Formerly a bolt hole of the well-groomed, this quaint and quirky little place which features on the back of the 50 soles banknote has become a real gringo-tastic place and firmly on the tourist trail.
The attraction? Well, that would be the enormous sand dunes that surround it. It's the Chamonix or the Aspen of the sand world.
"There's a sand world?" I hear you ask.
There is: sand boarding and dune buggying is big here and, if you've got the ability to drag yourself up the 300-400 feet high dunes then you're in for a real treat as you career down them on your waxed piece of melamine.
We had real bother finding a room here but eventually struck gold proving that patience is an oft-rewarded virtue.
What a joy to laze by that pool and periodically plunge into it when the seatrng heat of the desert got too much. Kerry even got her air bed out and floated around.
When we popped out for some provisions we saw a camper van with a web address on the bonnet and found this to belong to a French couple who are touring the world in it for two years with their kiddies of three and seven.
Reminded me of Mexico in 1999. Ah! Halcyon days.
After a day and three quarters doing precisely zip we convened with some other people for a two hour, sunset dune buggy tour.
What a hoot this turned out to be.
Resembling a metal-framed charabanc, crossed with vehicles from the film "Mad Max", our 12 seater buggy growled into life sounding like something about to tackle the drag strip at Santa Pod.
We were pinned into our seats as our maniacally grinning driver drove at speed across, up and down dunes. It was like being on a roller-coaster only with much more grit in your mouth.
Screams from other vehicles could be heard across the desert and every now and then we caught up with other buggies at prescribed photo stops.
At one of these, atop an 80ft high dune, the drivers whipped the sand boards out and we were invited to take the plunge.
We went down on our bellies first before having a quick go standing up; not recommended unless you have above average coordination and balance. (We don't).
We went down three such slopes before being driven to a fourth, an absolute monster. A lady went before me and by the time she'd stopped she was but a minuscule black dot below us. I went next and then Kerry and once we'd all done it we were back in the buggy for more roller-coastering around. All in all it was a brilliant couple of hours entertainment.
Having no cooking facilities at this particular accommodation, we had to go out and face the trauma of a restaurant meal afterwards.
I know eating out should be a joy but it's actually come to being preceded by a groan these past weeks and
whilst our food happened to be fine here in Huacachina it was the fact our meals didn't come together that got our goat this time.
This has happened quite a lot in South America so perhaps it's no biggy here. We find it a bit irksome though. Who wants to sit like a bookend whilst their partner tucks into a hearty repast?
We are only grateful we can't have a cup of tea here. They'd probably put the milk in before the sugar for God's sake!
The other notable aspect of Huacachina is the proliferation of backpackers who have gone bush and apparently settled there at least semi-permanently.
They're easy to spot: dreadlocks, bare feet, bongos and probably selling jewellery.
I can't make my mind up what I think about these guys. On the one hand I'm full of admiration for them having the cajones to do their thing; on the other I think they're conforming to a ludicrous cliche and they should at least put some flip flops on, the floor is burning hot.
We left Huacachina on Saturday and made the two hour journey to Nazca, home of the famous desert artwork, the origins and meaning of which are essentially a mystery.
It was very hot on the bus and I was grateful of it being half empty so I could sit near an opening window.
When it's boiling hot I tend to hang my head out of the window like a dog, much to Kerry's amusement.
We disembarked from the bus into a minor dust storm and made for a restaurant across the road. It was one of these places with a glossy menu with pictures, a treat for the linguistically challenged, and I selected tasty skewers of meat, salad and Inca Kola to wash it down.
I didn't know why I didn't recognise the name of the meat but names keep changing all the time as we travel. It's dark meat so it's either lamb of beef. Lovely.
As I chewed I couldn't decide. Definitely not beef but not sure it's lamb either. It was only when we went back for an evening meal that I read the menu again and realised that I'd eaten cows hearts.
Really though, all food is as disgusting as you want it to be. (You ate a chicken's BREAST? Oh my god, I'm going to hurl).
We booked a flight over the lines for Sunday morning and I think the guy who made our booking was a bit wet behind the ears. He kept asking in the back office for prompts but was quite clear, when pressed, that our payment covered everything, nothing more to pay, "have a good flight".
On Sunday morning we were collected from our hotel in a van reminiscent of the A-Team and driven to the airport.
Before we set off we noticed a familiar looking camper van parked nearby and we went and introduced ourselves to the intrepid Frenchies and their two sprogs.
On arrival at the airport we were directed to a booth to pay an airport tax of 25 soles each, a total of about £12.50.
"Ah, no, we have already paid" said Kerry.
"No, everybody pay tax" retorted the perplexed looking official.
By chance our young booking agent appeared so we reminded him of our conversation yesterday and, following his getting a dressing down, we were waived through.
At the next desk we handed our tickets to an official and were asked for our passports.
Passports? Nobody said anything about bringing our passports. We're flying in a 20 mile loop over the town in a tiny prop plane, not crossing continents on a jumbo.
"Everybody show passport señor. No passport no fly."
Turning again to our chap I asked him to intervene once more and, severe ear bashing later, we were through to the waiting area.
Our plane turned out to be a six seater, two pilots and four passengers. Our fellow line oglers were from Stuttgart and the chap, who sat next to me, was a leviathan. I've always thought that my thighs were erring towards the telegraph pole end of the spectrum but next to his mine looked like pipe cleaners.
It was an atmospheric and bumpy ride, hot too once the pilots had shut the windows for take off, but fascinating to see these lines.
To be absolutely honest they were a lot less visible than I was expecting and it was as well that the pilot was pointing them out as we went. That shouldn't detract from the fact that at an undetermined time in the past, somebody created these huge images which can only be appreciated from the air.
This begs two key questions: how and why.
That scholars have puzzled over this since their discovery in 1941 suggests that we may never know but it's interesting to speculate.
The general consensus now is that the images represent an astrological calendar but was ancient man so obsessed with the passing of time?
Anyway, with that box ticked we hit the pool at the hotel and wiled away the rest of our time in Nazca swimming, drinking frozen lemonade and lounging about in the stifling heat.
Our passage out of here was to be a first: to Cuzco on an overnight bus with beds. Still congratulating ourselves on how far we've come since the chicken buses of Guatemala as we boarded, we were utterly crestfallen to realise that a 'bed' on a Peruvian bus is merely a reclining seat.
Ok, it was more comfortable than a non-reclining seat but 14 hours in a confined space with 10 Koreans breath, feet and farts, a vomiting child and with nothing to stop your head lolling was far from the image I had conjured up beforehand.
No matter, we're here now, 11500 ft up, breathless and eagerly anticipating the wonders that the Andean highlands will afford us.
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