Of Pisco and Peru: Arequipa Pt. 4

Bienvenidos to The Big South

Peru’s familiar fog kicks in, smudging out the coastal blue sky like we’re driving through a photoshop filter. Parts of the South run are beautiful, but there are stretches of desert down here so forsaken they’d make Cormac McCarthy go ‘F- no! Not that bleak!’ Just kilometers and kilometers of dunnish brown with barrels of trash strewn along the side of the Pan American Highway, all encased in a choking, murky haze.

Auntie M’s feeling carefree, though, singing along to the Beach Boys’ ‘Surfing Safari’ as she checks out the gas gauge. “We needs more gasolina.” A quick glance over at me. “This tour of yours could get eh-spensive. You sure you want to go on?”

My eyes gleam, matching my devious grin. “Visa/Mastercard. It’s what shitty financial decisions are made with.”

We stop off in Cerro Azul to fuel up. We catch a quick stretch of the legs on the sidewalk, watching vendors selling snacks and knickknacks to families fog bathing under bright umbrellas while perfectly-arched waves cascade at a long pier in the background.

“Es you ready for the next beach. . . Aosis?”

“Oasis?”

“Asu mierda. O-A-ses. O-A-sis. . . oasis. Sí.”

I can almost hear her thinking as she collects her novel word sounds, stacking them like seashells on the beachfront property of her mind.

It’s back on the road. I’ve managed to tie a small Ekeko Smoking God of Prosperity figurine to the rearview mirror, hoping to ward off any evil spirits and Pishtaco hitchhikers heading down the Pan-American.

Most Peruvian drivers have some totem for road protection stuck on their windshields and we were sorely lacking. Amuletless. Driving while spiritually naked. But now, thanks to this shrewd $1.50 investment, all is right with the world. The fog has blown off, and life’s positivity is shining through.

Auntie M keeps the Yaris’ accelerator pegged as we take in the debris-strewn town of Pisco. She runs her fingers through her chestnut hair. “A eh-size eight earthquake here eh-short while back.” We glance around at the damaged houses and buildings. Auntie M lets out a soft whistle as we pass a big lot filled with dust and rubble. “The ground eh-shooks for two minutes. Lots of deaths. Over a hundred dies attending mass at the San Clemente Cathedral.”

My precious. I rub the Ekeko Smoking God while watching townspeople sporadically mill about, living whatever constitutes a normal life for themselves.

No earthquakes, please.