Sand storms, Sours and Sand Dunes

Still patiently waiting to hear your verdict on whether I’ve sold you on coming to Lima, Jarrod, but I’m guessing that’s because you’re flat out designing your next tattoo–based on my suggestion about a sleeve completely dedicated to images of Catholic Virgins, of course.

A picturesque stroll to see thousands of skulls and human remains…

Anyway, having spent a paltry 24 hours in Peru’s capital, it was time to bid farewell to lovely Lima and start our journey south: destination Paracas. Our first taste of the local bus systems and things were off to an impressive start–when we arrived at the bus station in Lima we were immediately ushered into the VIP lounge *flicks hair nonchalantly* I’ve never been in a VIP lounge of any description so I was pret-ty excited, but when I clocked the absence of a velvet rope and a hulking bouncer with a clipboard, I adjusted my expectations. Correctly as it turns out. (Or maybe VIP lounges everywhere are just small rooms with tiled floors and a few black vinyl couches?)

Disembarked in Pisco and we hit our first two hurdles of the tour. One: the seasonal Paracas winds had whipped up, blanketing the town in dust and sand and lending it a slightly post apocalyptic feel. Two: WE got off the bus but our bags, which had come on a different bus, with heartfelt promises that said bags would be waiting for us on arrival, were nowhere to be seen. Our tour guide Jess assured us that everything was under control and then headed over to discuss matters with the station staff. We stood watching from a distance as she pointed and gesticulated, feeling like kids whose parents insist that everything’s fine and then proceed to have a heated argument in the next room…

Thanks to some spirited Jess Assertiveness, the situation resolved itself within an hour, our bags were returned and we received a bottle of Pisco for any inconvenience caused. Apology accepted!

We were all primed for a boat trip to the Bellastas Islands the following day, where you can sight penguins, fur seals and sometimes whales (in the water obviously, not sunning themselves on the rocks with a plankton cocktail) but Jess warned us the visit may not be possible as the island could actually be closed due to the dust from the Paracas winds. Despite my hopes that the penguins (who strike me as a very house-proud species) would tidy things up overnight like frantic little butlers, the verdict came in from local authorities in the morning that the island was closed. But all wasn’t lost, they had a Plan B, so we headed to the local nature reserve. First stop was to observe some local garden ornaments flamingoes.

Rack off foreground gulls, we’re here for Pretty in Pink

Back into the minivan to drive across dunes to see some of my favourites, a colony of local pelicans. What’s not to love about these guys? They’re always sporting an expression not dissimilar to a surprised, demented old man.

“This is our big chance guys, they can’t get to the penguins. Don’t blow it. We need to impress!”

Not flying, levitating

Now Jarrod, I don’t want to get you too excited, but think I may have met a kindred spirit of yours in fellow traveller Belinda. I know you have a perverse fascination with capturing the ‘best road kills’ you’ve seen on your Samsung Galaxy, so I almost keeled over when she excitedly rushed over to show me a photo she’d nabbed of a dead vulture.

All that remains

I was just about to explain to her that you are similarly enthralled by dead animals, but we were interrupted by an American couple who just HAD to advise that there was a dead seal ‘just over yonder’ and she was off. (She did get a picture of it but it’s way too upsetting for the blog. Perhaps she can send it to you, and this can be the beginning of a beautiful friendship?) I got her to take this picture of me, albeit warily given it was very blustery and she kept telling me to go back just a bit, just a bit more…

Photo slash trust exercise

Next stop: Pisco Boulevard–because we all had a burning fascination as to how Pisco is distilled and fermented. We did. We really, really did. Seriously. Alright! God. We were there for the free tastings. We worked our way through some of their sweet wines, their blends, and up to the Pisco that’s 42% alcohol and requires a special four stage breathing technique to ingest, otherwise it feels like you’re more or less drinking methylated spirits. Truly, I’ve done complicated yoga sequences that were simpler than sipping this drink.

If you work your way from left to right, you can almost erase the memory of a dead seal photo. Almost.

From Pisco Boulevard we headed post-taste, no, post-haste to Huacachina for some abject terror fun in the sand dunes. Just as an aside: if you’re into guys who look like that stoner skateboarder dude from Clueless, this place is your mecca. He is EVERYWHERE you look. I hope you appreciate the things that I’m braving for this blog, Jarrod, because as we all know I am not an Adrenaline Junkie by any means. I’m pro Responsible Use of Adrenaline, ie. saving it for times when fight or flight is REALLY needed, like when you need to fight someone for the last Turkish Delight in the box of assorted chocolates. If I had my way, the sand buggying experience would be taken at a leisurely pace, in second gear, tops, possibly with traffic lights in the dunes.

You will find this picture in a google image search for ‘uneasy smile’

Strapped in, we hit the dunes and I can’t put this any other way, I know it makes me sound horribly bogan, but our driver just FANGED it up the steepest dune I’ve ever seen, and upon reaching the top, we got air time longer than anything I’ve ever seen in a San Fransisco car chase movie scene… before thudding back down onto the sand. My sunglasses were flung off my face. Like one of those rats who doesn’t learn from the electric shock the first time, I proceeded to put them back on and have them flung off another four times before aborting the sunnies mission. I already had sand in my ears, mouth and nose, after all, what was a little more in the eyes?

I attempted to take some video of the sand buggying but we were being flung around and bouncing so much that it wound up being pointless footage of tip bar/my left knee/my feet/the floor of the buggy all set to a soundtrack of me yelling “OHMYGOD! JESUS! OWW! OHMYGOD!” over and over.

We eventually came screaming (literally, in my case) to a sandy halt and were rewarded with this vista:

#serenity

Mandatory group jumping shot attempted with varying success at leaping, depending on how severely one’s legs were quivering after the sand buggying:

Some of us didn’t have the energy for a take two, so we’re stuck with this.

I wasn’t close enough to actual atrial fibrillation after the buggying, so we were herded to the top of another steep dune to try sand boarding downhill. I’d assumed that we would sand board down on our backs, feet first, like competitors in the Luge at the Winter Olympics, but with way less safety gear on. Nooooooo. We had to confront our fear on our stomachs and face first. FACE FIRST! I lay down on the board, had a quick instruction from the buggy driver about how to hold the straps, (tightly) and then he shoved me forward and I went belting downhill. Screamed initially, then caught on that this was only a good strategy if your goal was to eat as much sand as humanly possible, so I closed my mouth and screamed inwardly the rest of the way. Did not fall off or faceplant, mercifully.

Just when I thought I had the hang of it, I reached the bottom of the dune, was airborne half a second then hit the board pubic bone first with a bang that I felt right up to the tip of my skull. Apologies for use of the word ‘pubic’ in the blog.

I confirmed with two other girls that it wasn’t just me who’d had this happen and quickly turned to try and tell the guys at the top of the dune that For The Love Of God, THEY NEEDED TO TUCK IT AWAY! Sadly, we were too late, they were already en route downhill. We asked them afterwards if they’d hit rock bottom in similar fashion and seen stars, and they denied it.

What can you do other than smile sympathetically knowing someone has been rendered a eunuch and just isn’t ready to verbalise it?

I’m pretty sure that the sand buggying would be right up your alley, but as always Jarrod I throw the question over to you. Nature reserving, Pisco Tasting and Sand Buggying/Boarding: Jarrod, would you go there?

Belinda, on the hunt. Target: anything without a pulse.