The Aliens Did It

Four hundred miles and nine hours by bus beyond Arequipa are the plains of Nazca – an immense, barren canvas for the famed Nazca Lines that Erich von Däniken highlighted in his 1968 blockbuster “Chariots of the Gods.” He suggests that the remarkable designs etched into 200 square miles of sand and earth in coastal Peru – and only visible from altitude – could only have been done by an intelligence with command of the sky. Which is to say, aliens. Regardless of their origin, and as provocative as that possibility is, the UNESCO World Heritage Site is a collection of inexplicable, massive geoglyphs – linear features hundreds of meters long, stylized animals and other figures purposefully etched into the Nazca Plain. Begun perhaps 2500 years ago by the Paracas Culture, the lines consist of shallow trenches produced by the removal of the reddish-orange iron oxide-coated earth that caps the desert landscape at Nazca. The lighter-colored lime-bearing soil beneath is revealed, and when mixed with moisture resists erosion. Hence, a durable, visible surface.

I am no fan of planes regardless of how many people they seat, but I was especially wary of this one. Captain Arturo arrived in his pickup truck disheveled and unnaturally animated as we met him in the “terminal.” Plastered with faded photos of the images we were about to see, the building was the one-room shack you see in films where dirty money changes hands. Arturo could have been any mustached South American drug-runner I had seen in those same films in his bomber jacket and Peruvian military patch on one shoulder, sweat-stained button-down shirt, old jeans, and a New York Yankees ball cap. Perhaps we’d be dropping into some remote airstrip and picking up a few bundles along the way. His command of the English language was good, but his thick Spanish accent intruded on the rapid-fire English sentences he repeatedly tripped over. Or perhaps it was the cocaine. He took our cash and shoved it into a soiled pocket bulging with bills he had not yet laundered.

He asked our names absently, and then ticked off the passenger rules: keep all body parts inside; don’t make sudden movements; and if you throw up (“and you probably will”) do it in the bags provided, not on his torn seats, smudged windows, or on the metal floor. Then we saw it. An over-wing Beechcraft, Piper Cub or Cessna – take your pick, they’re all the same to me – circa 1961. I didn’t check. But repairs to fuselage, struts, and wings appeared to have been hastily made with assorted junkyard materials and duct tape. Layers and layers of duct tape. That adds weight, right? I took the front seat since Marcelo and Gracie preferred to be together in back, and quickly inspected the interior. The plane had been stripped of any comfort, so there was little to see. However, I noticed that stuffing was escaping from slices in the vinyl seats, and the instrument panel had only three dials – one each for fuel, direction, and attitude. I’m no pilot, but what more do you really need? It is no understatement to say that we loaded Arturo’s plane with some apprehension – or in my case, abject fear. There we were, getting ready to view a world-class archaeological wonder, and the vehicle that was taking us there would likely disintegrate around us at 3,000 feet. Both my excitement and terror were pegged on hyperdrive.