A mysterious prehistoric culture living on the low desert plains near Nazca sought to appeal to these gods flying overhead each night by scratching their likenesses in epic scale on the desert floor. These famed Nazca Lines can be recognized only from the air, but team Motor Trend passes on the chopper flight. The gods have smitten us both with bacterial scourges that have Brian hurling and me popping Imodium and Cipro to plug the other end. Perhaps it's indiscriminate revenge for the myriad diseases Europeans brought to the New World, which ultimately undid the Incan Empire by striking down the 11th Incan king, Huayna Capac, and his intended heir. As a result, the empire was divided between two remaining sons, half-brothers who started a civil war, weakening Incan defenses against the Spanish.
We rallied for our final leg up the Pan-American Highway into Lima. Most of this route is smooth and straight, and by once again employing extreme caution, awaiting the ideal passing opportunity and allowing the lead cars to disappear, we manage several quick blasts to 155 mph or more. This stretch of the Atacama Desert is stark and lifeless--some areas have never received rainfall in recorded history. By nightfall, we reach the outskirts of Lima, and the drive through dense city traffic once again calls for copious use of the horn and running the occasional red light to remain with the caravan.
Shortly after the Spanish conquered the Inca, plundered its gold and silver, and plopped unremarkable churches on top of once beautiful temples, Cusco reverted to a small provincial town, and the port city of Lima rose to prominence. After retracing the steps of the founders and conquerors of the mighty Inca, we pause for a final day of rest, during which our gauge-display problems are traced to chafed wires and resolved once and for all.
Our parting thoughts? Ferrari has wrought a spectacular grand tourer. The 599 seems equally happy idling through bicycle-choked market-day traffic with the A/C cranking, screaming up a mountain pass, or pounding over rocky roads with but a few chafed wires and flat tires to show for it. It could use cruise control, a better horn, and a more user-friendly radio, but even as is, I'm loath to surrender the helm to the Spaniards who've arrived for the next leg. With Pachamama as my copilot and Papi paying the bills, I'd happily press on to the Big Apple.
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