Nazca and Arequipa

---

We were 15 minutes into the flight when sweat started pouring down my face. A twisting arc, completed at a 75 degree angle sent my stomach hurtling towards my feet for the 15th time so far. The sweats continued. I gave in; taking my eyes away from the camera screen I'd been so desperately peering through since we took off I fumbled around for a sick bag. The copilot handed me a ball of cotton wool, doused in alcohol and encouraged me to sniff. The smell was strong but soothing and after five minutes my stomach had settled. Our flight over the Nazca lines continued to weave and bank and twist its way over the desert for the next 10 minutes before we landed on a runway set amongst the rocks and sand.

We'd begun the day by arriving in Nazca and traipsing through the streets to our hostel. We had come with a plan; see the lines, sandboard and then get out of dodge. All in the course of the next 36 hours. Arriving in the hostel we booked our flight for that afternoon and booked our sandboarding for the following afternoon. Leaving the hostel we booked our bus to Arequipa for the next evening. Whilst this exceptionally efficient work was going on we were informed of a lecture, that took place nightly, covering the creation of the Nazca lines with some stargazing thrown in for good measure. This was duly added to the list for the next 24 hours.

Our flight was scheduled for three o'clock, so at two we climbed into the minibus which would take us to the airport. Here we met Jez, a chap from Chester, who would be taking the flight with us. We arrived at the airport, were weighed (to ensure the plane was balanced) found out we'd each lost a stone since leaving the UK, congratulated ourselves and then sat down to await the arrival of our pilot. We waited. The wait continued.

And continued. In an attempt to keep us entertained/quiet we were shown a National Geographic documentary on the origins of the world famous lines. They were created by the Nazca culture over hundreds of years. Each line was grafted into the desert by a process of removing the top layer of rocks to expose the lighter sand underneath. The lack of rain in the area, virtually nonexistent, ensured their preservation. The true mystery of the lines was their purpose. Only visible from the air there are many theories. The documentary, dramatically and with a lot of unashamed hyperbole linked the lines to human sacrifice. This was, supposedly, to encourage rain, the increasing scarcity of which would eventually destroy the Nazca culture. Hopefully the lecture later that evening would add some balance.

The informative distraction came to an end. The small talk with Jez came to an end. The flight was well and truly late. It seemed a group of Brazilians, who were due to fly with us had not brought their documents with them.

Finally we were ushered through "security", a couple of people with metal detectors, who when my sandals set off the alarm, ushered us through anyway. We were off we thought. It was a rouse, to get us away from the desk and safely tucked behind some bamboo screens.

When prepared to take off, the three Brazilians sheepishly climbing aboard after us, we strapped in and the pilots started their checks. Wings wobbly enough, check; suspension bouncy enough, check; lights lighty enough, check. I had my camera at the ready and Bekah looked terrified enough. We were all ready. We took off. The first fifteen minutes were great, the next ten, not so much. The lines were fascinating, although it was as though you were viewing them from a rollercoaster. The sheer volume of lines was quite unexpected, but as we had learnt, they were created over many hundreds of years. We landed; relief was visible on Bekah's face, my stomach did not agree.

Our evening meal took the form of some very disappointing pizza. This was then hastily supplemented by a portion of chips from a stall at the corner of the same street. We scoffed these down; of course my stomach had settled by this point. We were on our way to that evenings lecture on the creation of the lines. The chosen location of which was a local hotel, walking through it struck both of us how appealing on tap drinking water, a buffet breakfast, clean showers and a well made bed was. We agreed, for Christmas we'd treat ourselves. Only five months to go.

We paid for our tickets and gathered around a planetarium in the hotel's grounds. We filed in under the gaze of the lecturer, a wiry academic with thin metal rimmed glasses and excellent English. Shuffling to our chairs in the darkened room we all settled back and stared at the ceiling. The lecture began. Star formations whizzed about the roof, we were told about the work of a German, Maria Reiche. She had brought the lines to the world's attention, uncovered many of the lines and worked to preserve them. Her own theories on the purpose of the lines involved astronomy and and the locating of water sources. The lecture covered this and a number of other theories on the purpose of the lines and didn't descend to the sensationalist 'human sacrifice' hyperbole that we had heard earlier. We then scurried outside for a talk on the constellations you can see in the southern hemisphere. This included peering through a telescope at the rings of Saturn; I was pretty thrilled by this. We left for our hostel, once again walking through the hotel, vowing we'd treat ourselves; again, in five months time.

Our plan was going well, just sandboarding to go. We woke the next morning and checked out. The chap at the desk asked what we were planning for the day, "just the sandboarding we booked yesterday and then we go to Arequipa". " Ah yes", the chap suddenly remembered. We headed to the town square. Aside from the lines and sand there really isn't anything else in Nazca. We sat on a tiled wall near a group of chatting retirees. They looked excitedly over and in very broken Spanish we began chatting too. It turned out the bottled water they were drinking was a bit of a home brew. Hence the reason for their talkative nature. After they found out I was English they immediately offered me some. How could I refuse? So far, whilst we'd been in South America being English meant people thought you were a big drinker, I didn't want to upset a national stereotype. Bekah looked on, thoroughly amused. They poured a capful and I sipped, slowly finishing it. The guys seemed to have expected more of a reaction, my throat certainly wanted to give one. It tasted like tequila and burned like vodka. I held it in, national pride and all that. "No, no" they exclaimed, "you have to down it in one". They beckoned me to try again, to their surprise I agreed. Down in one it went, oh the burn. " Muy bueno" I said. They smiled, looked impressed, I looked smug, pride (ego) upheld. Bekah and I made a hasty, but polite exit.

It was election time in Nazca, as we were about to find out. Banners were everywhere and a group of campaigners were swarming about the square. One large group headed towards us fronted by a white shirted man with a spade. He shook my hand, then Bekah's hand, then the hand of another retiree sat next to us. There seemed to be a lot of pensioners soaking up the sun in the town square. This one kindly explained that it was the mayor, seeking reelection. The spade then made sense as it was the symbol plastered on many of the banners around the town. The campaigners then took to their 4x4s and circled the town. It was at this point that smoke began bellowing from a local restaurant and the fire brigade arrived. Then tedious would have said 'mayor's campaign goes up in smoke', obviously I kept this pun to myself and Bekah didn't groan.

We headed back to the hostel to catch a ride to the dunes. We waited and waited, no lift arrived. Finally the receptionist dashed in, "bad news guys". Apparently the buggy due to take us out had broken down, no other was available and all the other companies had sent theirs out for the day. Bekah and i looked at each other. We'd grown to be a bit suspicious of the stories given in South America. Things out of order suggested the staff fancied an early pint; cancelled or delayed buses usually had simply not attracted enough customers and we suspected that this time a faulty buggy meant our lovely hostel had forgotten to book our places on the trip. A couple of rueful smiles later, we decided to enjoy the sun and get our moneys worth from the hostel's WiFi by watching a heap of Game of Thrones from the sun terrace. Four hour long episodes, several book/movie downloads and some Facebook updates later we strolled to the bus station to catch the next departure to Arequipa. The receptionist said goodbye rather sheepishly.

We arrived in Arequipa the next morning. Bekah had been before and had not massively enjoyed the place. However, we were determined to see what it had to offer. We began by buying falafel at a local Turkish restaurant. This was delicious. I then booked a two day trip out of Arequipa trekking in the Colca canyon. Bekah had had enough of trekking and had been to the Colca canyon before. She would spend the next couple of days seeing if her opinion of Arequipa would change. After deciding on this plan of action we visited the Museo Santuarios Andios (Museum of Andean Sanctuaries) to see the mummified remains of Juanita the ice maiden. The museum runs tours in English and we spent the 40 minutes before our tour began in a local coffee shop weirdly transfixed by the pelican crossing just outside. I should explain. Every country has its own style of crossing. In Peru and specifically Arequipa, they have a green and red man, just like home; however, unlike home, it moves. Slowly at first and then, as the time to cross runs out he begins to get faster until he's sprinting to get out of the road. We found this strangely enthralling. Luckily the little green man is never in danger as he's safely tucked up high on his sign post by the side of the crossing.

The tour itself was interesting. Juanita is the name of a naturally mummified Inca girl, found high in the surrounding mountains after an erupting volcano nearby heated up the area enough to melt the frozen ground she was buried in. Several other children were found in the surrounding area, all were human sacrifices. Juanita was part of the local nobility during the Inca period and although the purpose of her sacrifice is unknown the guided tour did a great job of describing the belief systems and rituals that were involved at the time. The story was brought home as we were shown the mummy, complete with coca leaves in her mouth at the end of the tour. We had been chewing these ourselves to help with the effects of the altitude as we climbed Machu Picchu days before.

I awoke the next morning at 3am ready for my hike in the Colca canyon. Bekah's decision to leave me to it seemed very sensible as I gathered my things bleary eyed. The first part of the trip involved touring Arequipa by minibus as we picked up other trekkers from across the city. Breakfast then consisted of bread, jam and coca leaves. The chewing of these leaves is very much a tradition in the Andes as it is said to fight the effects of altitude, it does also provide the active ingredient for cocaine. As such, never attempt to cross a border with it. Whether it was the coca leaves, the food or the chilly air, I felt refreshed.

Our next stop was the condor viewing point at the top of the canyon. Obligatory pictures taken, the group and I began our decent to the bottom of the canyon. At its deepest point, the Colca canyon is 3400m deep, twice as deep as the grand canyon. I began chatting to the the guide, who amongst other things, works on the cruise ships and had been docked in Southampton several times; small world. The group had a distinctly German feel and as we were chatting over lunch I felt I had to tell them about the one German phrase I know, "do hast einen klinen svantz" (apologies for the appalling German spelling). This was greeted by much laughter, I assume due to my accent as much as the phrase.

After trekking for the day downhill (every step down we would need to take up the next day, albeit by a different route) we arrived in a haunted village. It was all but abandoned, save but the very oldest, who had refused to leave, the rest now live far away. The Inca spirits supposedly haunting the town reside in the tombs on the face of the canyon above the village. Our spot for sleeping that evening was 1500m down the road. Excellent.

Any trepidation quickly evaporated as the hostel for that night had its own naturally heated thermal pool. We all jumped in for a swim, had some food and settled down for spookily uninterrupted sleep.

The next morning began at 4:30am. We gathered in the darkness, ready to climb back out of the canyon. This began at 5am. By way of incentive, breakfast would be provided at the top. We set off up the rock face, each rock we clambered up was 1-2 feet high and this continued for two hours. Dawn broke over the canyon as we climbed, the hostel we spent the night at shrank until it was a speck at the base of the canyon. I climbed with the group of Germans I'd met the day before and we reached the top drenched in sweat but very proud of ourselves. We'd started around 2160m up and ended around 3280m a couple of hours later. The rest of the group arrived sometime afterwards and we enjoyed a hard earned eggs on toast at a local cafe.

From there we were driven to about 5000m above sea level to take in the atmosphere, cold and views of the surrounding volcanoes. Our time in La paz, and Bolivia in general, had prepared me for the altitude but the view was spectacular. Our journey back to Arequipa was punctuated by stops for vicuna, llama and alpaca spotting. Once back I was keen to find out what Bekah had been up to whilst I was gone. Arriving at our hostel the owner decided it would be hilarious if she told me that Bekah had moved hostels and that she had no idea where she had gone. It was quite funny once, upon hearing the commotion, Bekah poked her head around the door.

Bekah it turns out, had actually quite enjoyed her second stint in Arequipa. She had discovered queso helados (not cheese ice cream , the literal translation), but a delicious cinnamon sorbet-esque ice cream; visited a llama wool factory with an impromptu personalised tour; been to the lookout over Arequipa; almost accidentally ordered a chicken crêpe; was interviewed by local teenagers for their homework and discovered an excellent Mexican joint which we promptly went to that evening. All in all, had got through quite a lot. We enjoyed our meal, headed to bed, had the Mexican leftovers for breakfast and headed for Chile. Ciao Peru.

---