In a guise of being helpful, and an effort to sell me another tour, the owner of the Pisco Travel Agency asked me to stop by his office before I left, because he ostensibly had information on transportation options to Huacachina (pronounced WHAC-a-CHEEN-a, and fun to say). Although I was hoping to leave on the first thing out of town, I figured meeting at nine wouldn’t set me back too bad and he might have some useful advice. First, he told me about the most complicated option of taking a taxi to Pisco, a bus to Ica, and another combi into Huacachina. Then, he told me about a bus his tour company works with that goes directly to Huacachina. It was leaving in two hours, he could reserve my seat for 20 sols, and this led into his sales pitch for the tours he offered for Dune Buggies and Sand boarding. Finally, he told me there was a direct public bus that I could have caught at seven that morning. If he’d really wanted to be helpful, he could have told me about the seven o’clock bus the night before.
After being let down one last time by Pisco Travel, I headed for Huacachina. The drive impressed upon me yet again how expansive the coastal desert is. As we climbed into the provincial capital of Ica, I began to see something even more impressive: farms. Somehow, the natives of Peru managed to tap into the mountain drainage systems in order to establish farms and grow crops under the most inhospitable conditions, and the locals continue these traditions today.
On the outskirts of Ica, the crops are planted in infertile sand, and manage to grow in a patchwork of farm plots stitched together with barbwire and thorn thickets. And where this blanket of green abruptly ends, the desert encroaches and quickly reclaims any land that isn’t nursed to life by the dedicated farmers.
To further accentuate nature’s efforts to reclaim the farmland, massive sand dunes rise up on the horizon and look as if they have amassed and are now waiting for one final storm before they overtake the farms and city that sit in their shadow. We passed briefly through the city of Ica before turning west into the dunes and driving deep into canyons of sand on our way to Huacachina.
Huacachina is an oasis in the middle of the dunes and was once a getaway for Peru’s elite, who used to swim in the natural spring and bathe in the ‘curative’ mud. Today, the site has been overrun by back-packers, and swimming and mud baths are not recommended. Instead, tourists head for the dunes for dune buggy rides and sand boarding, which is what I came for as well.
The oasis has both a surreal and relaxed feel. Around the springs, they have built a garden/park with palm trees and a walk that wraps around three sides of the pond. Those three sides are also surrounded by hotels, restaurants and shops, and the last side has been left in the natural state with dunes descending all the way down the water’s edge like a mountain beach. Along the edge of the garden, there are also the remains of old changing rooms and outdoor shower trees from a bygone era of mud baths and swimming. They stand in a long row of wooden doors with broken shutters, some wired shut while others still have door knobs that are locked. Through the broken shutters, you can see the small changing rooms littered with trash and graffiti.
The atmosphere, inviting gardens, and assortment of poolside restaurants and bars, could have kept me in town for a week, if I vacationed to relax. However, I was here for the sand boarding and before I even found a place to sleep, I sought out a tour for later that evening. My tour group met outside one of the many hostels in town, and was made up of mostly young Israelis with a spring break vibe. A discussion unfolded in a mix of Spanish and Hebrew debating how extreme the ride would be for each buggy. The guys all loaded into one buggy, and the girls climbed in the other. I assumed the ride would be more adrenaline filled with the guys, which was confirmed by one of the girls who said, ‘What are you crazy? You’ll end up with a broken arm riding with them!’
What we failed to account for was the added weight of all the guys in one vehicle. Instead of a wild ride, we ended up bogged down and couldn’t build up any speed for the hills. Our driver even backed up to get a running start on one of the larger dunes, and ended up getting stuck momentarily. So our promise of ‘Driving more crazy!’ turned into more ‘Driving Ms. Daisy.’ Meanwhile, the ladies were having a great time in the other buggy, screaming and laughing as they flew past us and across the dunes with ease.
Our first boarding stop was at a high point of the dunes, which gave us incredible views of the city of Ica, with the dunes encroaching from the west, and pinned against the foothills of the Andes to the east. The sun was setting, accentuating the lines and ripples of the dunes as they slowly faded to gold and orange.
Everyone poured out of the buggies like clowns out of a car, energized and babbling in many tongues about the wild ride and amazing views. Our guides began to offload our sand boards as everyone began taking pictures of their groups, the buggies and the 360 degree panorama.
I had upgraded for the dune boarding, so I had snowboarding boots on and strapped into a regular snowboard with proper bindings. Meanwhile, the novices were studying their pieces of plywood with Velcro straps trying to figure how they were supposed to ride them down the mountain.
I stood up on my board at the edge of the first dune, tipped my weight forward and slid over the precipice. Once I was moving, I found that sand boarding was very much like snowboarding in heavy powder. I had to lean back toward the dune to keep the nose of my board from digging into the sand. I did a few turns and, just as suspected, the nose of my board began to sink, stop, and I did a slow roll head first down the mountain into the soft sand. Fortunately, sand is a little less startling than snow as it runs down the back of your shirt, but my shorts also grew heavy as my pockets filled with sand. I recovered quickly, brushed off the sand, and finished my first run.
As I worked my way back up the dune, the rest of the group was beginning to come down on their boards. Most were sitting on their boards, or lying on them and riding down face first. Some of the Israeli girls would scream in terror as their friends gave them an initial push over the edge, but as they descended, the screams would change from terror to glee.
A few brave souls decided to try strapping into the Velcro and stand up on the basic boards, some survived, while others ate sand. A girl from Texas probably had the most spectacular wipeout. She strapped in and barreled down the dune without trying to slow down. At the base of the dune, her edge caught and threw her head first into the sand like a scared ostrich. I would have laughed, and many did, but it looked like it hurt. In an effort to save cool points, she recovered quickly and said she was fine, but took it easy the rest of the tour.
The dune at the first stop was fun and good training, but a very short run. At the next two stops on the tour, the dunes got progressively taller and the last one nearly took my breath away. The dune’s slope was about 70 degrees, which seemed like an impossible pitch for the sand -- as if any disturbance would have set off an avalanche of sand -- a ‘sanvalanche’ if you will. Now add that to the fact that the hill was over 500 feet tall, and we had a recipe for a great final run.
I had been hanging out with a German all afternoon, because he was the only other boarder that had upgraded to good boots, board and bindings. He had blonde dreadlocks that hung nearly to his waist and a scraggly beard. He had the look of the quintessential hippy backpacker, and I assumed he was a long-term globe trotter with no aspirations beyond the moment. However, he was also the quintessential example of not judging a book by its cover. He was only in Peru a few months doing volunteer work before returning to Germany to finish his thesis for a Mechanical Engineering masters degree.
We were the first ones down and looked back up the mountain just in time to watch a board fly down the dune without its rider. Since zee German and I had such a good run, we decided to hike back up for another one, and I grabbed the lone board to return it to whoever had lost it. As we hiked up the mountain, and the sand gave way under our feet, we lost one step of ground for every two steps we took. Now the mountain literally was taking my breath away, and if I hadn’t been returning the runaway board, I probably would have given up before we reached the top.
Even thought hiking down would have been easy, the owner of the runaway board was very grateful for its return so he could ride instead. The Texan had recovered from her tumble on the first hill, and set a possible sand speed record with her final descent. The sand at the base of the dune was rippled like a rough sea and she was rattled again as she bounced over the wave tops before finally coming to a stop. My final run was fun, but too short to make up for the strenuous hike up. However, the German wanted to get as many runs as possible and ascended one more time as dusk settled in over the dunes.
We returned to the Oasis in the dark with only the dim headlights of our buggies illuminating and exaggerating the rolling terrain in front of us. The dunes looked like walls of sand as we approached them and then disappeared into a black abyss as we rolled over the top of them. Though it still lacked the top speeds we had hoped for, the reduced visibility made the return more thrilling and had my stomach in my throat a few times.
I finished off my visit with a barbeque dinner at my hostel. It was served family style with a few free drinks and extra wine brought in by some of the other guests, which made it a very fun and social event. I met a pair of sisters from England that had quit their jobs to travel the globe for a year. One had developed a strange case of claustrophobic tourettes from sleeping in too many hostel bunk beds. She now wakes up cursing, kicking and punching, fearing that the bunk bed or roof is collapsing on her. Unfortunately, this also happens when she shares a double bed, so her sister often gets kicked or punched out of bed. And, when they are in dorm, everyone in the room is woken up in a panic wondering what just happened in the dark corners of the room.
After dinner, I happily retired to my private room, where I could get some tourettes free sleep, before my early morning bus to Nazca to fly over the famous Nazca lines.
After being let down one last time by Pisco Travel, I headed for Huacachina. The drive impressed upon me yet again how expansive the coastal desert is. As we climbed into the provincial capital of Ica, I began to see something even more impressive: farms. Somehow, the natives of Peru managed to tap into the mountain drainage systems in order to establish farms and grow crops under the most inhospitable conditions, and the locals continue these traditions today.
On the outskirts of Ica, the crops are planted in infertile sand, and manage to grow in a patchwork of farm plots stitched together with barbwire and thorn thickets. And where this blanket of green abruptly ends, the desert encroaches and quickly reclaims any land that isn’t nursed to life by the dedicated farmers.
To further accentuate nature’s efforts to reclaim the farmland, massive sand dunes rise up on the horizon and look as if they have amassed and are now waiting for one final storm before they overtake the farms and city that sit in their shadow. We passed briefly through the city of Ica before turning west into the dunes and driving deep into canyons of sand on our way to Huacachina.
Huacachina is an oasis in the middle of the dunes and was once a getaway for Peru’s elite, who used to swim in the natural spring and bathe in the ‘curative’ mud. Today, the site has been overrun by back-packers, and swimming and mud baths are not recommended. Instead, tourists head for the dunes for dune buggy rides and sand boarding, which is what I came for as well.
The oasis has both a surreal and relaxed feel. Around the springs, they have built a garden/park with palm trees and a walk that wraps around three sides of the pond. Those three sides are also surrounded by hotels, restaurants and shops, and the last side has been left in the natural state with dunes descending all the way down the water’s edge like a mountain beach. Along the edge of the garden, there are also the remains of old changing rooms and outdoor shower trees from a bygone era of mud baths and swimming. They stand in a long row of wooden doors with broken shutters, some wired shut while others still have door knobs that are locked. Through the broken shutters, you can see the small changing rooms littered with trash and graffiti.
The atmosphere, inviting gardens, and assortment of poolside restaurants and bars, could have kept me in town for a week, if I vacationed to relax. However, I was here for the sand boarding and before I even found a place to sleep, I sought out a tour for later that evening. My tour group met outside one of the many hostels in town, and was made up of mostly young Israelis with a spring break vibe. A discussion unfolded in a mix of Spanish and Hebrew debating how extreme the ride would be for each buggy. The guys all loaded into one buggy, and the girls climbed in the other. I assumed the ride would be more adrenaline filled with the guys, which was confirmed by one of the girls who said, ‘What are you crazy? You’ll end up with a broken arm riding with them!’
What we failed to account for was the added weight of all the guys in one vehicle. Instead of a wild ride, we ended up bogged down and couldn’t build up any speed for the hills. Our driver even backed up to get a running start on one of the larger dunes, and ended up getting stuck momentarily. So our promise of ‘Driving more crazy!’ turned into more ‘Driving Ms. Daisy.’ Meanwhile, the ladies were having a great time in the other buggy, screaming and laughing as they flew past us and across the dunes with ease.
Our first boarding stop was at a high point of the dunes, which gave us incredible views of the city of Ica, with the dunes encroaching from the west, and pinned against the foothills of the Andes to the east. The sun was setting, accentuating the lines and ripples of the dunes as they slowly faded to gold and orange.
Everyone poured out of the buggies like clowns out of a car, energized and babbling in many tongues about the wild ride and amazing views. Our guides began to offload our sand boards as everyone began taking pictures of their groups, the buggies and the 360 degree panorama.
I had upgraded for the dune boarding, so I had snowboarding boots on and strapped into a regular snowboard with proper bindings. Meanwhile, the novices were studying their pieces of plywood with Velcro straps trying to figure how they were supposed to ride them down the mountain.
I stood up on my board at the edge of the first dune, tipped my weight forward and slid over the precipice. Once I was moving, I found that sand boarding was very much like snowboarding in heavy powder. I had to lean back toward the dune to keep the nose of my board from digging into the sand. I did a few turns and, just as suspected, the nose of my board began to sink, stop, and I did a slow roll head first down the mountain into the soft sand. Fortunately, sand is a little less startling than snow as it runs down the back of your shirt, but my shorts also grew heavy as my pockets filled with sand. I recovered quickly, brushed off the sand, and finished my first run.
As I worked my way back up the dune, the rest of the group was beginning to come down on their boards. Most were sitting on their boards, or lying on them and riding down face first. Some of the Israeli girls would scream in terror as their friends gave them an initial push over the edge, but as they descended, the screams would change from terror to glee.
A few brave souls decided to try strapping into the Velcro and stand up on the basic boards, some survived, while others ate sand. A girl from Texas probably had the most spectacular wipeout. She strapped in and barreled down the dune without trying to slow down. At the base of the dune, her edge caught and threw her head first into the sand like a scared ostrich. I would have laughed, and many did, but it looked like it hurt. In an effort to save cool points, she recovered quickly and said she was fine, but took it easy the rest of the tour.
The dune at the first stop was fun and good training, but a very short run. At the next two stops on the tour, the dunes got progressively taller and the last one nearly took my breath away. The dune’s slope was about 70 degrees, which seemed like an impossible pitch for the sand -- as if any disturbance would have set off an avalanche of sand -- a ‘sanvalanche’ if you will. Now add that to the fact that the hill was over 500 feet tall, and we had a recipe for a great final run.
I had been hanging out with a German all afternoon, because he was the only other boarder that had upgraded to good boots, board and bindings. He had blonde dreadlocks that hung nearly to his waist and a scraggly beard. He had the look of the quintessential hippy backpacker, and I assumed he was a long-term globe trotter with no aspirations beyond the moment. However, he was also the quintessential example of not judging a book by its cover. He was only in Peru a few months doing volunteer work before returning to Germany to finish his thesis for a Mechanical Engineering masters degree.
We were the first ones down and looked back up the mountain just in time to watch a board fly down the dune without its rider. Since zee German and I had such a good run, we decided to hike back up for another one, and I grabbed the lone board to return it to whoever had lost it. As we hiked up the mountain, and the sand gave way under our feet, we lost one step of ground for every two steps we took. Now the mountain literally was taking my breath away, and if I hadn’t been returning the runaway board, I probably would have given up before we reached the top.
Even thought hiking down would have been easy, the owner of the runaway board was very grateful for its return so he could ride instead. The Texan had recovered from her tumble on the first hill, and set a possible sand speed record with her final descent. The sand at the base of the dune was rippled like a rough sea and she was rattled again as she bounced over the wave tops before finally coming to a stop. My final run was fun, but too short to make up for the strenuous hike up. However, the German wanted to get as many runs as possible and ascended one more time as dusk settled in over the dunes.
We returned to the Oasis in the dark with only the dim headlights of our buggies illuminating and exaggerating the rolling terrain in front of us. The dunes looked like walls of sand as we approached them and then disappeared into a black abyss as we rolled over the top of them. Though it still lacked the top speeds we had hoped for, the reduced visibility made the return more thrilling and had my stomach in my throat a few times.
I finished off my visit with a barbeque dinner at my hostel. It was served family style with a few free drinks and extra wine brought in by some of the other guests, which made it a very fun and social event. I met a pair of sisters from England that had quit their jobs to travel the globe for a year. One had developed a strange case of claustrophobic tourettes from sleeping in too many hostel bunk beds. She now wakes up cursing, kicking and punching, fearing that the bunk bed or roof is collapsing on her. Unfortunately, this also happens when she shares a double bed, so her sister often gets kicked or punched out of bed. And, when they are in dorm, everyone in the room is woken up in a panic wondering what just happened in the dark corners of the room.
After dinner, I happily retired to my private room, where I could get some tourettes free sleep, before my early morning bus to Nazca to fly over the famous Nazca lines.
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