Seis.

After I came to Palpa, people's love caught me at last. Everybody wanted to know about me (who I'm!). Workshop's man fixed my Chagan for free, an old chap from small store gave me some home wine. Next morning I woke up in a room with a bamboo roof, rains dropped on Palpa once per year. Museum's matron told me I'm the first voyager from the Russia for all the time. Tell the truth, I'd like to save that state of things for a while. Near the exit road from the town, cactuses were in full bloom. I was going to the south, grinningly as a jackal. Sun shined well.

Cinco.

Near Ica wastelands a global paranoia was going to overpoint. Fire, thieves, murders, - things that people just talked about if at all possible. Don't take pictures here, someone could give you some beans. Don't walk in this district, only plaza de Armas is safety. After 6 p.m., when darkness comes into the town, all shops, houses and everything is locked (iron gates, ya), only jaunty taxi-drivers and a brave man in leather black with his pennywhistle crossing the streets. Indeed, fear is everywhere. I arrived to Ica in the gloaming evening, was trapped and put in the nearest hostel by some kind of passers-by not indifferent to city fear. People of Inca civilization practiced head deformation, ask google about "inca skulls". Perhaps, it should explain a bit their costa-dust madness.

Quatro.

Paracas is a national park of Peru. A desert. In this desert a time boils down, decomposes to trivial atoms. Biodegrading like a human body after death. And that's all I have to say about that.