Ecuador 2008

Flying from JFK to Atlanta, the pilot said that Atlanta is America’s largest airport. All I know is that we arrived in Terminal B, took the train to Terminal E, which is what my ticket said to do (I’d checked in the night before), and, after lunch and a wait of a few hours, was told to go to Terminal T, which is what Ed´s ticket said (he’d checked in that morning). We got back on the train and hung out at T7 for a while before we were told to go to T5, which is what the attendant at E1 had told Virtual Kid Brother before we were booted out of there. So... off to T5, where we are immediately told to go to A21. Back on the train - again. When we got to A21, the people whose flight was supposed to leave from there were sent to A31, just to keep everyone confused.

Now that we were, finally, at the right gate, we started hearing announcements about why the plane would be late. It was the first flight for that plane for the day, so they had to get it out of the hanger, drive it to the gate, and then there needed to be the MOST thorough search of every nook and cranny on the plane imaginable (for perspective, this is DELTA, the airline where people find stale pizza in the overhead bins). So the 5:30 departure becomes 6 and then 6:30 - and the plane is cleared in 20 minutes.

Once on the plane, but still on the ground, the attendant wheels some metal cart from the front to the back and back to the front. A little while later, the attendant tells us that this is a former TWA 757. When did TWA go out of business? Wasn’t it a LONG time ago? No matter, we wait. Until the pilot comes on and tells us that said metal cart ¨the garbage cart was the wrong part for this plane and they consulted God only knows who to determine that taking off without the garbage cart would not cause structural problems of the sort that, I can only assume, would make the plane fall out of the sky. Feeling every bit like I’m in Alice’s Restaurant, we take off 2 hours late. Well, we’re in one piece and flying on miles, so life is good.

Quito

Having arrived at our hotel at 1:30 AM, it was a no-brainer that Sunday was going to get off to a slow start. First to ¨pick up our paperwork for the Galapagos at ¨The Happy Gringo¨- our travel agent. It is bad enough having a travel agency named Happy Gringo but my morning speeds rapidly downhill when I learn that we’re supposed to wear blue buttons saying something or other so our shepard, the tour guide, can herd us around the Galapagos. OMG. I’m going to be a package tourist. I’m going to be sick. Will I be expected to follow someone carrying an upraised, and furled, blue umbrella. NOOOOOO!!!! And didn’t anyone tell these folks that you can’t put a pin into the high-tech shirts people travel with these days? Hello...

That being accomplished, we taxi to the old city of Quito, its colonial heart, which is up and down the hillsides, throbbing with tourists, locals and, by all accounts, more pickpockets than a normal person could imagine. I had raided my money belt wardrobe for this trip. I have cash and cards strapped to all sorts of odd body parts. It does not help when I see that the local guards are all wearing bulletproof vests. Happy holiday!!!

The colonial heart of Quito looks pretty much like the colonial heart of every other place I’ve been that has this particular organ. There are pretty streets with colorful, pastel painted houses. There is a large square, usually called the Plaza Independencia, where indigenous and mixed faces are seen. There are political speeches with the word ¨patrimony". There is music, in this case quite excellent music, an Afro Peruvian group who are on a CD I have. And then, of course, there are churches with the most amazing interiors - carved, plated, solid silver - they are always just astonishing. The most fabulous of the churches is Jesuit, built on top of the palace of the last Inca. Na na, na na, na na, said the Jesuits to the Incas, after the diseases they brought wiped most of the people out and allowed the Spanish to triumph (I’m reading 1491, at a friend’s suggestion, which is both perfect for a trip to colonial Quito and a nice break from The Dark Side, which is about a much more recent and scary facedown. Of course he told me to read only the parts about Ecuador – but there are no parts about Ecuador – not even a mention of the place in the index – but I read on, atypically complaint.). There is one church whose gargoyles are animals from the Galapagos and whose rose stained glass window has Ecuadorian flora. Now THAT is a nice change from the usual religious imagery. There is also a lot of Spanish Colonial religious art, which I scrupulously ignore the way that I always do. It is just depressing. Where are the pagans when you need them (hint: inside the church built on top of the Mayan / Inca holy place,  who knows what anyone assembled is actually praying to - and, in the end, does it really matter?)?

We taxi back to our inexpensive, highly rated and inexplicably freezing hotel and then out to an early dinner because, by all accounts, Quito is too dangerous for a late dinner. And then there’s the fact that it is Sunday and all the restaurants recommended in the guidebook close at 2PM. The man at the desk suggests a place in the tourist ghetto and says that Quito is as safe as NYC - we do point out that NY is very safe these days.

While looking for the restaurant, we see LOTS of private security guards in front of hotels, in front of restaurants - all with bulletproof vests. We see a group of 6 large men wearing Day-Glo orange jackets over their bulletproof vests get out a car. I guess the question is ¨how do you define safe?¨ Ed (aka VKB) points out that police in NY carry guns. I said that bulletproof vests were one up from guns. He chats a while about the machine guns that guys at Grand Central carry and I re-think, for the 37th time, the wisdom of living across the street from the Brooklyn Bridge.

The restaurant is Ecuadorian and I dare Ed to order cuy, the local delicacy (guinea pig). He said that if I didn’t tell him, he’d probably just eat it until I point to the photo on the menu and show him the four little feet. Even if it does taste like chicken, he’s not feeling adventurous. We do, however, eat various dishes with corn but it is really maize, which is sort of like corn but completely different from corn. It is not sweet and is usually ground into flour. Here, it is steamed, I’d guess, and sort of tastes like steamed popcorn. The addition of fried pork tidbits improves it immeasurably.

We taxi back to our hotel and are inside by 8PM, the time most Romans are thinking about getting dressed for dinner and the Spanish are finishing lunch. It was a wild, risky night - we caught a cab on the street instead of calling for one. And now I am writing my blog on a computer with a Spanish keyboard. That means that every key used to punctuate anything is in the wrong place and I need instruction before I can make that most foundational of 21st century symbols @. Oh, the trials I endure to bring you, dear readers, the news of my wanderings.

I want to insert the cartoon symbol for curses here, and then say it is STILL only 9:11 PM. But where the hell are the symbols I need? The question mark is above the comma, which is just to the right of the zero. And next to that is, of course, ¿ which is the question turned on its head and the way anyone who writes Spanish signals their intention to ask a question. It is sort of... hmm... maybe they’re not going to get that this is a question. Maybe the fact that the sentence ends with ? isn’t enough of a hint. So why not START with a ¿ and then they really, really can’t miss it.

Or maybe I’m just cranky because I’ve been speaking Spanish for 24 hours, 45 years after I failed the NYS Regents examination. It is disconcerting to realize that my traveling companion VKB wasn’t even born when I was flunking my Spanish Regents. Yo no se.

Quito Quito (Also known as ¨Day 2")

Monday, a weekday, which means that we started the day at the high-end craft shops in the New City The most famous one had only things from Ecuador but another one had amazing crafts from across Latin America. Both were several levels above standard ¨tourist¨ souvenirs. There were baskets from Panama that were so fine it was as if they were woven with thread - but they weren’t - and at $100 for a 4 inch tall masterpiece, they were staying in the shop. To my surprise, they had a large collection of 40 - 50 year old Bolivian belts, so I passed a pleasant hour obsessing over which to buy.  Need I state the obvious: every high-end shop has a locked door and a security guard outside? Still, we feel safe, but cautious.

In one of the shops we see a sign that, as of September 1, 2008 travelers cheques are invalid in Ecuador. Period. Atypically, I’d brought some, not being sure of the ATM cash advance situation. Now they are useless. I don’t really understand how banking works here. To pay for the boat I had to do a wire transfer to a bank in Miami. I couldn’t pay with a credit card and Paypal meant a 4% fee, which is not inexpensive for $1,500 boat tickets.

Shopping done, we taxied back to the Old City to check out the churches that were closed yesterday. Some were closed today - but we did go back to the most amazing church in the city: La Compania. As is the case in most of the churches, photography is not allowed but it is just beyond words.  Gold EVERYWHERE - the altar, the ceiling, the columns. Everything. And, below the gold, for the first few feet along the walls, silver. Probably solid silver while the gold is probably leaf or cladding. I don’t understand why it isn’t a specific World Heritage Site because it is easily one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen and, when you’ve been as many places as I have, that’s saying a lot.

During lunch, I eavesdrop on a local man’s conversation with a European. The Ecuadorian has been to most of Asia and said that, if he had brought back and Asian wife (apparently, all Asians are called Chinese by Ecuadorians), everyone would have asked him why he brought back an ugly woman.  The Ecuadorians clearly prefer curves and find the slight Asian body unattractive. Anyone want to tell that to men in Manhattan???

Since the museums I wanted to go to are closed on Monday, we taxied to a suburb, Guapulo, a colonial town described as bohemian and worthwhile. The taxi driver said that there was a fiesta and, along the road, we saw children dressed as though for Halloween, but with a few differences. One was that they were carrying wooden poles between then from which dangled bottles of soda and alcohol. Since the fiesta is in front of the church, you can’t help but wonder, this being South America, exactly which god they’re praying to - something monotheistic or something... earlier. My bet is earlier, location not withstanding. Unfortunately, the church was closed, the town not at all special and the fiesta not until the evening. Still, I did get photos of a few people in costume, one of whom was a man wearing a woman’s mask. I was joking with him as I shot, complimenting him on his beauty. The young girl in the guerilla suit minus the head was proud to be told she looked strong.

Yesterday was sunny and beautiful. Today is cloudy and cool. Only tourist cafes have outdoor seating and today those have their outdoor heaters on. Still, we are glad that there were only a few sprinkles of rain. We’d been watching the weather on-line and it said that every day was rainy.

Back to the tourist ghetto to find a SIM chip for my GSM phone, which I buy - and then it dawns on me: and how, exactly, do I get on line from the Galapagos? After all, I need to call an ISP. The woman tells me that I need to buy an Internet ticket, readily available in any Internet shop (These are plentiful and are used to go on-line in countries where computers are prohibitively expensive and also the place to make dirt cheap ¨voice over IP¨ international telephone calls.). After trying several shops, whose owners look at us blankly, we’re directed to a shop back three blocks from where we came. Which, of course, may or may not have the cards. So now I’ve got an activated SIM with $4 in calls (at 5 cents/minute) - but no way to get on-line. Maybe at the airport. Perhaps more importantly, this errand told me how Ecuador functions TODAY, not in some distant historical past.

Tonight will be another early evening - dinner at the hotel, because going out is such a hassle.

Galapagos

Up at 6:30 AM to be at the airport at 8 to meet the woman who arranges whatever it is that tour people arrange for tourists. Find her eventually, get checked in and await our 9:40 AM flight – which leaves at 11. This is one of the few times on a vacation that it actually matters when I get somewhere. There is a BOAT waiting and, with it, the Galapagos! And we're late. The Mad Hatter had nothing on us. Late, late, late!

But then we're there, 5 of us, to meet the 9 on board: Irish, British, South African, Spanish, Canadian and Japanese. The boat, named the Galapagos Voyager, is also, somehow, the Montserrat II, which is what it said on-line but it also said that the boat was a year old, so none of this makes any sense. Fortunately, I'd read good reviews of this boat, a rarity since there is surprisingly few reviews on-line, which makes planning a trip atypically difficult in this age of endless information.

A dinghy takes you to the boat. It seats 8, plus the crew and wearing a life preserver is mandatory. The dock is in Puerto Ayora, a little town of the type generally described as at, ahem, “the ass end of nowhere.” I've been in towns like this before – Merzouga in Morocco which backs up to the start of the sand dune Sahara, reachable only across miles of trackless piste. You wonder about people who live their lives in these towns, what their lives are like, how they deal with the reality of being no where and going no where. The town in the Galapagos has several cheap hotels, some bars and souvenir shops and a bay filled with fishing boats. It is a place for young backpackers to hang out, drinking cheap beer and having adventures, or for someone older to drop out, write their novel and discover their place in the world.

The boat is 92 feet long, with 8 cabins for passengers. We have a cabin on the main deck. It is reasonably roomy but we'll need to figure out how to live in the space with two wheelies. After a brief safety introduction, which involves explanation of all the types of safety equipment on board, including night flares, day flares, orange water gel, flashlights that flash SOS (which, we learn, means Save Our Souls, and not Save Our Ships, and was the distress call sent by the Titanic. I had already been thinking of the Titanic and now, in the deep and twisted resources of my mind, Celine Dion's song soared). This was not the expected introductory talk.

Tortuga Bay, Santa Cruz

At 3PM we went off to see sea lions and iguanas and whatever other fauna this island deigned to bestow. It immediately became clear what a failure we would be as hunters, because we could barely find an animal even with the guide telling us it was there. There were only a couple of iguanas but lots and lots of sea lions. There are large males, which bark constantly, lion families: father, wife, baby, all atop each other, sleeping in the sand. The pups make a noise somewhere between a bark and a baa. They scurry around the sand with surprising speed. Their mothers are in the water, on the land. We sit, entranced, watching the animals sleep. Now and then a bird stops by and I need to remind myself that the little bird is not just a sparrow and the other bird not just a seagull, but something very special.

After an hour of snorkeling, back to town for cheap sunset beers and a stroll on the pier – which is crawling with crabs. Huge, red monsters, tiny black ones hiding on the rocks and, of course, more sea lions, hanging out with the crabs, on the steps to the landing dock, any 'ole place they want. With an overcast sky and a rainbow, you can only wear a big smile on your face. Your life is very, very far away.

After dinner, the sever tells us that there is a sea lion on the back of the boat – just hanging out on the stern. A few minutes later, a baby scoots up into the dingy, lies there for 5 minutes and then slips back into the sea. Momma hangs out for a while longer and then everyone turns in by 9PM. Maybe some rough seas tonight. Two nights ago it got so rough that people had to hang on to their bunks, which is something friends had also experienced. Apparently, it gets rough when they cut the engine at around 10:30 and you're in open water. Oh joy. Oh Dramamine...

Baltra

A late start – breakfast at 7:30. The boat is docked for refueling. We see our sister ship, Montserrat 1, and the mammoth Galapagos Explorer, which sleeps 100. The people on my boat are more independent and we all turn up our noses at the thought of a “cruise ship.”

The beach, like the one we were on yesterday, and most of the beaches we will see, is white coral, here, ground to a fine powder. The rocks are alive with the brilliant red crabs and my immediate reactions are “beauty” and “lunch.” Alas.

There is not much wildlife on the island. We see the nests of giant tortoises, which are large depressions in the sand. They are filled with about 100 eggs each, only 5% of which will survive the land and sea predators to adulthood. Turtles grow very slowly, perhaps a centimeter a year, so the big ones are often 50 or more years old. And, to state the obvious, turtles aren't penguins so no lifetime mating here. The female, larger than the men, shacks up with several each mating season. After laying her eggs, she departs to waters where the varieties of seafood she eats are plentiful and only years later, when she is fat and ready to spawn, does she return to the Galapagos to breed, although not necessarily to the same island.

There are no flamingos, only a few small iguana standing completely still by a pond, and the flora are not terribly interesting, although the beach is beautiful, although crowded with tourists. There are only a few types of plants, because they need to survive on seawater. The seeds float to the island, hitching a ride on an ocean current, something I didn't know seeds could do.

Black Turtle Cove

The afternoon was spent on the dingy, mostly with the engine off, searching for black turtles and sharks a mangrove inlet. It is beautiful – clear sky, high clouds, bright blue water and us in our day-glo orange life vests, ugly hats, seated on the sides of the boat while the staff pilot silently. We see a shark – perhaps 2 feet long – and a pelican, some blue boobies which have the most beautiful colored powder blue feet, tiny yellow birds the size of canaries, which can be mistaken for the odd yellow leaf, and then turtles, poking their heads up to breathe, gliding silently below the water, coming from every direction. The guide tells us that the turtles can stay underwater for 7 – 8 hours when they are at rest but must come up for air every few minutes when moving. Once again, I am reminded of how many people have spent their lives studying these animals – all the people who count the turtle eggs and tag the turtles (3,000 to date) so they can ensure that the species is safe and to learn the secrets that these creatures cannot speak.

The mangrove swamps are beautiful but the dinghies uncomfortable, with us seated butt to butt on the inflated sides. We've got all variety of cameras and all you hear are the beeps each makes as it comes to life or stores a photo.

I don't know how many animals we're supposed to see – we've seen a lot of sea lions, crabs and turtles, but not much else – which I hope is due to the season and not a more sinister cause. The tiny island with Galapagos penguins only allows a few ships in, but still the penguins are threatened by a parasite of unknown origin. If they cannot find the source, the penguins’ survival is at risk. This is happening despite the mandatory spraying of commercial planes and boats. What does it say about our world that the NY Times not only featured the story on its front page but also worried mightily in an editorial? Our world, our world, what are we doing to the innocents of the world?

We returned to the boat to find a sea lion hanging out on the loading dock, enjoying the human spectacle as well as the convenient perch. The humans returned the favor, gathering around and photographing until the lion, bored, dove into the sea. But when one of the guests went swimming off the boat, the lion came back to play. The humans, after a shower, repaired to the mid-deck, where we hung out on blue striped lounges while being rocked gently by the current. It is so beautiful up here that I could almost forgo the island visits but they give us ample time to recline.

En route to dinner, we pass a pelican in the lifeboat. Two more arrive: one for each lifeboat and one on the back, keeping us company as we dine. “Tame” doesn't begin to define these creatures.

Genovesa

Last night, I discovered that I was but a hinge in the great fulcrum of life – as the boat rocked up and back all night, en route to Genovesa, my side-sleeping body dipped and swerved. Even so, breakfast at 7 or you don't eat. Since showering on a wildly rocking boat was... adventurous... folks trickled in late.

While we spend little time in our cabin, it is astonishing how quickly you get used to a very small space. There's a closet that you're reluctant to use at first but which becomes indispensable after your wheelie moves across the floor on the first night. Then you discover the large drawers built under your mattress, which gives you all the space you need. Sort of. But it is much better than it seemed on Day 1 and not at all a problem for 4 nights.

As an island, Genovesa is truly “for the birds” - it is filled with them. Red-footed bobbies, with very short legs, large red feet that wrap around tree branches and pale blue beaks. Tiny Vampire Finches who dine on boobie blood. There are birds in the nest, birds on the rocks, birds overhead, scoring a direct hit and anointing all of us with Galapagos bird guano. The birds are nesting, with one or two eggs, or courting or just diving for fish, flying in the air currents and doing whatever birds do in life. There are also furry sea seals on the rocks and sharks and rays in the incredibly clear waters below.

During the last “El Nino” the islands were almost depopulated, which parallels part of the explanation for the demise of various Native American civilizations, although those were “Mega Ninos.” Still, as protected as these islands are, there are changes: frogs accidentally introduced from the cargo hold of a ship, bugs eating a plant that may require different bugs to restore the balance. Because, at the end of the day, balance is what nature is about: getting the conditions right to breed, to survive to adulthood, to feed – and many small things can disrupt these key life-cycle events.

The walks today are over broken volcanic rock and so are the most challenging of the trip. Not only do you need to climb or walk over uneven terrain but the penalty for falling against coarse jagged rocks is unimaginable. I'd brought a hiking pole for days like today and am glad of it – this afternoon, I am at the limits of my very minimal hiking ability.

The seals are so well hidden on ledges in the jagged cliffs that it takes time to see them, even when the guide points them out. But when we get up the cliff, on to the island, it is littered with birds. There are thousands of them: alone, in pairs, feeding their young, sitting on their eggs, sleeping or just standing there. And you can, and do, walk within a few feet of them without them moving. It is as though they know that they are protected, making them free to ignore you. Most are sea birds, because the trip from the mainland is long and the oil on seabirds feathers allows the to rest in the water. Thousands of years ago, there were islands 400 km east of the Galapagos, which may have served as a way station for the animals who have ended up here.

The cliffs surrounding the beach are covered with white graffiti. While we are told that it pre-dates the establishment of the wildlife preserve, I don't believe it. There are small boats, which are impossible to patrol. On the most touristed islands you see human debris: a soda bottle, whatever. It can only make you sad to see how uncaring people can be.

In some areas, the birds stand out from the landscape. In others, they blend in so well that I will need to search my photos to find what is in them and maybe draw arrows to various creatures.

Even though the specifics are very different, I am surprised by how quickly we get jaded by new sites. The first sea lions caused every camera to be clicked on – now, we expect more. Ditto the birds. Once we've seen a number of a species, we grow greedy for something different and dismissive of yesterday's prize.

The site itself is spectacular: up 50 feet above the Pacific, looking out into clear waters. The day starts and ends overcast but clears in mid-morning and the weather is comfortable for walking.

Primate Perverts: Hot Turtle Sex!

My blogging was just interrupted by a cry of “sea turtles mating” so we all ran to the blow to watch two of them “having a go at it” about 100 yards away from the boat. Good voyeurs, folks came equipped with binoculars and 18X telephoto lenses to play turtle pervert. One of the women mentions that she has a photo of two birds “making love” and we're all jealous.

Evening on Board

The sunset meets all tropical vacation expectations and wives nag husbands to just shut up and take a snappie. There is a reason that sunset shots are such a cliché.

At 6:30, we gather in the lounge to hear about the next day's itinerary, and so it has come to pass that at 8:30 PM, our new Spanish friends and us have retired to our rooms to shower and go to bed – because we need to be on deck at 6:15 AM... to look at penguins. Not a lot of penguins. Maybe, if we're lucky, and they haven't left for work yet, 15 penguins. Thus, we find ourselves in our rooms, which are rolling and heaving mightily as the ship steams towards tomorrow's destination, planning to take showers, because there is no way, on earth, we are getting up early enough to take them in the morning.

If you've been paying attention, dear reader, you might recall that I began today's adventures in a shower with a rolling, heaving floor (and scalding hot water) – not an experience that I planned to repeat again any time soon, being happy to have survived it without a concussion. But now I find that I must do it – again – when I am barely able to walk to the other end of this very small cabin without grabbing onto something. My other option, of course, is to gently marinate in the daily applications of suntan lotion, salt water and bug juice, which is too unappealing for words.

After the dawn boat ride, at which we've already been warned not to use flash, we're back to the boat for breakfast that off again to another island, whose details are a bit vague to me. Then back again, to do I'm not sure what, and then to a different island to climb UP 360 steps to see how the world looks from the top and then DOWN 360 stops, back to the jetty.

I'm not going. I long ago realized that there is NOTHING I want to see that involves climbing large numbers of generally incredibly tiny circular stairs so I can see the tops of things. If there's an elevator, I'll think about, but even then I'm rarely enthusiastic. But to be expected to walk up and down... WHY???

Penguin Peeping: Sullivan Bay, Santiago


The alarm went off at the un-godly hour of 5:45 AM after a riotous night. I forced myself to sleep on my back, which was the only comfortable position. This was the first time that waking up to pee became a life threatening experience.

At 6:15, we all assembled, got into the dinghies and motored over to see... three penguins, perched on a rock! Galapagos penguins are the smallest penguin species and these looked – and walked – like ducks. With the engine off, we were able to get astonishingly close to them – perhaps 6 feet, which made for great photos. We were all happy as kids at the zoo, feeling our sleep sacrifice worth it. Bobbing around in our dinghy, I feel again like an alien invader observing the world – the image of Wall-E's extraterrestrial girlfriend comes to mind. Then we motored along the coast covered with those bright red crabs and pelicans and then large starfish beneath the clear water. A lot of starfish, and then a school of small fish, swimming above them. We then saw a ray and a shark, so we had more creatures to cross off our scorecards.

Back to the boat for breakfast and off again, to an island that is virtually devoid of life, the result of a lava flow 100 years ago – except for the 3 penguins standing there to greet us. There is much muttering and talk of rebellion – if the buggers were around at 8AM, why on earth did they get us out of bed at 6? They guide swears that they're not supposed to be there. Maybe a hither-to unknown penguin national holiday? 

We also see a marine iguana.

The island is covered in black, ridged and cracked lava, which is a challenge to walk on. Again I'm glad I brought a hiking pole. Here and there tiny plants are sprouting through cracks in the rock, and we see a good-sized cactus, and are told that there are some insects, but that is about it. This is how all the islands started, so, in time, life will come but for now there is only a mass of solid lava.

People used to live on the island and brought goats for their use. Lacking natural predators, the goats escaped and bred, until there were 250,000 of them. This was about 8 years ago. The national park started a program to exterminate the goats, which involved shooting them from helicopters and then importing and training hunting dogs to work with hunters to clear the land. The animals that were killed were left to rot because the cost of bringing the meat to market was prohibitive, a problem well known by rural farmers. The national park staff is actively involved in managing the Galapagos but it is clearly an on-going process.

We return to the boat and, 30 minutes later, the gang goes off to climb the 360 steps. There are eight boats anchored where we are so I guess that, unlike Genovesa, these islands are on more itineraries. The huge Galapagos Explorer is there, but the rest are much smaller boats, the size of a fishing boat or something with 4 cabins. I'm glad we're on our boat – it is really the perfect size. The guide promises that it will be an easy climb, with lots of places to rest, but I'm not buying it. Ed parrots what Williams has said and, when I ask how much time is budgeted for the ascent and descent, am told 1 hour. Yeah, real leisurely! I am on a lounge chair on the boat while they are stepping. Works for me!

When we finished sightseeing, it was a 7-hour journey to our final port. Things started out well enough – lying on the deck chairs like so many sea lions, reading, sleeping and reading some more in companiable silence. Then folks started to get queasy and retired to their cabins. The farewell drink and dinner were sparsely populated: 4 of us either ate or ate lightly.

After dinner, we had a chance to go to town! Bright lights, not so big city, but TOWN! So we dinghied off to have a drink and watch the young female tourist come on to the hot waiter and we thought of nothing more than the mating behavior of the birds we'd been watching so intently – chest puffed out, mating dance.

By 10:30 we were back at the dock for our ride to the boat because they would collect our luggage at 6:15 so it would be another early morning.

Otavalo


There is probably something more depressing than returning from 5 days in paradise, checking into an amazing “casita” in the mountains above Otavalo, catching up on the news (Sarah Pallin, Lehman Brothers and Merrill Lynch going belly up) and listening, after dinner, after the fire and after conversation has died, to the “Sixties Mix” the hotel owner left by the stereo - but I'll need to think long and hard about what it might be. To listen to the optimism, and naiveté, of our generation after 4 nights of political dinner conversations with a very intelligent and well-read Spaniard, after having finished “The Dark Side,” the story of how America became a country that tortures people, is simply flat out depressing.

How did we, this huge demographic bump, take the proud country we inherited and turn it into a place riven by culture conflicts so large that creationism is “on the table,” that we're so selfish and greedy that we have not only spent ourselves and our country into endless debt but also taken our brightest children and sent them to work on Wall Street, hatching things like collateralized sub-prime mortgages and being astonishingly well paid and highly regarded for it? We may have burned the flag in the 60's – but despite it all, despite Vietnam, we were proud to be Americans, to have the freedom to burn the flag - and we were looked at as examples of what to strive for when we traveled abroad.

We're not that now – at least I'm not – I'm so deeply ashamed about an America that I can no longer recognize as my own has become that I just don't know what to do with it. Work until retirement and leave? To go where? It isn't as though the rest of the world is in markedly better shape. But at least they're just exhibiting routine incompetence. But torture, ignorance and Darwinian capitalism as values? This can't be my country.

Now, we fight over old ideas and failed solutions and the best and the brightest are too busy making money to care. And, no, I don't think Obama is the answer – and not thinking that anyone is really looking for new models is the scariest thing of all.

O.K. Obviously a hard re-entry into the 21st Century. Maybe writing that will lift my mood because, on a material level, things are wonderful. We left the ship at 6:30 A.M., took the dinghy to the dock, took a bus, a ferry, another bus, a plane that stopped and then a taxi that went 120 KM on winding mountain roads to an absolutely incredible place.

Otavalo is in northern Ecuador, close to the Columbian border. It is filled with spectacular volcanic mountains, lakes, farms and proud indigenous people who have grown prosperous from the quality of their textiles. It is the small city at the center of this region, which has many “craft villages.” The town itself is touristy because of its textile market. Knowing that small cities in the developing world generally lack charm, I found a hotel on 40 acres, 5 miles up the mountain, the last bit on rutted roads not suited for taxis.

When we arrived, welcomed by the ex-hippy with a long, graying Andean braid, some friendly dogs and the most astonishing accommodations we could imagine. Our 'casita” has 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, living room with cast iron stove – and a magnificent view of the local volcano. This place is easily 2000 square feet, sleeps 6 – and costs, I think, $120 a night, including two meals, two hours of horse back riding a day – and llamas to pet. So why I have I worked myself into such a funk? Dunno. The NY Times and nostalgic music are probably a lethal brew.

Weavers & Markets

Today we went to visit a master weaver who uses the back-strap loom, which pre-dates Columbus. The weaver sits on the floor, straps a wide leather brace behind his back to which the warp threads are attached.

This weaver washes, cards, spins and dyes his own wool, using natural dyes he makes himself. Except for hot pink, which is a commercial dye and is a marker when determining the age of 19th and 20th Century textiles. He no longer weaves the complex pieces he is capable of because no one will pay for them. Here, again, is the end of a weaving tradition of great age – he learned from his father, who learned from his father... but Miguel's son lives in the States and, while he deals in textiles, does not weave.

He sells textiles he has woven and pieces woven by members of his extended family. I bought a beautiful wool and cotton bed cover woven in a pattern typical of this area.

We spoke at some length  (in Spanish!), and I discovered that he will be in NY for an exhibition at the end of March – and not his first in NY or the US. I invited him to visit and to see my collection, which pleased him greatly. I hope he calls – it should be a very interesting evening.

We then drove to another weaver, whose work decorates the hotel we're at. He is a noted weaver on the handloom but has the quality and complexity of his work declined since the owner of the hotel bought his pieces 20 years ago. All the designs are so much simpler and hence much less expensive. Ed bought one of the nicer pieces and I bought one of two he wove on a back-strap loom – which his wife said, “is not commercial.” It is probably as fine a quality as anything being made today.

From there we went to what turned out to be a bird zoo, with condors, vultures, hawks and owls. After the Galapagos, seeing birds in cages or tethered to a perch seems very unjust.

We spent the afternoon at the large tourist market in town. As expected, the quality of the things there was horrible. The versions of the bed cover I'd bought were either acrylic or, allegedly, cotton. The pattern was much more poorly executed and the colors garish. Considering that these cost $18 and mine $38, the difference is trivial. Using the “Law of 10” my bed cover would easily sell for $380 in the States

Today is a festival – the drinking of chicha, the fermented brew that starts off as a drink and ends up like beer. These days, everywhere but in Amazonas, the “starter” for the fermentation is a small piece of spoiled fruit – no more chewing and then spitting it back into the bowl. And 7 grains are used, plus fruit. Traditionally, chicha is made just before the planting of the new corn crop begins, using what is left over from the prior harvest. And, true to the past, the planting will be next week.

We missed the parade but saw some of the music in the Plaza Mayor, which was filled with indigenous people, as is all of Otavalo. There were some great contrasts: a young man in perfect, of the moment, hip-hop attire standing with a woman in traditional dress. A young woman in traditional dress who was either photographing or videoing the Andean band on her cell phone. Change comes.

Tomorrow will be our last day, with our flight home leaving Quito at 11PM. We will go to a nearby town, famous for its leatherwork. Ten years ago, this town was in decline but a progressive government, including an indigenous mayor and investment from Europe, has turned it into a model.

At dinner, we hit the Net and read about the continuing disaster that is Wall Street. It is beyond comprehension. One can only wonder – and worry – where it will end. Such is the problem of Internet access and the NY Times on-line when on vacation.

Craft Villages

We taxied to the village famous for leather production – and, as I expected, found nothing of interest. Leatherworking is a relatively new craft, introduced about 150 years ago, and now that the Chinese have developed technology to make even the cheapest leather feel soft, the local products are stiff to the touch. And unfashionable.

The village is interesting. The streets and sidewalks are being repaved and, development is starting on a gringo retirement community. I don’t get it – I realize that life in Ecuador is cheap, but you’re in the middle of no where. And to be elderly with no real medical care???

We taxi to a tiny craft town – this time, woodworking. Furniture and kitsch. Who buys all this stuff? I realize that it is for export, but, still… The only thing I want, but realize would be a hassle to bring home, are canes whose tops are Galapagos animals. I so wanted the frog. Or the iguana. Sigh.

Then, unexpectedly, we come upon a procession. The townspeople are carrying either the local saint, or “Maria” back to the church. There are two marching bands and rockets being fired. Most unusually, in the front, women are carrying the statue on their shoulders. They are indigenous and women do all the hard work in the developing world, but this is something I’ve never seen.

The street outside of the church is mobbed, with people witnessing the spectacle as well as those shopping at the street market that is filled with cheap modern goods (the average wage in Ecuador is $200 a month). We visit the church, which is great: small, neon lettering across the ceiling and paintings that call to mind Hieronymus Bosch.  Outside the side door, women are clustered at a rocky spring, obtaining holy water, I assume. I wonder what the spring really symbolizes since I don’t think Christianity has anything to do with springs.

The Real Deal

We have lengthy chats with the owner of the hotel whose views of things we’ve read about are revealing. He says that there was a crime wave in 2006, which was largely inside jobs at banks, and the reason there are so many security guards is to employ the rural poor who have migrated to the city. He dismisses the bulletproof vests out of hand. Frank does not deny that crime exists in Ecuador, and he is worried about the next generation, but he does not think that it is anywhere as bad as the guidebooks and Websites say. Having lived in New York during the 1970s, when everyone was terrified to come, I’m guessing that he may be right. Once you get away from all the security visuals, Ecuador doesn’t FEEL threatening – but, then, as a tourist, it can be hard to read places. In Mexico City, years ago, my taxi driver warned me about the center of town, in broad daylight, in front of a major museum. Who knows?

Ecuador has a socialist president - who is busy supporting the domestic auto industry. This has resulted in all sorts of odd things, like no motor cycles or scooters, banning used cars and cars over 10 years old - and subsidizing gas. I guess that if every family is dysfunctional differently, every country is corrupt differently. 

We are virtually the only tourists in Otavalo, which is a “weekend town” for tourists who come for the market. Most of the tourists who come are European. I suspect that, aside from the American economic problems and inability to take real vacations, one reason that tourism is down is that the quality of the crafts has declined significantly over the past two or three decades. The textiles in the hotel are no where to be found, and the other crafts are equally boring, so why bother coming? 

Goin’ Home

The sane, careful taxi driver we’ve been using picks us up at 7PM for the two hour drive to the airport. We rarely top 80km a mile, which is just fine.

The Pan American Highway is the main north – south road in South America and is one lane in each direction. Because of all the mountains, it curves, making it difficult to pass the many slow moving trucks. But, as in most parts of the developing world, passing is more cooperative than in the US. The driver signals with flashing headlights, the trucker often moves to the right side of the lane so the guy in the back can pass despite the blind-curve double line.

The airport is just plain strange. There’s a $40.80 departure tax, which is probably the highest I’ve seen. Then we go through security, where they take my little folding scissors. Which makes me wonder: why can I always take little scissors OUT of the US but have them taken away from me when I’m flying INTO the US? This has happened at least 4 times. I bring the cheapest possible scissors – these cost perhaps $3 – but it just seems like a waste.

After we get through security, I buy us bottles of water and proceed to the gate. Where there’s another security checkpoint.

At this checkpoint, they have no idea what they’re doing. First, the water is out – my protest that we just bought it means nothing. Then the screener tells me to throw out the plastic bag with all my liquids and gels “not allowed.” I protest, loudly, in Spanish that, this IS allowed all over the world. Fortunately, a supervisor comes over and lets me bring in my make-up and meds. Tossing that would be VERY expensive.

Since there is no bathroom or water fountain, I leave at some point and pick up the bottled water from the guard’s desk, to take a swig and to empty it in the bathroom. I have to go back through security to return to my seat and, this time, they tell me that even the empty container is illegal. This makes no sense. And then, when I sit down, I see that the 4 American backpackers still have their HUGE Nagaline water bottles – and the Ecuadorian mother has a full bottle of Sprite!

The plane leaves a half hour late, which we expected, and is full, which we didn’t.  I can’t sleep sitting up so I just sit there with my eyes closed until they awaken us for breakfast – at 4AM. I guess there is some rule that requires them to serve a meal on a flight over 4 hours, but to wake people up 3 ½ hours into a 5 hour flight??? In any case, the kosher meal we ordered is unpeeled fruit, which is a major no-no, so I take the ham and eggs. So much for orthodoxy.

In Atlanta, we go to our terminal – which is, of course, then changed, so tired and half asleep we take the train to the right place. We get on the plane, taxi onto the runway, are #2 for takeoff – when they find that the engine is leaking. Back to the gate. A wait for a diagnosis and repair time estimate. The road warriors have their corporate travel staff on speed-dial and are madly checking their options. Then the captain comes on and tells us: SIX HOURS to fix the plane. We get off, to be re-booked onto other flights (there is one an hour). But, interestingly, Delta is not canceling the flight. Which screws the road warriors because, without a cancellation, they need to pay for a new ticket if they want to pick the next flight out.

At 1PM we land. So what if we were due in at 9:30 AM? I settle into the stinky yellow cab, glad to be home.