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Published: November 13th 2008
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The Four-Seater
I was never so glad to be back on solid ground. After spending an afternoon dodging candy stands manned by apathetic women and enduring promotional speeches by every tour company in Nasca, I decided to wake early in the morning and walk the four kilometers to the airport and book my flight over the lines there. Stubbornly, I refused to spend more money that what needed to be spent, forgoing sleep and relaxation in the process. The early morning walk from the grubby downtown of Nasca (while there, I was asked by several locals what I thought of the town. Needles to say, I lied) was quieter--I only counted 17 taxis who honked at me--and cooler. The day was still beginning and I hunched my shoulders against the upcoming heat of the sun.
As I neared the airport, I could see small four seater planes that lined the tarmac, engines whirring in preparation for the early departure. Flights over the Nasca lines are usually taken in the early morning when the sky is still clear. As the afternoon haze envelopes the desert the lines can become difficult to view. Thus, most of the thirty minute flights take off between eight and nine in the morning.
As usual, I was leaped
Spider
Spiders were considered to be animals of fertility upon by eager ticketing touts. I listened to the spiel, then bounced from counter to counter asking prices. I discovered that all the ticketing companies were working together, and that the cheapest flight was fifty dollars, not counting a twenty sole (about seven dollar) airport tax. After a half hour of bargaining (no student discounts to be had) I admitted defeat and booked a fifty dollar flight. I was somewhat smug that I had paid about fifteen dollars less than the other tourists there. Most had paid 65 dollars.
Twenty minutes later after a wanding by airport security that was truly more of a formality (what would a terrorist crash a four seater into out in the desert anyways?) I joined two other tourists and our pilot in our small plane. For whatever reason, I was given the front seat. For a moment I felt a sense of panic as I relaized that my camera battery was almost dead. I jumbled camera, bag, and bag´s contents in my lap, balancing the lense on my knee, as I changed one battery for another.
With a whir of starting engine we moved down the tarmac, lifting into the air and
over a dry desert of rock and dirt. The Nasca lines came into view after about five minutes. Strange triangle shapes, then a space man on the side of a hill, a dog, hummingbird, spider, tree, man with hands, etc were circled once on the left side of the plane, and then once on the right. The shapes, created by a pre-Incan culture, are considered to be a mystery by scientists. The lines are large, several meters in length, and made by piling rocks from the surrounding earth. There are over a dozen lines in existence, some made on hillsides, but most on the flat pòrtions of the desert. Theories for their creation involve everything from extra terrestrial communication to fertility monuments. The lines were not discovered until the early forties when an explorer happened to fly over the lines.
About half-way through the flight I realized that I was at a high risk for pukeing. My head began to swirl, my stomache spun out of the plane and over the desert with every swoop. I put my head in my hand and stared at the horizon, praying that I would not throw up. Despite my sickness, I was
thankful that I had not eaten breakfast. The pilot, seeing my gradual demise, asked me if I wanted air. I nodded, afraid to open my mouth, and bent my face towards the breeze. I realized, quiet suddenñly, that I had had enough.
Ten minutes later, after another belly-aching swirl over a dolphin of some kind, we plummeted towards the ground and tarmac. With a quick goodbye to the pilot, I ran to the bathroom to compose myself and the pain in my head. Still feeling green, I sat outside in a chair, drank water, talked with Swiss, before trundling myself back to town. Feeling somewhat traumatized, I spent the afternoon in the cool rooms of a museum dedicated to the archeological finds of the surrounding area.
That afternoon I booked a night bus to Arequipa for 75 soles (the day before the woman had told me it would cost 70) and spent the evening watching Peruvians in the Plaza celebrate Halloween. As the children ran from store to store in chaotic groups chanting "Halloween, Halloween," I watched the festivites, marveling at the simplicity of it compared to the USA, and thinking that the Nasca lines were one mystery
Monkey
One little monkey jumping on the bed... I was glad to leave behind.
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