Woke up feeling fresh. Grabbed the tablet to check the BBC News. Found a little article about a proper earthquake that hit the Chilean city of Iquique last night. Didn't feel a thing in my sleep. Sarah has four hundred messages demanding she phone home. She calls her mother on her mobile. "Hello?" she whispers into the phone "I'm in a bath with a sheet of metal over the top...". There are screams from the other end of the phone from her mother in the bank. Sarah the Spoofer... she does enjoy a good prank.
Suffice to say, all is well here. We didn't stop in Iquique, as you know, but Arica also suffered some destruction and power outages, and all reports suggested it was like a ghost town. Which is hard to imagine, as it was hardly a fantastic metropolis in the first place. 'Shanty Town With Beach' would be a more apt description.
Nevertheless, with six people dead and the top two regions in Chile designated as 'disaster zones', we had to tread a little warily, if only because tsunami warnings were still in place for Chile and Peru. Our next destination, Paracas, was chosen for its fantastic array of wildlife hanging around on, you guesses it, an island about half an hour our into the Pacific Ocean. Maybe that wasn't going to happen.
Still, everyone at home is now reassured that we aren't struggling from burning buildings, and the Peruvian news channels are full of articles asking whether Peru is really ready should a disaster strike. None of which interferes with our scrambled eggs and bread breakfast.
Our hosts have been gracious and fascinating company, and ask sincerely whether the Irish, like the English, believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden.I replied that folk on the island of Ireland believe in a lot of curious things, and fairies might be one of the more innocent ones.
Quick walk to the bus station, bus is cancelled due to broken air conditioning, next bus is 12.30pm, an hour later, and we'll get a free lunch for our inconvenience. Sounds alright, and in the meantime we sit in the cafe at the Cruz Del Sur bus terminus and enjoy a refreshing beverage. For me, that means coffee. Terrible, terrible coffee. For Sarah, its a Pisco Sour. Ok, I concede they are pretty good, but at my age I need to be careful. The hour flies by, on the bus, spaghetti and chicken and savoury cake and sweet cake and Coke for lunch. Not bad actually. Two more depressing movies, neither of which is Taken 2 or Elysium, and we pull into Paracas after three and a half hours of more-or-less straight road, no twists, no turns, and no ridiculous altitude changing inclines.
On a previous bus journey we watched a seminal documentary, shown on CDS buses, of a young lady called Ximena who, pert bum attached, goes to Paracas and stays in a swanky hotel, visits some birds who poop out fertilizer, and gets fed nice Peruvian cuisine. It looked like a rather fancy resort on tv, so we were a little surprised to arrive in a bus station made out of straw and bamboo, and I don't mean in a chic, artisian way. Paracas is tiny, basically a road and a beachfront, and around the core of the village where all the hostels and restaurants are accumulated (cheap hostels, stupid expensive restaurants, mostly) are some outrageously nice hotels where all political and business decisions are made in Peru. If you are inclined, look up the Hotel Paracas. It has one of the few bank machines in town. There are no banks here. Even the internet has to be beamed in from Pisco, the nearest actually town.
Other than that, other hostel in town has a variation on the same name, 'Paracas Backpackers House' as they attempt to deviously steal business from each other. No points for originality. Still, we arrive at the original PBH, and our private room is a mere 30quid for three nights. The sky is piercing blue, no clouds, just a burning heat. The desert runs much further north than I had expected. Out for a quick walk around town, Sarah has walked across the road and spotted a small (mangy) black labrador pup wandering around. Paying it attention draws the unwanted advances of a local teenage lush, who just won't go away. A real pain. We have to abandon the Boulevard Touristica and its array of nice but overpriced restaurants and make our way back to the hostel. Sarah is loathe to abandon the dog. After twenty minutes we think our stalker has gone. He hasn't. We adandon a second walk along the beachfront, past the old man with no teeth feeding the pelican, and return to the hostel in a grumpy gloom.
Fortunately, our plan to sit around and wait for tomorrow was ruined by a friendly chap from Berlin called Richard, and the three of us headed out for dinner and beers. No weirdo around this time, and we have a fairly average ceviche in the cheap restaurant strip at the end of the beach. Sarah receives a chicken fried rice that is as mediocre as school cantine food. The banter is fine. We end up in a pizza place, once more the pisco sours flow. Richard tells about dancing in Germany and we see photos of him diving in caverns in Mexico. A good guy. We raise our heads and realise we are the last people in the restaurant, the staff are sitting waiting on us to leave. We swallow quickly and get out, followed by the waiting staff. Past our bedtime, it appears.
CANTEEN!
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