My alarm went off at 4.15am and as per usual, I hit the snooze button and enjoyed a further ten minutes of slumber. My phone then started pinging with WhatsApp messages about my pick-up time, a photo of the vehicle, instructions as to where I should walk to and when. At the appointed time of 5am, I bundled into a tiny minibus, which transported me to a bigger tourist bus, which gradually filled with people at various places until we were twenty-five in total. Everyone was from Central or South America, apart from me. Everyone spoke Spanish fluently, apart from me. I really should have done a crash-course before coming here, but yet another thing I didn't get round to. Everyone was kind and friendly and helped me throughout the day.
There wasn't a lot of space in the bus and it's good that I'm tiny otherwise it might have been quite uncomfortable, but it really didn't matter as what was to follow was one of the most exhilarating days ever.
After four hours in the bus, punctuated by a stop for banos, we arrived at Paracas on the coast, to a buzzing coastal centre of shops, restaurants, all sorts of tour groups lurking confusedly around, locals plying their trades, and stray dogs lying in the morning sun.
We were instructed to double-mask, unless you have a fancy KN95 mask, as is law in Peru, then we queued up to bundle into a huge speedboat. 'He very good driver', retorted our trusty guide reasurringly, as we clipped ourselves into attractive orange life-jackets with PARACAS in huge letters on the back. I had been wondering why the guide had a folded blanket on his head. This became clear as the hat of the girl at the front flew off as the boat picked up speed, narrowly missing being lost to the Pacific forever thanks to the quick thinking of a fellow passenger who reached up and grabbed it. Worried the same would happen to me, I swiftly put my travel jacket on under my life-jacket, then put the hood over my trusty fake Oakley bucket hat (which has lasted me since being purchased outside a temple in Thailand in 2014, so I'm not about to lose it) and tightened the tiny clasps. I'm not sure what I looked like, with this plus being double-masked with sunglasses, but who cares, I was in the middle of the ocean.
It was freezing and I could feel myself quivering. To the right there was an incredible show of a flock of a million billion birds soaring just about the level of the sea. I watched, mesmerized by the beauty, the seamless organisation of the operation. It was like one of those old moving screensavers, birds flying, flying, flying, all perfectly spaced and streaming concurrently, unencumbered; there were birds as far as my eyes could see - an everlasting birdscape, if that's a word, which it is now. We seemed to boat into the birdscape but the birds just lifted a little, unfettered. I watched, open-mouthed at the spectacle, albeit masked.
The boat swung to the left and I bade farewell to the birdscape. A curious deep barking noise met my ears and in a few seconds, we were metres away from - well, I was going to be clever and use the correct collective noun for a group of sea-lions, but on further inspection, this apparently depends on where the sea-lions are, what the season is, and what they are doing. In case you're interested, I have just learnt that a group of sea-lions on land are called a colony; as I'm typing that, it perhaps sounds obvious. Less obvious is the fact that in water, they are called a raft; during the breeding season, they are known as a rookery; and just in case you were wondering, if several female sea-lions are found in a male sea-lion's territory, in any season, they are called a harem. Yes, really. I don't know who makes these rules, or who has time to check the gender of the sea-lions (or sea- lionesses, surely), so I'll just describe what I saw as a whole load of sea-lions adorning a long length of land, variously barking, waddling along on their fleshy tummies, or playing with their young. This was a spectacular sight to behold and not something I have ever experienced. The depth of the volume was overwhelming and as my fellow passengers tried to capture it all on their cameras and videos, I took a picture or two, then enjoyed the noise and drama of it all.
Back on dry land, we bundled back into the bus and headed off to a sprawling complex of shops and restaurants for a delicious lunch. A friendly Colombian bus-friend helped me to understand the menu and I ordered a Peruvian speciality which answered one of life's deep philosophical questions - the chicken and the egg arrived at the same time, on the same plate. There - question answered.
I also decided to try Inca Cola which is Peruvian Coke. The radioactive shade of it suggests that someone isn't drinking enough water, but once you've got past that thought, it is delicious and provides the sugar-hit needed for when the sun comes out. I am saddened that there don't seem to be any glass bottles of Coke anywhere any more. Bizarrely, this anti-plastic world has turned its back on glass bottles and reverted to plastics - did you know that it takes 450 years for a plastic bottle to break down! Not to mention that I am an avid collector of the bottle tops of glass Coca Cola bottles as they have the name of the country where they are bottled printed on there. Some readers may remember happy (or otherwise) times spent chasing around after these in various countries. One day, I will glue all those I have collected onto my scratch map. Maybe there will be a u-turn on single-use plastic bottles one day; maybe there won't. Here's hoping.
After lunch we were transported upstairs for a very pleasant tasting of wine, local pisco and more. This is not really my thing, but when in Peru, etc. Much of it was translated for me and I was very grateful.
Then it was time to travel to the incredible Huacachina Oasis, just outside of Ica. This is a spectacular lagoon in the middle of the desert, surrounded by trees, hotels, tuk-tuks, taxis, buses, restaurants, even a youth hostel boasting a 'Hostelling International' sign. The lagoon itself is surreally punctuated with pedalos for hire. I found myself striding through pure, untainted desert sand, then being ushered into a desert buggy with an alarmingly complex seatbelt. This need for this alarming complexity became clear as the driver put his foot down and we went on a death-defying speed ride around the dunes. We went down vertical inclines and sheer drops, over tummy-tickling, heart-in-mouth inducing gravity-defying gradients. All I could think was 'Lord Jesus', in a tone of supplication, not blasphemy, 'please don't let this vehicle overturn and if it does, please let the ensuing damage be covered by my travel insurance policy as I can't remember if I ticked the adventurous activities box when I purchased the policy'.
We then arrived at what felt like the top of a dune. The driver, having kindly unleashed my alarmingly complex seatbelt smiled broadly and said 'now, we go sandboarding!'
Now - I had years of intense orthodontics throughout my teenage years - a wide variety of removable braces with weird keys for tightening, curious head-gear at night, elastic bands, fixed lower braces; you name it. I owe the fact that I am not mistaken for a giant house rabbit to my orthodontist. I really did not want all this great work to be wrecked in a very avoidable sandboarding accident caused by collision with an angry cactus, or similar.
I stood, wavering inside. The driver handed me a huge flat board which looked like an ironing board. We seemed to be positioned at the top of a precipice. My new bus friends all seemed unfazed and one by one, they took their turns to go down the precipice, variously rolling off, or not, and all seeming to come off unscathed. There were no cacti in evidence, and the driver seem to have chosen a good spot - in fact there were miles of nothingness. 'What's the worst that could happen', I thought to myself, then decided not to entertain all the terrible things which could happen - I train in this stuff and could write a 20-page risk assessment on sand-boarding alone - I thought as I lay down on the board and looked ahead -
'Could you push it slowly please?'
'To brake you just press your feet in the sand - you are the brake'
'Oh great. But what if...'
It was too late, I was careering down a vertical incline at what felt like a thousand miles an hour, adrenaline-pumping, heart wedged in my mouth, not quite believing that I had agreed to this - had I?! I arrived at the bottom, heart racing like never before, reassured to realise that all faculties, and all teeth, were still intact.
'That was simple run. Now, we do another!'
And we did. The second run made the first look like a bit of a picnic - the second was faster and the incline sharper. I shelved my risk assesssment criteria and just went for it.
The journey back was very long and with sand in places where one wouldn't generally feel sand, a little uncomfortable, but it didn't matter. After four hours on the road, variously reading, writing, dozing and looking out of the window, I was deposited - awkwardly about 5 blocks away from where I should have been deposited, but it didn't matter - back in Miraflores. This had been one of the best days I have experienced whilst travelling and I would thoroughly recommend it.
Well, it's my penultimate day here today, so I'm off to wander and see what's happening in Miraflores today. Thanks for sharing this journey with me.
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