Nazca

We intend to get out of the combi to climb up the mirador and try to see the Nazca lines. Oops, we miss it. The combi just keeps on driving, and it's not like we have asked to be let off at a well-marked spot. We also can't do much, like request to turn around and find our spot, since there are at least fifteen other people in the vehicle. We content ourselves with our view from the window, which is not much. We can sort of make out that there may be rocks pushed around on the pampa floor, but by no means can we distinguish shapes.

In Nazca, we walk back and forth between bus companies comparing prices and departure times. We would like to bus out of here to Arequipa overnight. The buses in this country are all privatized, so there are always many options. You have to shop around. We walk back and forth for half an hour, with our packs, past the same restaurants. And each time, the same Peruvians call out to us to patronize their shop. Cheap! Americans! Ten Soles! For you, eight Soles! Lady! Each time, we are not interested. We eventually settle on Ormeno business class, which promises reclining seats and a bathroom. The bus leaves at ten pm, which gives us enough time to eat, internet, and return to the mirador.

In one of the bus stations, we speak to two travelers who have just flown over the Nazca lines. They are incredibly airsick, and I am SO glad that we opted not to spend money on a plane ride. It is here that we also meet our first American friend, a Californian, no less.

The convenience store we choose is decidedly not near the yelling Peruvians. An old lady and a fat man attempt to serve us, but they apparently don't know Spanish. We ask for very simple things, a single Don Isaac and a single Inka Cola (they are both yellow soft-drinks), and we are given very different items, like plantains and cookies.

We sit on a divider in the middle of the road. This is our favorite spot to rest, in between cars and far from proprietors. On the sidewalk next to us, a man is shimmying up an electric pole with a rope harness he tied himself. He is putting up a wire all by himself. While watching him, I taste my first plantain. It tastes just like a banana. I am a teensy bit disappointed by this, since it is so much larger and pinker than a banana. It is rather phalic, in fact, and we make appropriately crude comments and poses about the fruit. Of course we also take pictures.