Tag Archive: Pisco




After expressing my concerns relating to bowel motions in yesterday’s post, one comment suggested prunes, that well known secret weapon used in hospitals around the world.

Prunes = Weapons of Mass Defecation

The good news is, that I didn’t need to resort to them. All is well and functioning normally.

The cold front arrived last night, rained for an hour at 12:30am, not hard but enough to make the night comfortable.

I can’t help but take issue with the dramatic swings in the global weather. Although typhoons in Asia are normal, that Philippines one was the worst ever recorded. I read yesterday, that the damage was exacerbated by the fact that coastal mangrove swamps that normally offer protection from typhoons had been cut down for firewood, leaving the populace defenceless.

Everything man does, has a backlash. We never learn. Those mangrove swamps were there for a purpose, a purpose designed by Mother Nature.

As the death toll rises above 5,ooo, and I feel sorry for those who died and others left homeless, it is the price paid for previous actions. Had the coastal mangrove swamps been left intact, the death toll and homeless may have been less.

I clicked on a tweeted  image this morning. It was of The Cathedral formation on the Paracas Peninsula in Peru, 260kms south of Lima. This beautiful coastal rock formation was probably the most photographed by tourists, apart from Machu Picchu scenes.

Standing on the high cliffs looking down was an awesome experience.

The Cathedral – image: Wild About Travel

Before seeing this tourists descend to the ‘back door’ and go inside the formation.


Along the beach to the ‘back door’ – image: AV

And are treated to the magnificence of the interior…

Inside The Cathedral - image: AV

Inside The Cathedral – image: AV

Here is an excerpt from a story that I wrote about Peruvian tourism:

We reached the far end of the second beach and the cliff opened, waves could be seen on yet a third beach.


Shoes and socks removed, trousers rolled up and we timed our entrance to match the tidal fluctuations, before stepping into the dark. Wrong… most of us still got wet, nature can be so unpredictable, we were wet to the crotch, women squealed and the men cursed as we stepped into the cave, it opened out to a huge natural cavern. Inside a small shingle beach covered in flotsam, waves crashing, their thunder magnified by the cavernous maw to echo in our ears.


This was “The Cathedral,” quite spectacular.


From the high entrance we were treated to the sunny view of the third beach and towering cliffs. The breakers pounding over a rocky shelf at the entrance to send up temendous fountains a of spray and massive clouds of mist hung in the air.


The swell of the tide gave us an insight into the immense power, that she is able to move such great quantities of water. The bloated carcase of a sealion rose and fell with her undulations like a great lifeless ballon. Bouncing off the rocks, being dragged away by the ebb only to be thrust again at nature’s whim cruelly against the rocks.


I was left wandering what would become of this hapless creature, this vision of nature’s uglier side as I picture, somewhat morbidly, the putrefying remains of the animal and the stench that would be offered to future tourists inside our cavern.


I shuddered at the thought and found myself at the entrance and followed the rest of the group into the bright, almost blinding sunlight after the dimness of the cavern. I left the morbid thoughts in the cathedral, trudged back along the beach, over the promontory, up the steep track to the cliff top, into the van and along the bumpy road.

So there you have it, the thoughts of a tourist guide.

I visited The Cathedral many times with tourists, so it is with a fondness that I remember it; until this morning.

I didn’t know, but the earthquake in the region destroyed towns like Chincha, Pisco and Playa El Chaco in 2007, it also destroyed The Cathedral.

Destroyed, the awesome cavern, gone - image: flickr

Destroyed, the awesome cavern, gone – image: flickr

No more will tourists be able to gaze in awe inside The Cathedral.

My fondness for this region comes not only from my work, but later I lived in Playa El Chaco and worked in Pisco.

Sadness determines that I say, Later.

Sunday Travel Tales

Chapter 4 – The Ballestas Islands

A knock at the door. I mumbled something, vaguely aware that something was supposed to happen. Seconds later it dawned on me that on hearing that knock I was supposed to wake up.


Plaza San Martin, Pisco

My eyes still asleep, I fumbled in the subdued light of daybreak and found the bathroom, it was exactly where I had left it. A short time later I emerged refreshed and in search of breakfast. The “posada” wasn’t yet equipped with dining facilities, although Juan had assured us they were under construction. So it was that I found myself at a wobbly wrought iron table in front of a cafe in the plaza. I gazed at the surroundings. Old men sat on park benches chatting, street sweepers swept, kids scrambled around a statue of  of San Martin, one of Peru’s national heroes, their school bags bobbing on their backs and boys with their shoeshine paraphernalia lay in wait to ambush anybody with the slightest scuff on their shoes. The scene was much like any town or city in Peru, as I was to discover.

My continental breakfast was placed haphazardly in front of me, sure enough, it was strawberry jam, bread rolls and “cafe con leche.” With the resignation that no other breakfast existed in Peru, I split my rolls, filled them with jam and studied the comings and goings in the plaza as I ate unenthusiastically.

It was during breakfast that I met the young lad who was with Lucho the previous evening. Surprisingly, he spoke good English, it was refreshing. The micro was due to leave in ten minutes. I finished my crumbling rolls and licked the excess jam off my fingers, paid the bill and followed him.

I climbed aboard the micro. Greeted those I recognised and remembered from the night before and being greeted by those I didn’t.

Heads were counted, the door creaked shut and we began our game of hopscotch anew as we battled with Pisco’s potholes. Out of town, past the sentinel B-25 Mitchell, past San Andreas wharf. Fishing boats already returning with the day’s catch waiting to dock and unload. The graceful, ever hopeful pelican, wheeled overhead awaiting their breakfast. The stallholders assembling their shelters and tents ready for the day’s commerce. On we pushed, that horribly  unique smell of the fortress-like fish-meal factories, their towers providing real or imagined protection. We arrived at Playa El Chaco.

The floating dock at Playa El Chaco serves both tourists and fishermen - Image: AV

The floating dock at Playa El Chaco serves both tourists and fishermen – Image: AV

Our micro waddled off the tar-seal like a drunken duck and stopped by the wharf, dwarfed by the big trucks waiting to load with crates of fish. There he was, large as life, grinning as he opened the door of the bus. Lucho shook all our hands strongly as we alighted and led us safely through a throng of children proffering various souvenirs made of sea shells and their plaintiff “compra mi’s.”

Along the jetty, wending our way and dodging fast-track barrow loads of fish to a small floating dock and more pelicans. The ebb and flow of the sea made the floating dock seem a precarious place to be. Big heavy-duty plastic boxes of various species of fish were being hefted by gum booted on one side from a brightly coloured barnacle encrusted boat; on the other side our sleek motorboat in stark contrast.

We stepped down and stumbled our way aboard, some with more grace than others. Ladies were given a helping hand by the gallant Lucho, men were left to fend for themselves. Instructions from our guide and we donned the day-glo orange life-jackets and jockeyed in the boat for what we considered the best vantage point clumsily in our newly encumbered states.

The 'Candalabra' perched on the peninsula - Image: AV

The ‘Candalabra’ perched on the peninsula – Image: AV

Judy, our guide, introduced herself in good English, then in Spanish; there were speakers of both languages aboard. The motor roared, momentarily drowning her words and we carved a great wake away from the wharf.

Bucketing our way over the wave tops, it appeared that even the sea here had potholes, Judy delivered her preliminary speech, quite an informative routine.

We listened as she pointed out the port of San Martin on the opposite side of the bay and then with a dramatic sweep of her arm, our gaze turned to the high dune rising from the bay as the engine was cut and the boat slowed so we wallowed in the troughs and peaks.the huge “candalabra” carved into the peninsula hillside.


Etched into the hillside was a magnificent triple “candalabra.” By whom it was built and when, nobody really knows; apart from the fact that a line through the middle points directly to the famed Nazca Lines 260kms distant. All this information added to the mystery and camera shutters clicked noisily.

On we surged, now out of the protection of the inner bay the boat seemed smaller now as we bucked and sped along at the mercy of the sea.

Our destination, the Ballestas Is - Image: AV

Our destination, the Ballestas Is – Image: AV

Suddenly, the boat reared up on its haunches like a stallion and we were under way again in an arc that took us further from land. The boat began to heave with the swell of the sea as we passed the end of the protective Paracas Peninsula and Judy stood in front, perfectly poised despite the undulating boat, fielding question after question.

Our boat sped on and a great shape made its presence felt on the starboard side. Gliding across wave tops and disappearing below the crests into troughs majestically rising again to soar on, a Royal Albatross graced us with his company; not a wing flap, as he showed us just who was the master of its environment on huge motionless outstretched wings. Again cameras went crazy as the great bird wheeled away and we all stood in silently awe at its magnificence.

The Ballestas Islands were pointed out in the distance, still just grey lumps low on the horizon as we followed the peninsula to open water.

Then panic! In the middle of nowhere, the motor idled, the boat slowed and wallowed dramatically to a halt for no apparent reason. We looked around momentarily bewildered. The islands, our destination, still a long way off, the safety of land was a long way behind us.

Judy drew our attention with the now familiar sweep of her arm to the starboard side once again. The surface of the sea broke and the sleek grey forms of a school of dolphins arched their backs, dorsal fins slicing the water, swam effortlessly along side the boat. Again, we were stunned into silence as Mother Nature showed us once more the beauty of her world. The boat rose and fell with the rhythm of the sea, audibly slapping the swells. It was several moments before cameras started their mechanical clicking hopeful of capturing and recording the seemingly choreographed serenity of the silent grey shapes as the rose again and again to the surface, for our benfit, I think not. Our shutters often fell on empty sea, as we sighed and focused our cameras. From six photos, I managed only one decent shot.

We could have stayed mesmerised for much longer, but the islands beckoned.

Again we surged forward, bow aimed at the dark rocks that now stood awesomely from the water with their creamy coffee-coloured topping.

Their true majesty becoming further apparent as we got nearer and nearer. What were just dark smudges on the horizon now stood breathtakingly far above our heads. Great jagged cliffs rose out of the sea. Caverns carved by millions of years by the raw force of the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean; shingle beaches still being pounded by those same waves.

A little brown face - Image - AV

A little brown face – Image: AV

Suddenly we were confronted with a small brown face peering down at us from a small rocky outcrop. The nose wrinkled, its whiskers twitched, our scent and the petrol fumes of the boat, had to have been a strange mixture. The big dark eyes blinked lazily.

Our first encounter with a sea-lion, a season-old female pup.

Looking down at us with bored interest, she followed our course as we circled her roost. Cameras clicked, the women clucked about how cute she was.

The sea raged against the pup’s rocky haven, dashing its fury almost up to where the brown-coated pup was perched. The orphan-like baby seemed to be cowering in safety as though the waves would dash its fragile body. Disturbed now, it humped along the promontory, one last disdainful look back  and she plopped into the churning waters, timed perfectly with the ebb and flow; nature takes care of its own.

Our attention became focused again on the main island. Thousands of sea birds roosting on the ledges. Blue-footed Boobies we were assured by our guide, then closer to the rocks and a large orange crab clung to the barnacle covered surface of the tidal fringe, wearing the same day-glo orange suit that we had on.

Yes, he took the boat through it - Image: AV

Yes, he took the boat through it – Image: AV

A cave loomed ahead, opening its great maw as if to swallow us like some beast about to enjoy a sweet morsel. We passed another shingle beach as we entered the cave, necks arched as the roof closed ominously over our heads, the swell making us rise and fall. The roar of the sea increased so that it echoed and thundered, amplified by the confines of this void. We sat in this deafening world, cameras clicking silently.

I was pleased that our skipper seemed to know what he was about, he maneuvered the boat skillfully as each new swell threatened us with rocks. The light at the end of the tunnel, what a pleasant sight, nearer, then out again into daylight, a collective sigh.

More birds, perched on the rocks around us. All were named, their names quickly forgotten, lost in the magic.

A great roar shook us from our reverie. The huge maned head of a bull sea-lion glared at us. He reared up defiantly as he roared again, then he sneezed, the passengers on the port side got covered in great gobs of sea-lion snot. I was assured, amid squeals, a less than pleasant experience. He settled, our level of threat had diminished, we lacked the ability to return his challenging roar. He shook his great head, his multiple chins waggling as he did so. He propped is head on the rock to observe our slow progress away from his territory.

The colourful Zarcillo - Image: viru2012

The colourful Zarcillo – Image: viru2012

More Boobies and other assorted seabirds whose less than comic names forgotten. Inching our way along, a small colony of penguins, the colourful Zarcillo with its yellow moustache. They all blinked nonchalantly as we stared through our viewfinders. They continued to blink as we passed.

Image - AV

The gantries for loading guano – Image: AV

Around to the back of the island, and we were surprised to see old derelict buildings nested high on the rocks, suspended gantries and loading docks jutted from the cliffs. Guano, bird poop, was a major income source for Peru. The nitrogen rich fertiliser being highly sought around the world. These islands are now a wildlife reserve, and the haven of two old brothers who act as caretakers. The knee-deep guano is harvested every five years.

Circling the island we see more birds, sea-lions and penguins then into a small bay.

Sea-lion colony - Image: AV

Sea-lion colony – Image: AV

Here to our surprise, a whole colony of sea-lions along a stony beach. Few of the big males were to be seen, holding their heads regally aloft surveying their harems, mostly groups of females with their pups. The sea was full of sleek brown bodies of assorted sizes heading for the beach or leaving for the open sea to do whatever sea-lions do at sea. Swarms of pups played in the tumbling surf close to the beach. More film was exposed as we marveled at nature in the raw.

The dreaded announcement form our guide, it was time to return to the mainland. The boat wheeled away and we glanced back sadly as the islands shrank in the distance to meld with the horizon again. We motored on in silence, each of us shrouded in thought, some of us even eager to return to the safety of land as the mixture of petrol fumes and rolling sea threatened to embarrass us.

The shore came closer, the driver jockeyed for position amongst the other tour boats at the floating dock. The ever-present Lucho was on hand to welcome us and help the ladies to disembark on to the undulating jetty. Our Ballestas Islands tour was over.

We had our memories in our hearts and cameras as we sat at a cafe by the beach. We watched the local kids feed and tease the pelicans flapping at the water’s edge with fish that they had scrounged from the morning’s catches.

My stomach was still queasy from the motion of the boat, I am not a sailor, so I struggled with my orange juice as I evaded the “compra mi’s” of the local kids selling beautiful souvenir sea-lions and other assorted items. No time nor the inclination now for Pisco Sours, besides it was only a little after 10am.


The kids feeding the pelicans – Image: AV

It was fun sitting there watching the kids as they would throw a fish into the water and race the pelicans to retrieve it. The ever-hopeful pelicans flapping and jostling for the pole position as another fish was cast into the water. The children squealed with delight at the confusion they had caused.

Then Lucho’s huge frame towered over the table threatening to block out the light of day, he was summoning us to our next destination.

Sunday Travel Tales

This week is a continuation of last week, which left me standing in the Ormeño bus terminal in Pisco.

Read on…

Chapter 3 – Pisco and Happy Hour

Again I was standing in a bus terminal with that forlorn but hopeful feeling. I searched among the faces of the waiting crowd, hoping for recognition. My hope was rewarded. A smile and a shout inquiring if I was AV. Relax, there is a God after all. Juan was there as promised to meet me as arranged, he came forward took my bags and lead me out of the throng into the street through the plaza until I spotted the sign, “Posada Hispana – English, French and Catalan spoken here.”

After a hearty welcome, another Pisco Sour, I was able to relax and shower before being summoned to reception where I was introduced to a friendly mountain with a beaming smile. This was Luis “but call me Lucho.” This was the man responsible for my safe conduct to the Ballestas Islands next morning. A slap on the back that would have dislocated the shoulder of a lesser mortal, a bear hug and my hand was wrung until dry. The necessary negotiation, my pocket ten dollars lighter and assurances that I would be met in the morning by Gary and taken to the point of departure which was still a mystery.

Lucho sidled through the door, his frame too wide to breast the opening normally and Juan suggested I join a group heading off to the Hotel Paracas for Happy Hour at sunset. Sounded like fun, so we were soon on our way down a heavily pot-holed road along the coast. Past a World War II B-25 Mitchell bomber on a plinth announcing the presence of an air force base.


Boys and fishing boats at San Andres – image AV

On past San Andreas fisherman’s wharf complete with pelicans hovering overhead on the unpredictable droughts, boys diving from moored fishing boats and the Pacific Ocean lapping these Peruvian shores. The crowds of the late afternoon fish market were dispersing, I made a mental note to return and explore this turmoil.

Onward until a familiar smell assaulted my nostrils. Fish meal, an odour unique on this planet. An odour that one doesn’t easily forget. Recalled instantly from my early childhood when my father, who owned a market garden, took me to buy fertiliser.

One by one my fellow passengers were gagging on the malevolent smell and silently I thanked my deceased father for preparing his off-spring for this less than pleasant experience.

I was glad once the last of the fish-meal factories had slid to our stern and the road divided and the potholes deepened amid assurances from our guide that our destination was near.

Playa El Chaco was pointed out as our departure for tomorrow’s adventure. We vaulted on, the small bus protesting at the game of hopscotch over the potholes until we halted in front of the huge iron grilled gates of the Hotel Paracas.

We tumbled from the bus, much like clothing from a tumble drier, after our tortuous journey. Our backsides were thankful for the rest, through an arch and we were in the inner sanctum of the hotel courtyard whose primary feature was a large rusting sculpture of a condor. We stumbled through the heavy revolving door. I have never had much faith in these archaic monstrosities, but nevertheless managed this one with limbs intact.

Trooping across the vast expanse of the dining room to the poolside like invaders, we plopped ourselves wearily into bamboo chairs and marveled at the scene. Definitely an upmarket establishment, quite beyond our normal means. Beyond the crystalline pool, chalets for the bathers and bars for drinkers a pier stretched out into the Paracas Bay. Tall palms trees, mowed lawns and deserted play areas were framed by the picturesque backdrop of the Paracas Peninsula.

Ahhh! The waiter. To a man (well, to a woman as well) each of echoed “Pisco Sour” as though playing an audible game of Chinese Whispers. We all grinned knowing that we had come to participate in Happy Hour where this legendary concoction (never heard of before I was in Peru) was served in bulbous stemmed glasses the size of a small bucket for the princely sum of six soles, half the normal price.


Sunset from Paracas Hotel – image AV

Awaiting this palette-tingling indulgence we watched the sun set toward the cloud strewn horizon, many grabbed cameras before drinks arrived scattering around the grounds for our personal best spot.

The sky blushed, as though caught with its knickers down, glowing gold, shades of pink then bright orange before the fiery red of sunset. I managed an arty photo through heavy palm fronds silhouetted against the gold sky.

Satisfied with my effort I rejoined the Pisco Sour platoon just as drinks arrived. We supped our liquid fare with varying oooh’s and aaah’s expressing approval while discussing our hoped for photographic success and tomorrow’s adventure as the barometers of our second Pisco Sours told us it was time to return to Pisco and dine at a more affordable location now that Peru’s national drink had returned to its twelve-sole-status.

Huddled in our micro bus we found each pothole again, the malodorous fragrances enhanced by our now sensitised nostrils, past the air force base and finally the uneven, unpaved streets of Pisco, our micro bumped along before disgorging us noisily at a local restaurant.

No sooner than we were shown to a table big enough to accommodate us all menus were strewn amongst us. We pondered over the Spanish that was eventually to lead to our evening fare. The waiters busily distributed more complimentary Pisco Sours, thankfully much more modest than the hotel version. Some eyes brightened, others wilted at the sight. Stalwarts raised their glasses with a Spanish sounding “salud,” others left theirs discreetly alone.


Pisco Sour

Our bravado bolstered by the traditional fortification of Ica’s clear grape brandy and fluffy egg white cocktail, we ordered, stumbling over foreign words. The waiter’s patience was amazing and our guide very busy fielding questions like a Mastermind contestant.

Eventually the menus gone, conversations resumed, Pisco Sours consumed, our appetites whetted by one of Peru’s cultural aspects, we steeled ourselves for another; Cerviche, that fish dish served cold. Peru’s version of sushi; seafood marinated in lemon juice and lots and lots of “aji” (chili). Halibut, bass, squid, octopus, scallops; it was all there.


Forks stabbed at the fleshy white cubes, tentatively raised, found immediate approval. We soon learned the art of passing the morsels directly into the mouth avoiding all contact with lips that were well alight by the chili. Extra beer to quench the flames, and our piles of fish and sweet potatoes diminished amid murmurs of appreciation.

The meal progressed, appetites sated. We wandered as a group from the restaurant to our refuge, dreams already simmering.

Crossing a side street we were confronted by a delinquent soccer ball as an errant goalie let one slip through to the jeering of his ragged friends. One of our group applied a boot and sent the ball back to the players. The scruffy barefoot boys chanting an invitation to join their midnight game. Several did, I watched from the safety of the footpath as the belly-heavy warriors pitted their skills against the fleet-footed urchins; only to succumb to the skills of youth. The men staggered around the street as best they could, the boys shouting encouragement. They were clearly the masters.

Our brave warriors limped away, trounced on that dirty Pisco street corner.

Sunday Travel Tales

Yes, I know it’s Monday. I had a bad connection weekend and it dampened my enthusiasm somewhat. But here I am…

I had a break in December, but back with Travel Tales with renewed vigour.

Peru again, this time another extract from my grammar book. We are taking the bus from Lima to Pisco, doesn’t sound very exciting, but read on.

Chapter 2 – The Bus

The bus was due to leave at 10:30am, in ten minutes, which, in due course, left me wondering why I was still waiting an hour later. I had discovered another aspect of Peruvian life, that phenomenon known simply as “hora del Peru,” that element of flexibility that goes someway into explaining the Peruvians inability to even remotely adhere to traditional time scales.


ormeñoartvusFinally, ushered through the door (I had deposited my bags earlier) I was confronted by a behemoth whose mid-section resembled a piano accordian. This monster swallowed us all and backed away from the terminal. Underway at last. Out on to the busy Lima street and, to my surprise, immediately turned back into the next gateway darkening any hope of an imminent departure.


Expertly the beast wove its way through the nether regions of the bus depot, various makes and models of bus at diverse stages of being disembowelled or reassamebled, either way, it was hard to tell the difference.


Then, miraculously, we were back on the street, but stationary. The nose of the bus protruding over the footpath and a couple of non-descript characters descended and began yelling, “Chincha, Pisco!” repeatedly. Locals appeared from nowhere and clambered aboard. Some even appeared to be just strolling along the street, and, succumbing to the frantic urgings of the yellers, climbed aboard on a mere whim to either Chicha or Pisco. Strange…


The driver climbed aboard, and once in his rightful place our flexible chariot jolted forward unsteadily to negotiate the Lima traffic until we were safely on the Panamerica Sur.


Once on this multi-lane highway and free of the city congestion we settled down to what appeared to be a comfortable speed. A glance over the driver’s shoulder revealed the speedo needle flickering precariously between 120 and 130kms/hour.


4261-21861I glanced at both sides of the highway taking in the view as we careened sweetly along. “Pueblos Jovenes,” the young towns, a euphemism for the slums that were perched and scattered on the high sand dunes on the left. On the right, the same sight with less sand dunes. Poverty made its sad impact as I wondered how people forced to live in such squallid conditions coped. Trying hard to equate my comfortable first world upbringing with the tortuous daily struggle faced by these artless squatters with none of the familar amenities.


Now that I was at ease with our driver’s ability to control our speeding behemoth, especially after the tactics he used to dodge, swerve and keep us safely from harm as a truckload of foam mattresses exploded all over the higway as a restraining rope gave way.


The scenery changed, the backdrop still essentially the same dull sky and never-ending dunes, we passed frequent beach resorts and the occasional abandoned agricultural project, desserted chicken farms, fields of drying or dying vegetaion, neglected for a myriad of reasons.


Horrible grey sand dunes slipped past under the still horrible grey shroud, all permanetly depressing.


cottonflowersFinally, relief, vegetation, sun. Paddocks of green, fields of cotton punctuated with yellow blooms, acres of asparagus fern, corn fields, casava crops and citrus groves were among the many identifiable crops. The muddy irrigation ditches outlining and dividing the parched soils.


Great canals lined the road, naked children leapt from the banks with delight into the dirty cool waters, their gleeful screams lost as we hurtled past. Mothers labouriously washed clothes in the same water and piled them high, the nearby bushes bloomed with the strange fruit of sun-drying clothes. Daughters dandled nappied babies on their laps on the grass beside their toiling mums. These scenes continued as we sped on toward Pisco.


Soon we were rewarded by our arrival at the mysterious Chincha. A largish town, roads choked with traffic mainly in the form of motor-rickshaw type taxis, that buzzed everywhere like bees. Circling the square with its stalls selling the local produce, wines, spirits and port, and of course that famous local product; Pisco.


inka kolaStationary in front of the depot, the doors opened and the bus was flooded with boys and girls, men and women. Everybody was selling something. Newspapers, chocolate and tepid fizzy drinks, including that diabolical Peruvian invention “Inka Kola,” a bright yellow concoction that looked like horse pee and tasted like bottled bubblegum, even now I shudder at the thought.


With a change of passengers, the chaotic exit of the sellers, the bus was ready to go only being prevented from moving by a relic of the US auto-industry’s heyday. A battered, almost beyond recognition, early ‘60’s Dodge (definitely well past its validity date) was parked driverless in the middle of the road while its driver was away on some unguessed business. A couple of locals recognising our plight, reached in relaesed the handbrake and pushed it out of the way.


A lurch and we turned tightly out of the square. The driver had to be commended for his ability to manouever this outsized piano accordian in seemingly impossible situations. Weaving through the chaos back to the safety of the highway, even though it had for some time been reduced to a single lane.


After a journey of four hours it was with some relief that we turned off the main road toward the coast and the final few kilometres to Pisco. Negotiating the narrow streets the driver again displayed his skills with horn blaring to hurry along the slow buzzing motor-taxis, we arrived. Safely inside the bus depot, gate closed, a final lurch and were at a standstill. Once off the bus we were able to claim our baggage.

Sunday Travel Tales


South of Lima, about 240kms is Pisco

A further 21km along the coast past the Peruvian Air Force Base with it’s B-25 Mitchell Bomber on a plinth at the gate.

I used to have a photo of that, but it is long gone. I have just spent an hour searching on the net and I can’t believe that that with 7 billion people on the planet and no one, nobody has ever taken a photo of this monument and posted it on the net… unbelieveable.

Further on down the coast past San Andres fishing wharf.

Muelle, San Andres


Kids take possession of the fishing boats as a playground


On past the fish meal factories and their interminable stench…

Fish meal and fish oil are major exports for Peru

Until you come to the fork in the road, veer right and pass the church, standing alone among the dunes. On the left, high amongst the dunes over looking the small fishing village of Playa El Chaco is the monument to Simon Bolivar. Playa El Chaco was where he landed to liberate Peru.

Playa El Chaco is famous for tourism. It is the departure point for tourists to embark on their two-hour tours around the Ballestas Islands 17 nautical miles off the coast.

Basically, that’s what tourists come here for, that and the starting point for an afternoon exploring the Paracas Peninsula.

The programme for most backpackers consists of staying in Pisco overnight; some groups come on down to the Paracas Hotel in the evening for Happy Hour pisco sours and return to Pisco for dinner.

After breakfast they return to El Chaco (there is not enough accommodation in El Chaco to hold so many tourists). An 8am or 10am Ballestas tour (tours are not done in the afternoon because the sea is too rough). Then off to the peninsula, with lunch at Langunilla (four restaurants, no toilets and a lovely beach where you must wear sandles to avoid the sea urchins).

Then they’re off, off to Ica and the oasis at Huacachina, then Nazca… but that’s another story.

The Ballestas Islands


Sunset over the Paracas Peninsula silhouetting the fishing boats

Credit: 4 photos are mine, the kids on the boat and the last three. Once again, I apologise for the quality of the photos, but time and traveling have ravaged them.

NB: I lived in El Chaco for six months on 2000, working for a travel agency in Pisco, and ocassionally doing the tour guide bit on the boats.

Ballestas Is and the Peninsula will be another post.

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