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Published: October 29th 2008
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Remembering a story told to me about a man who blew his nose on the bus´s window curtains during a Peruvian visit, I tried, as much as one can on a four hour journey from Lima to Ica, not to let any part of my body touch the window. Cruz Del Sur, the only company I actually tried to attain the prices for, was double everything quoted in my guidebook. I decided to just "show up" at Soyuz, a cheaper long distance bus generally well supplied for local Peruvians. My plan worked well, and in ten minutes My bag was stowed and I was seated for my first venture from Lima.
After nearly a week in Lima staying at Hostel Del Mochilero enduring hour long conversations with an old man named Carlos who helped run the hostel and walking around most of Miraflores, I felt it was time to move on.
Having arrived without much of a plan in mind, I gleaned information from fellow travelers, most of whom had come from the south and were more than happy to supply me with information regarding towns, hostels, and places to see. Planning has never been my strong point. I
like spontineity, and traveling by the seat of one´s pants adds to the adventure.
This philosophy served me well as the bus pulled away from the Lima station. We rolled through town and out into the countryside, stopping often at small towns to pick up or drop off various individuals. I was one of only three other tourists. The scenery changed from familiar city sites with spray painted walls and lines of honking taxis, to miles of sand and dilapidated buildings, most of which looked like someone had started with a dream, but money had slipped from a hole in the pocket. I wondered if children played in them, or treated them as haunted shacks of chunky concrete and eyeless windows.
Despite my stress over percieved paranoia concerning my backpack getting snitched, we both arrived sound as could be in Ica, a bustling city of cement and simple streets reminecent of my younger years in Mexico. Ever the resourceful one, I attached myself to two British girls, neither of whom had any plans other than arrive in Huacachina safely. We mowed through taxi drivers and out into the street, formulating a plan of attack. One taxi driver shouted
Trash Man
This guy was running all over the dune playing with these four dogs and picking up trash that had blown up from the town. cinco soles, and we accepted. Split between the three of us we were paying less than sixty cents each. My penny-pinching ways were alive and salivating despite the incredibly inexpensive prices of Peru. I was living a poor man´s dream.
I had found a hostel in Lonely Planet called Hostel Salviatierra which claimed to have rooms situated on the lagoon for three dollars. I´m not sure what, who, or when wrote the information regarding the hostel, but I was less than satisfied. The three dollars turned into five, and that was after lowering it from twenty soles. I was given my own room, but the bathroom had a dubious black floor and cracked molding and a toilet without a seat. In the evening when I returned from my wanderings, a cochroach joined me at the edge of the sink to clean his feelers while I cleaned my teeth. Animal lover that I am, cochroaches are low on my list, lower even than leeches. I went so far as to try and wash him down the sink drain with some of my drinking water until I realized thatçs probably where he came from, and where he would return despite my
Catholic Country
Though not as prevelent as Mexico, I have seen random tributes to Mary while on my journey. This one was protected by a wire cage with a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. efforts. That night I pulled all the blankets off the bed and inspected everything for insects before tucking all the edges in around me. The bed, a simple spring mattress, ballooned towards the floor when applied with weight. I woke at four AM to a sore back and roosters.
But before the night came upon me, I, filled to the brim with puppy-like excitment, zoomed as fast as I could for the nearest sand dune. Huacachina is literally an oasis set in the middle of a Peruvian dry desert. Hostels and restuarants line the lagoon, which in turn are surrounded by sand dunes reaching to 300 feet and more. The sun was beginning to put on its bed clothes and wave goodbye, and I, eager for the "magic hour" of sunset photography, pulled my sandal straps tight and made my way to the highest dune. Thanks to a combination of hereditary large feet and Chaco sandles, I floated along the top of the sand. I quickly caught up to a Peruvian tourists who lived in Ica. We became friends for two hours, practicing English and Spanish, and taking turns with one anothers cameras.
Lovers lined the dune summit,
Sandboards
You can rent these from the hostel for ten soles a day. The beginner boards are cheaper, and only have velcro straps you strap over tennis shoes. and for a moment I felt that pang of being alone. Tossing the thought from my mind as I had been training myself to do, I scampered along the dune, snapping away, pretending not to see the sand I was flinging in the faces of others. To my right was the sprawling town of Ica, to my left the sun and miles of sand mountains. They were beautiful, and I listened to their silence in the glow of light. Had there been a National Geographic magazine in my hand I could have set reality and vicariousness side by side, and walked through both worlds.
As darkness fell, we put on jackets and made our way down the steep dune towards the town. Sand, fine as dust, rubbed benetween my sandle straps and skin. My skin, sticky with sunblock, was coated with a light layer. I wiped the sand off my camera again and again, worrying that it would lodge in the fine edges of the lens and buttons. In Lima, I had met a fellow traveler who had ruined his camera while sandboarding down a dune. To wreck my new camera so early in my trip would have been
Me and the Gang
Hixen was from Britain (guy far right) and he was taking surf lessons with Henry (guy with durly hair) who was friends with Daniel, the guy on my left (who we also called Harry Potter). a travesty.
Upon our return to town, we said goodbye and I went off in search of a dinner. Huacachina, primarally a town for tourists, is double or triple in price for nearly evertyhing. Accustomed to eating six or seven sole meals in Lima, I was dumfounded by the fifteen to twenty sole dinners. Hungry, and realizing that taking a taxi into town would end up being the same price anyways (and less safe for myself) I bargained an extra fruit shake with my doce sole meal. The Peruvian helping to run the restuarant, spent over two hours teaching me Spanish and showing me his jewelry makings. He eventually asked me out for a drink, an offer I have been given rather frequently, but I declined as usual.
I had a cochroach to return home to.
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Michael Wood
non-member comment
Awesome!
Wow thats beautiful!