|
I am where I should be. In
the land of sandboarding. Already a man has offered me a board for rent.
I say, “No, Señor, gracias,” but he is persistent, insisting over
and over, “Try it, it’s fun and easy.” I pay no attention and speed up my
pace, recalling the tragic story of a maiden, who, overwhelmed by love,
threw herself into the sleeping waters of Huacachina in her desperation.
She turned into a mermaid,
and the iqueños (Peruvians from the region of Ica) believe that
each full moon she emerges from the waters to sing about her pain.
They’ve even made a monument to her, which I observe at length before
heading up the dunes, already covered with dozens of boarders on their way
up the peaks of sand.
I take my first steps on
the dune. The ascent will be difficult. The sand pulls my feet under and
the sun burns with fury, as if wanting to melt the sportsmen and their
admirers in a fit of pique.
I ascend several meters,
avoiding a group of children who slide past on pieces of cardboard and
ragged old snowboard discards. They laugh happily, shout, and plunge
flying down the face of the dune. “The future of the sport,” I think to
myself, like a campaigning politician. My steps slow. Will I make it to
the top?
I
came out here to check out the oasis called Huacachina and its surrounding
sand dunes, ideal for the practice of that gritty madness popularly known
as sandboarding.
I began my trip this
morning in Lima, where it sometimes seems that the only constants in life
are the everlasting gray sky of the metropolis and the perverse custom –
some might label it a national sport – of breaking the rules. That is why
I stood waiting for the bus in the middle of the highway, rather than the
bus station.
When
the bus came by, I stretched my arm out to hail it, asked about prices and
glanced inside. Five hours is no short trip, and it is indispensable to
verify a few important details before embarking on any adventure on the
roads of Peru.
First I observed the
driver. Was he sober? Did he have bags under his eyes? Then I looked at
the state of the seats (hmm, I had seen worse, they wouldn’t break my
back) and of the television (in working order, clear picture for watching
Van Damme, Rambo, Jackie Chang and other gorillas hitting anything that
moves). Finally, I check the state of the hostess. She was wearing a
smile somewhere between friendly and bored and seemed to have a good stock
of road-trip snacks. All in all, I couldn’t complain.
Decision made, I hopped
into the bus, and while the heroic Rambo dispatched a dozen Vietnamese, I
traveled imagining the spectacular leaps, flips, breaks and turns of
master boarders in the hot world of sand. It would be like sliding down
the snow but without snow; it would be like running waves, but without
waves, and without sea, just a precious lagoon in the background.
Soon enough the ride was
over, and thousands of scenes still floated in my imagination as I got out
in Ica. In the blazing desert, the dunes bordering Huacachina lagoon
awaited me, as well as hoards of young people looking for extreme fun,
plowing down the sand on thin wooden boards.
On my way up the dune,
exhaustion overwhelms me. I sit down on the sand. Now I am like a bird
gliding over the lagoon. Huarango trees and a handful of houses
and hotels surround it. I rest and dream of a small piece of shade,
because I can’t stand the sun continuously drilling my into head, stealing
my energy, preventing me from getting to the top where boards let loose
and adventure is born.
I wish I were there
already, to witness the experienced “sand puppets” fighting to keep their
balance while bombing down the slope. Everything happens so fast that the
slightest error can cause a terrible fall. To rule the dune is not easy.
It requires a lot of bravery and a bit of madness. Knowing how to fall is
key.
Sandboarding is a
relatively young sport worldwide. Around 1960, the activity began to gain
popularity, first with surfers and skateboarders who realized that sliding
on sand was fun, required a certain technique and ability, and gave them a
healthy dose of adrenalin.
Florianópolis in Brazil is
one of the first places where the sport was practiced. Having fun was the
most important goal, and any object served to slide on; cardboard boxes,
pieces of cars, surfboards, and even water skis.
The sport grew and one good
day arrived in Peru, and adventure sportsmen turned their eyes toward the
dunes of Ica. They were perfect, exemplary; a true sand paradise – finally
the desert would be good for something.
 “It’s
fabulous, you have to come,” Matías Grados, one of the more enthusiastic
promoters of sandboard in Peru, had invited me with assurances that the
dunes of Huacachina are some of the best on the planet. That is what
foreign tourists say, and even the world champion of sandboarding,
Brazilian Digiacomo Días, has been heard to agree.
Sandboarding is a major
growth industry in Ica.. The dunes of the Huacachina are becoming famous,
seducing and inspiring sportsmen with more than 750 vertical feet of pure
adrenalin.
That is reason enough to
visit this hunchback of the desert, rent a board and try your luck, just
like lots of other young people, Peruvians and foreigners, beginners who
sail straight into the sand or experts able to dribble to the last flag of
a slalom run or to make magical turns off a jumping ramp.
After forty minutes of
walking, I finally make it to the top of the dune. I am a wreck, a strange
mixture of sweat and sand, and I’m thinking about the madness of those
guys who take on the slope carrying a board under the arm and then, as
soon as they reach the top, strap in and bomb down again in a matter of
seconds.
“Isn’t this a totally
absurd, vicious circle?” I ask aloud to see if anyone answers. Nobody
does. They are all doing their own thing and don’t want to lose time
giving explanations. They know what they are doing and exactly why they
are doing it.
At the top there is
commotion. Boarders launch themselves one after the other onto the slope;
sometimes with a liberating shout in a gallant attempt to make it to the
east side of the dune and its traitorous huarangos (a essential
tree in an iqueño landscape), where well known boarder Sandro
Garcia broke his leg last summer.
The risks are just part of
the thrill. “Nobody is exempt,” says Rudy Olivo, a boarder from Chimbote,
in northern Peru.
Rudy feels like talking. He
tells me that he always comes by Huacachina for fun, but not to compete in
the national and international championships held here. “I’m not into it,”
he says, sounding like a student explaining to his teacher that he didn’t
do his homework because it was too easy.
From up above, the
Huacachina lagoon is a gorgeous oasis in the midst of dunes and sandbanks,
with palms, eucalyptuses, tamarinds and huarangos. A miracle in the
desert. A romantic, emerald lagoon where lovers making promises of
eternity cruise around on pedal boats.
Time slides by on the sand.
Night is closing in and a bright, full moon is expected. It’s time for
“big air”, the finishing touch for a day full of excitement. Big air is
proof that something is off in these sandboarders’ minds. I say this with
respect and admiration, because flying up the ramp at full speed and
taking advantage of mere seconds to do specialized stunts is a true
assault on gravity.
 Jumps
and more jumps. It’s a great spectacle. Applause, hurrahs, prolonged
“ohhhhhhhs” of admiration, until the long awaited for moment arrives –
it’s Digiacomo Días’ turn, the great Digi, the champion of the world.
And Digi is on the ramp,
and Digi is flying, and Digi does a full turn and lands on his feet, and
rides the rest of the way down the dune, totally cool. “Bravo! This guy
is great! More! More!” shout the other sportsmen. “The Brazilian has
outdone himself,” says a boarder from Cerro de Pasco (the mining capital
of Peru), elbowing me.
The cheering convinces Digi.
Here he goes again. Again the ramp, the vertigo, the flip and the fall...
“Hey, what happened?”
“Ah, poor guy miscalculated
and took a big blow in the back.”
“He’ll be all right. Help
him, man.”
The public reacts and runs
to help him. Only a scare. A blow. Part of the sport. Nobody is exempt,
not even the great Digi. The phrase is forceful and accurate.
The day ends. It’s
nighttime already. Now all I have left to do is look at the full moon and
to try to hear the mermaid’s song. I don’t hear anything. Huacachina
sleeps; tonight she’s not singing about eternal pain.
|
S andboarding Association Ica
Matías Grados:
matiasgm2002@yahoo.com
S andboard Contact Huacachina –
Fernando Mayo at Mayo Restaurant
H otels
in Ica
Hotel Las Dunas
http://lasdunashotel.com
Hotel Hacienda Ocucaje
www.ocucaje.com
H otel in Huacachina
Hostería Suiza
www.hosteriasuiza.5u.com
R estaurant Sazón Iqueña Ayacucho street n° 418
W eather Average Temps
81°F from December to March and 64 °F
from June to September
S pecial Attractions
Maria Reiche Regional Museum, Pueblo de
Cachiche (Witchcraft and ancestral medicines), Achirana del Inca Canal
(ancient waterway), and the Ocucaje y Tacama vineyards. |
 |
|
