El Desierto de Sechura

The long flat stretch of desert road lay before me, 200km until the next major town. Half- built walls lay abandoned, bricks the same colour as the sand on which they sat, as if the construction of the walls thus far was enough to convince the prospective inhabitants that this was really no place to spend their lives.

Others though, were more hardy. Or less wise. Donkeys and people shared the scarcity of shade, and rows of completed houses lay in grids, there being nothing in the landscape to hinder man´s dull tendency toward the uniformity of squares, nor anything around to inspire other forms. Nor, on the face of it, anything to sustain any kind of life at all.

I sat, in the small dark shadow of a bush, eating bread and jam. Next to me there was a house made of sticks, and everything looked dusty and dirty and worn out by sun and wind.

From a concrete box church came the calm voice of a man, distorted only slightly by the speakers used to sermonise those unwilling or unable to attend in person.

"Gracias señor por la luz y el sol. Gracias señor por este nuevo día. Thank you lord for the light and the sun. Thank you lord for this new day."

The voice sounded so content and sincere, I sat in amazement wondering how this man could still be grateful for these things, living here, in the hot desert dust. It was 8am and I had already had enough of all three of these, God´s gifts.

More sandy hills