Mark drove us to the airport a full THREE hours before our flight - plenty of time in case Oma's 4oz shampoo bottle had to be downsized or a myriad of other circumstances. First flight to Fort Lauderdale involved a shrieking 18 month old, but other than that, not terrible.
We had a six hour layover, so posted up at Chili's, eating an app and half a salad, then we played cards. I found an app to score cribbage, and Oma creamed me.
Our flight loaded fine - both flights, loading started from the back so we had no issues with our bags since we were seat 20, which was the cutoff for the first group. It was about half an hour of sitting on the tarmac before we got a slightly cryptic announcement. They were concerned about weather in Lima and the airplane's weight, so they either could have ditched half the passengers, or, what they opted for, make a stop in Jamaica to get more gas about 90 minutes into the 6-hour flight. Looking at the weather, Lima looked clear for the next day, so it didn't totally make sense. I got a text shortly after this announcement saying that the flight we were sitting on was going to be 90 minutes delayed taking off. Were they just rectifying the fact we were going to be delayed landing? Or were we going to sit for another hour?
A flight attendant walked by, and Oma, never shy, waved her down to ask. She added that Lima wasn't going to be able to provide the fuel for the plane to get back to the States after it landed, so my hypothesis is that they needed a decent amount of reserves once they landed so they could top off and get back to Florida once we landed in Lima.
Regardless, flight took off, and Oma and I found some Drew Barrymore-Adam Sandler comedy that ended up in Africa. (Looking it up, it's called "Blended.") The TV cut out before we finished, but we got the gist.
Jamaica was maybe half an hour, then back in the air. I was ready for my second round of naps, so Oma took my cookie packet and my hot towel (and apparently asked a guy across the aisle to help her open her chips) while I was passing the time a different way.
At 1:30, we landed. That was three hours delayed from our original landing time (and was 2:30am in DC). We walked in a daze through immigration, unsure if we had to fill out a form or not, make it past customs to find a bathroom, didn't find bottled water at duty free, did find an ATM, then wandered past some taxi desks to the collection area.
I know you aren't supposed to use a stranger asking you if you need a taxi for a ride, but it got a lot less sketchy after that. He took us back to a desk, where we paid $20 (seemed like a standard, though expensive, amount) then had perfect English and was willing to walk with us to the immigration office. I had gotten an email saying that we needed to show an Andean immigration card to receive the foreigner (cheaper because not taxed) price for a hostel we were staying at. The officer told our driver that I could download something and be fine, or our passports with entry stamps could work. Great. Time to go.
The trip was 25 minutes, no traffic until we hit the block we were staying on. I knew Miraflores was the place to stay, but I didn't realize I had booked a place across the street from a building full of bars. Cabs were everywhere, trying to get business, and so we were dropped off in the middle of a one-block traffic jam.
The hotel, the most expensive of our trip (except for the one with private hot springs), was great. Noise trickled up, including bass, but the breakfast in the morning started at 6:30, giving us ten minutes to eat before catching our bus. Price per hour of our four-hour night of sleep? $25. (Yeah, Peru is going to be cheap.)
Fruit, pastries, and coffee for Oma in the morning, and we walked the block to a hostel were the bus was going to pick us up. A representative had us walk the two blocks to a major road, where the bus swung by ten minutes later. We were off!
The first stop was not twenty minutes later at Churillo, a beachside where Lelvin, our guide, gave a brief spiel on why Peru and a historical overview. I filled in the details a little later with Oma on the bus. Indigenous society for twenty thousand years, Incas becoming the ruling class of a empire, the emperor got sick and died, Incan civil war weakened them, and the backstabbing Pizarro did the Incas in. Peru has had a decade or two here or there of stability, but the wealth from guano in the 1800s didn't set them up for success in the Pacific War that Chile fought against them in 1890. Their stability has been up and down since their independence in mid-1800, but they are in a current bout of democracy that has lasted 17 years.
The bus continued on, with half of the seats taken by pairs of travelers and the other half with single travelers, but every row of seats filled. We stopped next for a bathroom and food break at a large outdoor cafe, with four clay ovens baking the bread they are known for. After a decent wait for the bathroom, we then waited to order and get our receipt, which we handed back to get our breads at the next station and Oma's coffee at the final one. It was hot, but also very full with no lid, so we walked back to the bus a few steps at a time, stopping for sips.
The countryside was dust, with the sides of the slopes showing the layers of rock composition covered in the same washed out brown and grey dust. We could see footprints and tire tracks that were who knows how old, and modern "geoglyph" graffiti writing names and phrases on the sides of hill in rocks and footprints. Tomorrow we will hear about why there is a desert right next to an ocean, because it doesn't make any sense to us right now. The giant grey sheet of the Pacific on one side, and the brownish grey hills on the other. The fog and low air clarity didn't help their case.
Our guide did some paperwork, figured out who was going on what tours tomorrow and staying in what places, then let us relax as we drove south. Both Oma and I nodded off as the desert became a little more irrigated, so very precise fields broke up the bland landscape. Oma enjoys architecture (which is why we went to the Building Museum in DC on Thursday, which she loved). I'm a little surprised that the small towns don't have churches, but I'm not surprised that everything is made of cement blocks. Most square buildings have rebar sticking out from the top of them. Oma said in Costa Rica, it was so that the owners could add their second floor when they got the money. She also said that because it is so lush there, the buildings don't matter. It is practical, but it is not my aesthetic.
The land here is so harsh, it just feels more ugly. Paracas was a city full of cement buildings, though many painted in an effort to attract the tourists. Lelvin pointed out our hostel as we drove to the meeting point, and we got our stuff out of the bottom of the bus. While we got in early enough to do a tour of the Paracas National Reserve, we choose instead to have a bit of a lie down.
I blogged, Oma closed her eyes, and we both showered in the shared bathroom (avoiding any bathroom rush hour, though this hostel was small and not very full, so we never had to wait.) It hit cocktail hour as we emerged and started to explore.
About a block from our hostel was the beach, and looking up and down that long block was the entirety of Paracas. We found the recommended restaurant (by turning slightly left and looking up) then walked the beach. The weather was temperate - that temperature when only kids go into the water. Mostly the beach was families sitting, some picnicking, some with umbrellas, and many with shoes on just like us. The street dogs and dogs with owners were romping around as well.
We found our first pelicans. Oma is having understandable trouble with the Spanish places we're going (Huacachina is just "the oasis town") and what we're eating (ceviche is "that fish with lime") and what we're drinking (pisco is "pesko"). However, she's got some English words that get stuck in her head just as badly - the first ten pelicans we found were "penguins." I'm translating from "Oma" to English to very limited Spanish.
We picked a bar along the waterfront that had 2 for 1 happy hour, so we had our first pisco spurs. Oma was scared the whole time that he'd come back with another two, thinking we both had to have a second for the deal to count.
We had some peanuts and pretzels on the bus, but no food for a while meant that the drink hit Oma hard. I wanted to make sure we saw sunset over the peninsula of the reserve, so we climbed up the four flights of stairs to the recommended restaurant and looked out. The sun was going to set just barely behind a building, but we could at least keep track of it until it was 6.
Dinner was fine - the appetizers of ceviche and these fried, stuffed roll-ups were good and light. I got a seafood rice that was super good; every bite had a tentacle or a shrimp. Oma's beef was chewy and disappointing, but the onions and the gravy that leaked into the rice were good. We packed up the rest to eat in the morning (pending how delicious it looked), then raced the sun to the beach. Near the equator, the sun drops quick! I got a few pictures with some kids silhouetted playing soccer, but without any clouds it was nice light but no brilliant colors.
We walked along the dock area on the other side of the beach to check out the ships and a pelican that was hanging out on a bench. I got closer and a man popped up with a fish to give it. We scurried away to make sure he didn't think we wanted to pay for an experience.
On the way back, I found a shoulder bag I liked, though it had this feeling that rubbed onto your fingers after touching it. I took the chance, guessing it was just the salty sea air, and bought it.
Back at the hostel, I rinsed off the bag, and Oma and I wiled away our time with some king's corner before deciding that 9:30 was a completely appropriate bedtime, even with a nap, after only having four hours of sleep the night before.
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