Day 75 - onwards to Paracas.

Tranquil morning by the lagoon. I check out several hostels and decide that I’m done with Huacachina. I debate taking a bodega tour to see how local wines and piscos are made, but decide that being drunk before lunch is not the best idea.

Since I’ve been told that all major bus companies stop in Paracas (an area which comprises the Paracas nature reserve and El Chaco the village that acts as a springboard for trips to the Ballestas Islands marine reserve), I decide to save some money by taking a Soyuz bus (4 soles) v. Cruz del Sur (20 soles).

Surprise! Soyuz doesn’t stop in Paracas; it stops at some godforsaken fork in the road known as Cruce Pisco, from where you have to catch a combi (shared taxi) to Pisco proper before you can catch another combi to Paracas itself. Since Pisco was wrecked by the 2007 earthquake and is known for being a bit of a rough place, and since most people who come to Pisco only come there to go to Paracas anyway, I decide to skip Pisco altogether. End up catching a combi to Pisco and then to avoid the hassle of changing transport, I agree to the combi driver’s suggestion that he drives me straight to Paracas for 15 soles. I end up saving 1 sol and give myself a very restrained round of applause.

We pass through an unattractive part of Pisco – adobe houses that have seen better days, trash in the gutters – and then pass through the seaside village of San Andrés – shacks advertising ceviche, little boats bobbing on the tide, pelicans flying. There’s a strong smell of the sea, followed by the stench of rotting garbage as we pull out of the village and ride along the coast amidst piles of rubble.

Paracas is supposed to be quite upscale, and the guesthouses here cost a wee bit more than in places I’ve stayed recently, but it’s not much to look at. After checking into the Refugio El Pirata, I have a quick wander round the waterfront. Some sellers have jewellery stalls set out, pelicans wait patiently for scraps from a fishermen, but there are very few people out and about, it’s overcast, and the whole place has a desolate air about it. The deserted playground at the other end of the waterfront, with its broken, rusty swings only adds to the impression.

After nearly three months of non-stop travel and research, I’m somewhat weary mentally. After a quick lunch at an excellent cevichería behind my guesthouse, where I have the best arroz con mariscos yet – with tiny melt-in-your-mouth scallops – I retreat to my cosy room and stay there until the evening, napping on my comfortable bed (the last few beds have had terrible mattresses and I woke up every morning a broken woman), and reading, totally engrossed in “A Girl With a Dragon Tattoo”.

There’s no nightlife here whatsoever, as I discover, taking an evening stroll. In the words of Leonard Cohen: “The place is dead as heaven on a Saturday night.” More importantly, there seem to be no places to eat on a Sunday night, though after some searching, I discover that one of the cevicherías does chicken. Nothing but roast chicken.

Early night in anticipation of the morning trip to the Ballestas Islands.