By 9am we’re at Nazca airport. I’ve been told to fly in the morning because in the afternoon the wind picks up and sometimes the airport shuts down because the small places can’t cope with it. Also, the lines are at their most visible either early in the morning or at around 3pm, when the angle of the sun accentuates their outlines. Flying at midday is bloody useless because the sun is directly above them and you can barely see them at all.
The ‘airport’ is a large waiting room where about ten different flight companies are represented. The Nazca Travel desk is conspicuously empty; two years ago, they had a fatal crash, after which the company changed its name until this year’s fatal crash. The other companies have no fatalities to their names.
Though we’re pretty much the first ones there, several groups go before us, because they’ve either paid through the nose or booked the flight weeks in advance. Since there’s no public phone, I sweettalk the lady at the check-in desk into letting me use her phone to call Leo and arrange for him to meet me at the airport after the flight so that we can go straight to the Cahuachi ruins.
The four or us pile into the tiny six-seater and then we’re off, rising rapidly above the parched ground. I almost chickened out of flying, since it doesn’t have the same attraction for me that it once did, but I am so glad I did this! The pussy way out is to go up the observation tower instead, from where you can see the outline of a giant tree and part of a lizard, but it can’t compare to flying over the lines. The flight last half an hour and we follow the pattern on our boarding cards – first the giant whale, then some giant triangles, then the monkey, and so on. The ride isn’t particularly bumpy, though when we hit the air pockets, our stomachs drop our from underneath us; it’s like a long and picturesque roller coaster ride, with sick bags thoughtfully provided.
The tiny plane circles around each giant figure on the ground, so that we get a look from both sides of the plane, and when it does, that’s when the pressure in your head builds and you feel a little dizzy. We fly over green fields, the bare rock of mountains, the dry paths of the summer rivers frozen on the desert plain.
The lines are certainly impressive. I marvel at the perfect symmetry of the giant spider, of the hummingbird’s tail, the spiral of the giant monkey’s tail, the long, snake-like neck of the flamingo. I wonder about thee ancient culture that put so much effort into these giant figures that they certainly couldn’t appreciate the way we can, from the air. Why are they here?
When we land, Leo pulls up and we’re off further into the desert along a bumpy dirt road towards the Cahuachi pyramids – a giant Nazca ceremonial complex where they used to go solely for religious purposes. Along the way we stop at another burial ground, where the ground is covered with bits of ancient cloth, hanks of human hair, fragments of pelvises, shattered skulls, human tibias. Some of the bones are laid out is strange patterns, and when I ask Leo for an explanation, he tells me that the grave robbers are local farmers who also come here and mess around with the bones. I’m amazed that they’re not superstitious, that they’re not concerned that the aggravated spirits of the dead might come after them. “In the mountains – yes. But here in the coast, we don’t care.” He does mention the story of a tourist who sent back a human hand because he kept having nightmares, but even some of his friends have human skulls at home because they believe that they guard the house against evil spirits. When they try to persuade Leo to pick up a human skull, he tells them: “I don’t need a skull guardian. I have a dog.” Even I would think twice about pocketing a skull from a foreign land; as much as I’d like to own one, I’d rather not disrespect the local dead.
Out of the forty-four pyramids at the Cahuachi site, only one is uncovered; the rest remain hillocks in the desert. The uncovered ceremonial pyramid is being renovated and restored, adobe bricks being added to crumbling, wrecked walls to make up for the damage done by El Niño a few years back. While it’s under renovation until next year, we can’t get too close, though when Leo speaks the guy guarding it and tells him that I’m a journalist, he lets us walk right up to the site. Nearby, there are some holes in the ground. “The Nazca used to use them as coolers, to store food.” Only small and skinny people could be lowered into the holes; yours truly would get lodged in the middle, courtesy of the spare tyre.
These pyramids get us onto the subject of the Egyptian ones, which prompts me to say that the latter was built using the slave labour of my ancestors and I end up giving Leo an abridged version of the history of the Jews. We discuss discrimination in Peru; as an indigenous person, he himself would be subject to discrimination if he weren’t a self-taught linguist and guide. He tells me of two journalists in Lima – one European-looking, one indigenous, who went to a nightclub; the indigenous one was turned away and since the whole thing was secretly filmed, the club had to pay a hefty fine.
I tell Leo more about my work and he eagerly offers to assist me with my research. He’s got no work all day, his wife’s been in Lima for the past six months, and he’s alone. He knows good places to eat, so I offer to buy him lunch, and we stop by “Los Amigos de Miguel”, a cevichería south of the centre. Leo’s great: he introduces me to the chef/owner, who gives us ceviche on the house, topped with tasty sea urchins, we plough through seafood-fried rice and Leo tells me that the place (which is pretty full) gets absolutely packed on Sundays because Miguel’s had a loyal following for a decade and because ceviche is thought to be a hangover cure. Best of all, this awesome place is in none of the guidebooks because the other writers clearly didn’t have the benefit of a true insider’s wisdom. Ha!
I learn new food terminology. I already know of ‘leche de tigre’ – the fish juices with chilli and lime juice. ‘Leche de pantera’ is similar, but with scallop juice from black scallops. Leo tells me that both are supposed to improve one’s performance in bed. There’s salsa on the radio; Marc Anthony is singing, and Leo tells me that he’s a great dancer, and that he recently embarrassed his son at a disco. His son told him that ‘old people were not supposed to dance like that’. “He’s jealous,” Leo grins.
I do believe I’m getting a crush on my guide. Though I'm stereotypically attracted to tall, dark and handsome, Leo’s adorable – only two or three inches taller than me, and physically a cross between Gandhi and a diminutive Leonard Cohen. I’ve been listening to Cohen too much lately. He’s also sixty-five, which is a new record for me, unless you count Mr Cohen himself, who’s seventy-five and counting. Just goes to show that there’s no such thing as ‘too old to be attractive’.
When we go over to Leo’s house after lunch to feed the remnants of our lunch to his beautiful Samoyed, Princessa, wonder if there’s scope for anything to happen. I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it. It’s not really a house - it’s a collection of rooms scattered inside a gated property amidst bright pink bougainvillea and cacti. One of the rooms is his study, where he demonstrates a tape player that predated cassette tapes; he learned to use it when he worked in a language school in Lima, and he taught himself English and Italian because he couldn’t afford to go to university. His English is certainly very good and he does language practise at home every day. We go into his bedroom and end up watching “Charmed” on cable. It’s actually pretty funny.
I keep shuffling towards Leo along the bed, but know full well that I’d never try anything unless unequivocally given a green light by the other party. I settle for sitting a couple of inches from him and enjoy the sweet melancholy of being hyper-aware of the nearness of someone I cannot have.
The spell is broken by the arrival of one of his wife’s church friends who’d come to wash the off-white Princessa and Leo and I head off to the Museo Antonini, an excellent museum which houses artefacts found at the Cahuachi site, put together thanks to the efforts of the Italian archaeologist. For other visitors, the experience must be a lot duller than mine; I have the benefit of Leo’s knowledge, and he’s really passionate about his work. He talks me through the Nazca pottery, the household tools, including hairbrushes made with cactus needles, the collection of trophy head skulls, the foreheads pierced with small holes, with ropes running through them…
Leo seems happy to hang around, so to finish off, he walks me around the centre, showing me the best places for street food, such as the anticucho lady who’s always in the same spot, always overrun with customers and always gone by eight o’clock, the chicken joint that’s always full of locals, the best Chinese food place in town…We end up in the jugería by the market, and I order a surtido especial for both of us – a potent concoction involving several different fruit, condensed milk, egg, black Cusqueña beer, honey and algarobina. It’s surprisingly good and so filling that I’m gonna skip dinner.
Leo tells me that his wife, a Chilena from Santiago, wants to move back to Chile to be with her family, and that he doesn’t want to because he wouldn’t find work there (there isn’t exactly much in the way of archaeological remains near Santiago and he’s too old to be a trekking guide) and we get onto the subject of Russia and the standards of life there.
I’m very sorry to bid farewell to Leo. He thanks me for the lovely day and I wish I had more time here and more money to spend on his guiding services. I’ve made a good friend here and it sucks to have to move on.
The evening’s a bit anticlimactic: bus timetables, hostels, eateries. My research here is done. I hope to be able to come back here for work – next year, or the year after.
On to Huacachina tomorrow…
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