Ships of the Desert

I think it's Saturday December 17th, 2011. I know it's 5:30 in the morning. We're on a bus line called Movil cruising South along the desolate Peruvian coast between Chiclayo and Trujillo. Most of the pasenjeros are still asleep as I watch the sun rise and slowly change from the deep black of no city lights to the light blue gray that comes on just before the day's giant heat lamp.

The light that has long since killed every form of vegetation in all directions to every horizon. There's plenty of traffic on the black top runway for our horn happy chauffer to vent his frustrations against and play chicken with. Normally, one might try not pay attention to his game of vehicular Russian roullette, but when you're in Seats #1 for the extra leg room it's hard to ignore. #1, #2, #3 and #4 are on top of the double decker bus, in front and above our driver with the death wish.

The towns and cities are usually on rivers headed to the Pacific, so green of plant life begins to appear as you approach each desert settlement (zona urbana). Small dirty towns with clean little central parks and their obligatory statue of a native son hero. Although, now in mid-Decemeber, all the diferent flowering trees in these parks are decorated with colored foil, snow-like tinsel and twinkling lights to herald Christmas. The donkeys, sheep, sheppards and baby of the life-sized nativity scenes of each pueblo keeping silent watch in the front of its church named for their native daughter saint.

Then, the bushes, trees and grass begin to thin and "Whhoooosshh!" we're back out adrift in the ocean of white rocky sand. Only this time, it's a little hotter than last time because the night's coolness has run away to hide in whatever shade she can find.