensive, but it gave me freedom. Plus, I was standing at the desk, and I did not want to go looking for the bus station. I weighed my options, rent the car and drive south, wait one more day for another flight to Cusco, or take the bus. I rented a small four wheel drive Suzuki. I bought a few maps in the airport gift store, took a glance, picked my first city, and hit the road.

Driving in Peru is insane. There are no rules. Well, I suppose there is one rule. Drive aggressively, never stop and wait for other cars, and try not to die. There are also no road signs, and if there are road signs they are usually covered in graffiti. My Spanish was getting better at this point, and I was confident I could get by, ask for a few directions and find my way around if I became lost. It seemed simple enough. There was only one road that I would take most of the trip. The Pan-American highway.

I entered the streets of Lima. I punched the gas and realized immediately that I was going to be lucky to navigate my way out of the city without making a mistake. Five minutes later I was in a bad neighborhood, with people, dogs, motorcycles, small children, large buses, bicycles, and street vendors all fighting for a piece of the road. Callao is a port in Lima. The buildings are run down, but as I soon came to realize, the buildings in Peru in most cities are only half constructed. Someone told me that if the building is still under construction, then one does not have to pay taxes on the building. I was driving fast through Callao, staring at the road, and trying to take a quick glance at my map. I was lost and frustrated. I desperately wanted to get out of the slums of Lima and on my way to anywhere more interesting and a bit safer. Luckily, I caught a street name on my map and at the same instant I saw a street sign for the road I was about to cross. I hung a right, cut across lanes of traffic, horns blaring, and ended up heading in the right direction. Twenty minutes later I was on the Pan-American and headed south. I was relieved.

Large sand dunes began to rise out of the desert, and on my right, the Pacific Ocean came into view. Most of my journey followed the coast south. Several times, the road was so close to the ocean, most of it was covered entirely in sand. The distances between cities were usually quite large, several hours on a stretch, with only small towns in between. I came to dread approaching a new city, because I never knew what to expect, or how difficult it was going to be to navigate my way to the other side. The first city on the map was Pisco. I knew nothing about, only that it was at the mouth of a national park that was supposed to be quite beautiful.

I drove through the streets of Pisco in utter disbelief. The city was in absolute ruins. Large piles of rock and debris lined the streets on both sides. The road was littered with potholes, and there were carcasses of dead animals lying in the streets. It turns out most of Pisco was destroyed about one year ago by a large earthquake that impacted much of southern Peru. Of course, there were no road signs, and the streets began to narrow and weave in all directions. I headed in the general direction of Paracas, using my map as a general indication for direction. I made it through and arrived in Paracas. I parked the car, and a man showed me the way to a restaurant where I had a large plate of cebiche. I wandered around for a bit, and encountered a man that made necklaces out of polished stones. I walked the beach through piles of seaweed that the local people collect and use to make shampoo. There were pelicans over head, and children playing in the sand.

I continued my journey to Ica, where I thought I made stay the night and go sand boarding. The town did not seem to safe, and it was still early, so after I got some gas, I decided to head south a bit further to Nazca. On the way, I went looking for el Lago de Huacachina. I ended up wandering down a road that disappeared into the sand dunes. I thought it was probably not a good idea to continue further, but I could not resist and drove into the dunes. Five minutes later, a small city nestled between mountains of sand appeared before my eyes. It was surreal. The air was still, and the town was quiet. Small trash fires burned in the streets, and I passed by a concrete soccer field where local children played an afternoon game. I explored for a bit, and decided I better move along. When I turned around there was a large truck stuck in the road. While I sat and waited for the traffic jam in the sand to clear up, a small child approached my car. Her clothing was an amalgamation of vibrant color, and her skin as dark as the sand. She smiled and her teeth glistened in the evening sun. Moments passed, and the two of us just stared, likely wondering what the other was thinking. Finally, I asked her name. Rosalita. We spoke a few words, and suddenly the car was free. I waved goodbye, her smile forever melted into my memory. I thought about how far from home I had traveled. The desert wind blew and I reveled in the peace of this quiet town, tucked so far away from anywhere.

The sky grew dark, and the terrain flat. Hours passed as I headed south toward Nazca. I watched the moon slowly rise above the mountains to the east. The black night sky was speckled with tiny white stars. The air was crisp, and for the first time I felt a slight chill in the air. Nazca soon appeared, and once again an explosion of people, noise, and chaos. I made my way and found a place to stop near a hostel. They were full, so I walked up the street and found a hotel. Luis was Peruvian, lived much of his life in Germany and spoke perfect English. Perhaps, the most educated inn keeper I have ever met in my life, his hospitality was something I will not soon forget. He gave me a simple room, and filled me in on all the details of Nazca. At the same moment I arrived, another guest was leaving. Jeremy was from Washington D.C. We sat and talked about Peru, traveling, and went out to get a bite to eat. He was nearing the end of several weeks on the road, hosting a group of teachers from the states. He started a non profit to make it easier for teachers to travel in the summer, with the idea in mind that if teachers experience different cultures and places, the classroom experience will be greatly enhanced for their students when they return. It is funny where life leads you when you move simply and without necessity.

The next day I hired a guide who took me into the desert to see the mummies of pre-Nazca culture. It was quite strange to stand and stare at something three thousand years old. The stark contrast between the present and past was painted throughout the desert. We wandered into some of the largest architectural ruins in the world, and I chartered a plane to see las lineas, the Nazca lines from the air. On the cab ride back from the airport, I met a guy from Whales. His name was Rhys. Rhys had been traveling in South America for several months and was nearing the end of his journey. We became fast friends and spent the entire night wandering around the town of Nazca, drinking Pisco Sours and Cusquena, Peruvian beer. We ended up at a discotheque before calling it a night. At one point during the evening we wandered down a small side street where there were hundreds of people playing bingo. It was a colorful scene, families, friends, and children loitering about, the smell of fresh popped popcorn in the air, with the echo of the game in the background. We stood directly in the midst of it all, giving the moment ample time to sink in. Nazca is a beautiful city, you can feel the life of the people in the air, and see it in the grit of the streets.

The next morning, I woke up and wandered down the road. I small a group of high school age kids playing soccer on a side street. I decided to wander down the road and join in. We juggled the ball for twenty minutes or so, and suddenly they were leading me to a game. The field was concrete, amidst piles of rock and rubble, an old basketball court with small metal soccer goals. There were four or five teams rotating on and off the field. I told them I was a goalie and they asked me to play. We waited for the game to finish, and the next thing I knew, I was making full out diving saves on concrete. The crowd seemed a bit suspicious of me at first, after all, I am a tall gringo in their eyes, nothing more than a tourist, but I won their favor when I tipped the ball around the bar, and they stood and cheered. We won the game. My legs were covered in blood. We walked through the dirt streets and no one on my team spoke a word. They just peeled off into the streets, and back into their lives.

That afternoon, I met up with a family I met the night before from Switzerland. Their son was a famous painter in Europe. He was only ten years old. They call him the little Picasso. His mother, Eneida, showed me his artwork. It was truly unbelievable. I realized I was staring at more than just paintings, but something incredibly unique, and in Gian Franco´s words, ´When I paint, I feel like a dolphin in the sea´. We traveled the countryside together, looking at ancient aqueducts, several farms, life giving trees, and cock fighting roosters.

That afternoon I left Nazca and headed south. I drove through the night, nearly on the beach at many times, and through treacherous winding hills. Around nine o´clock I made it to a town called Camana. I decided to call it a night. I was exhausted. I took a quick walk through town, but it was Sunday night and quiet. I got a good night sleep and continued on in the morning. I found the hotel when I stopped at a gas station on the way in to town. I stopped and asked for directions and bought some orange flavored crackers. The shop keeper wanted to practice English, so we sat at a table while he showed me pictures of his family and told me about his life in Camana. He was very proud of his family.

In the morning, I headed out for my first view of the Pampas, and into Arequipa. Along the way I saw Vicunas, Llamas, and Alpacas. I arrived in Arequipa. Again, no road signs, and I realized I was lost. I stopped outside a store and studied my map for a bit. The majority of my trip was spent in silence up until this moment, because there are no radio stations in the middle of the desert. The store I happened to stop in front of sold music. I asked for directions, and several townspeople walked up to help show me the way, drawing me maps, while I tried to keep up with their Spanish. I bought several cd´s for a grand total of about five dollars. A young boy sold me a cable to connect my camera to a computer, and I walked across the street to buy blank discs to transfer the pictures from my camera. I spoke with the shopkeepers for a bit, when a girl walked in to buy something. She wanted to practice English and we started talking. It turned out we were the exact same age. She left and walked around the corner, and I thought, it would be nice to talk with her some more, and maybe get some lunch. I followed her around the corner and yelled out her name, Ysenia. She had already eaten lunch, but invited me inside to eat, and introduced me to her sister and father. Her sister was visiting from New York City where she was a nurse. We talked while I ate, and before I knew it, they had me singing karaoke in their family room. We had such a nice time they invited me to spend the night at their house. That evening, they took me into Arequipa to show me the city, and we ate a traditional Peruvian dinner at their home. Although I just met them, I felt strangely at ease, and truly enjoyed my time.

The next morning I drove to Lake Titicaca. The drive was stressful, and I was tired. I finally arrived in the town of Puno late in the afternoon. I got a room at a nice hotel, and took a tour to see the Uros, people that live on floating islands in the middle of the lake made of reeds. I ate a nice dinner, caught some sleep, and hit the road for Cusco in the morning. I arrived in Cusco around three and said goodbye to the rental car. I was happy to be finished with the solo leg of my journey. I will never forget my time alone, the lessons I learned along the way, and the smiles of the people who were so willing to share their hearts and souls.