Nasca: We're Not Dead Yet

Stomach-wise, Nasca was a carousel. I arrived all cramped up in a food poisoning nightmare. During our 2.5 hour bus drive to Nasca, I marked out every 3D object on the otherwise barren landscape, wondering which would be best to duck behind and disgrace myself. Luckily for everyone, we made it to the guesthouse before this came to pass. Alice, your plastic bag story was at the forefront of my mind...

Following a bit of a rough night, I headed out with the others to Chauchilla Cemetery, a 2000 year old Nasca burial ground. We found the cemetery in a glary patch of desert edged with a spectacular iron-red mountain range. Bleached human bones were decoratively scattered along the path, which led to a series of shallow rectangular graves. 

It's pretty special to be able to see mummies in their original burial positions, or so they say; these skull-topped cotton-heaps had apparently been relocated for best tourist-pleasing effect. There was absolutely no barrier stopping some idiot from jumping in and taking a selfie.  (I refrained.)

Our next stop was thankfully indoors and out of the heat: pottery workshop time. The master craftsman gave a quick demonstration of his craft. The finished products looked authentic and vibrant and all, but I couldn't quite get over the varnish's core ingredient: master craftsman face sweat. 

Suddenly Day Four of the tour decided it wasn't impressing me enough. Out came something particularly memorable. Slightly nervous, we drove over to the local airport for a short flight above the famous Nasca lines - ancient graffiti in the shapes of a whale, a monkey, a spider, etc - whose origins are shrouded in mystery. Why did the Nasca engrave these shapes into the landscape? How did they make them 2000 years ago when you can only see them from 2500 feet? What was I thinking when I squeezed myself into the back of that four-passenger plane?

Taking off was terrifying. With my headphones on and my seatbelt strapped up, I clung to the seat in front of me as we dip-swooped into the air. I was almost enjoying the ride as the first lines came into sight below. But sand boarding had filled me with false confidence. The plane tilted first to one side and then the other to give passengers optimal viewing opportunities. At the eighth of twelve lines, my body decided to black out on me. When I regained consciousness, half-DRABC'ed by a heroic tour group member, I regretted it at once. Goodbye food poisoning; hello travel sickness. The sand buggy had nothing on this. 

Here Nasca hit its lowest low. But after a short visit to the airport infirmary with fellow victim Kathy, I staggered to my feet and rejoined the others. Pablo, our tour guide, told us we were the first of his groups to faint mid-flight. Kathy and I are all about the overachieving. 

We got back to the guesthouse and gradually prepared ourselves for the overnight bus to Arequipa. Yet another plate of lomo saltado did wonders for my sense of well being. What a day! Things can only go up from here.