The whole situation seemed kind of shady.
The Husband and I signed up with a tour that would take us by bus to Paracas Bay, where we would be met by a driver to take us to our hostel, then continue the tour the following day.
Except the bus dropped us off at a shack made of sand and straw. There was nobody there to meet us. A couple of random people spoke fast Spanish and tiptoed around us.
Within a few minutes the entire place was empty. The air was cooling off fast, and soon night would come.
Eventually a woman showed up pointed to us and ushered us into a van. “You go here,” she demanded. Two other people jumped in the van, and we took off.
The Husband shot me a knowing look, then slipped the knife out of his pocket and concealed it in his palm. I was visibly shaking.
The van crawled to a stop at the end of a sandy road on the beach — in front of a stunning hotel. The driver said, “Ta-da!”
This is where we ended up staying for the night.
This was the view from our balcony.
The room was sweet and simple and quite luxurious compared to our $8 a night hostels.
We ended the day hand in hand, walking along the beach, like some sort of “Love Songs of the ’60s” commercial.
The next day the tour guide met us as planned, and all was well.
