Beauty in Punta Arenas, Chile

I had never attended a beauty contest before. The idea of such a venue seems a bit strange to begin with. Can beauty, confounded with perfection, be selected based on how well a young woman performs on a walkway? This is an idea of grand suspect, to be sure. But the time was right and it seemed as if the whole town was there. “Who am I to blow against the wind?”

Sunrise, Longest Night of the Year

Sunrise, Longest Night of the Year

And the wind was blowing. Paired with a 36 degree temperature, it was cold. Damn cold. Still, this was the beginning of the Punta Arenas winter festivities, celebrating the longest night of the year. So it was dark too. It’s dark here a lot these days.

In late June the sun rises around 9am and is down not much after 3pm. So far south, it describes an arc in the sky of barely 90 degrees. That’s a pretty tight arc. Two days earlier I found myself walking into a sunrise as I was headed roughly north. Later the same day I was also walking north as the sun was setting and it was still in my eyes.

This same sun never climbs above what might be considered 10am in more temperate zones. Like most of the people here, it doesn’t spend much time outside. Some 2 dozen years ago the residents in the Magellanes district of Chile wanted to change this. They decided that rather than fight the cold and darkness, why not celebrate these conditions?

Beauty #3

Beauty #1

As a result the Winter Festival in Punta Arenas lasts for 2 months with cultural, sporting and culinary exhibitions spread throughout the city. I had arrived in Punta Arenas to celebrate my birthday conjoined with the beginning of this festive season. But still, I miss the sun.

That I have seen the sun shine so brightly and so often is odd, not just to me but to the residents here. They tell me that this time of the year I should be walking in a slushy mix of snow and rain. But in the week that I’ve been here the skies have been mostly clear. The weather is off, they say. The weather’s been off since I got to South America. Eighteen months ago in Quito, Ecuador the weather was off. At least that is what the family I was boarding with told me.

And when I was in Perú, except for the 5 weeks in the Amazon, the weather was off. It’s the same story wherever I go, the weather is off. Though what isn’t off is the fact that residents of Punta Arenas are directly below the largest hole in the ozone above our planet. While the hole itself has lessened in recent years, the increase in ultra-violet rays is still a threat in these parts. So I take the Elder Bush’s advice and I wear a hat. 

Beauty #1

Beauty #2

But last night the air was so cold that I not only wore a hat, but 2 layers of hood over the hat. Which was far more than the young women wore as they paraded down the elevated platform. Some of them, with far more active metabolisms than I, actually began their walks in only swimwear. Most, though, were slightly more sensible and had on their winter parkas and only unzipped their down jackets when standing in front of the judges table.

Beauty #2

Beauty #3

The announcers, dressed more appropriately with scarves and woolen gloves explained to us that most of these women and girls were athletes. I should hope so. One would have to be a good sport to display their finest in these conditions. We were all up on the Cerro del Cruz. The Hill of the Cross is a viewpoint overlooking Punta Arenas, the harbor, and the Strait of Magellan beyond. With the moon, one night after its full stage and rising over the island of Tierra del Fuego, this was a festive turnout in a very special place.

Moonrise, Punta Arenas

Moonrise, Punta Arenas

By now my fingers were unresponsive and my camera was shaking. So I never found out who actually won the contest. Yet the bundled-up audience, the hyper-active rock band, the stage hands controlling the blinding lights and the roaming dogs all seemed ready and willing for a continued celebration. I bid them farewell and scurried back to the relative warmth of my room.

On Seeing “Eiffel’s Bridge” in Arequipa


In my next life (unless I come back as a toad!) I will be an engineer: either structural or mechanical, I’m not sure which. This I believe because I am drawn to making things, to fixing things, to replacing things that lack with things that provide. I like to do this and I appreciate and seek out what others have done with similar intent.

Here in South America I am often awash in both architectural and folk history. Walking through colonial neighborhoods or even whole, preserved villages is a thrill that never grows old. And while wandering in el campo (the countryside) I often see machinery or tools that are job specific.

Many of these devices are both ancient in use and yet still current in function. Whether in farmer’s field, miner’s shaft, or mother’s kitchen, these devices, implements, tools have beauty in their utility. Even if silently, I always thank their makers.

So when the guidebooks and the Peruvian Tourist Office and people on the street told me that Arequipa has a bridge designed by Eiffel, well, you can guess my mission. I had to see this creation. More importantly, I had to touch it.

The bridge spans the Rio Chili just south of Arequipa Cercado, the central and historic district of the city. Built around 1870, known locally as El Puente Bolívar, the bridge was designed to carry twin tracks of trains.

It was completed barely a year before the first trains arrived from the coast. Arequipa would now be linked to the outside world. For most of its 3 centuries this Second City of Perú had existed as a separate oasis. Isolated and fertile, boasting a sunny and dry climate.  Arequipa nevertheless was not a perfect paradise.

Two years before the completion of the bridge the city was totally destroyed by the earthquake of 1868. Through the centuries since its founding in 1540, the city suffered horrendous damage from nearly a dozen major tremblors. Yet they were, none of them, as fully disastrous as the 1868 quake.

La Casa de Sillar, my home for the month of May

La Casa de Sillar, my home for the month of May

But a new city arose from the rubble and this bridge symbolized that rebirth. I was looking forward to my visit. My route from my hostal, La Casa de Sillar, took me through the main plaza. From there the path led me through a beautiful neighborhood of century-old homes.

These homes are all constructed from volcanic tuff, known locally as sillar. Sillar is a hard, white stone and it gives the city its nickname: The White City. It was a pleasant 1/2 hour walk to the base of the bridge and past these well-preserved beauties.

I started my excursion surrounded by single storey colonial and post-colonial buildings. The stroll ended in an upscale neighborhood of townhouses and condominiums with neat green spaces here and there. Eventually I met the bridge, suspended a full 5 storeys above me, along the left bank of the Rio Chili.

It’s a far more delicate and less imposing structure than, say the Brooklyn Bridge. And it lacks the drama of the Mackinac Bridge of my youth. But even so, it is living and working history and I wasn’t disappointed. Arriving near the end of morning rush, I saw above me that the bridge had filled with stalled traffic. It is a single, one-way artery connecting the 2 sides of the river.

Gustave Eiffel Park

Gustave Eiffel Park

From where I stood, at the river-side end of a small park, the city’s one million residents seemed far away. This park was dedicated in 1988 and named after Gustave Eiffel. It is a peaceful and quiet place: not quite public yet not completely private. Placed in a gated community, but the gate was open for foot traffic. So I went in. I was surrounded by manicured greenery. There were flowers blooming everywhere with grounds tended to by municipal workers.

Arequipa is in the desert. The ambient humidity hovers below 20% and the climate is strongly reminiscent of New Mexico. Like New Mexico, the city draws off water from the river. The water is diverted into a system of canals or acequias. This park, watered by one of these acequias, flourishes. And so too, do the farmlands of the floodplain on the opposite bank. They are likewise acequia fed. I had the park to myself and wandered freely.

Acequia, Gustave Eiffel Park

Acequia, Gustave Eiffel Park

I eventually met a man who lived nearby and I asked him about the water. He explained that, again like in New Mexico, these waters are controlled by a mayordomo. This water-boss decides when and how much water is diverted to individual plots. The man I met was friendly enough and surprised to learn of the similarities our countries share for irrigation. But he had work to do so we said our goodbyes and I turned my attention back to the bridge.

Thanks to Google, the University of Iowa’s School of Engineering website and Wikipedia I learned something of the bridge’s construction. It uses a Fink Truss design to hold itself up. This system was popular with early B&O railroad bridges in the US.

El Puente Bolivar in Arequipa, Perú

El Puente Bolivar in Arequipa, Perú

The Fink Truss employs a series of interleaved triangles. Inherently strong, these triangles support the load of the roadway from underneath. The result is a lacework of steel which, though attractive, has few remaining examples still in service. There are only 2 Fink Truss bridges left standing in the US.

Fink Truss from 19th Century Patent

In the middle of the 19th Century steel was a new building material. The engineers back then were learning as they were building. The Fink Truss is an early example of such inventive construction. However this truss design was quickly superseded by above-grade supports.

Now it was time for another discovery: Eiffel did not build this bridge. He did not design it. He had nothing to do with Arequipa, nor with “Case de Fierro” in Iquitos. Nor, as I learned, did he have much to do with anything in South America.

Yet none of this matters, really. The bridge stands, people use it daily, and I was happy to find it. I left the park and climbed the neighborhood stairs up to the roadway. Two pedestrian walkways share the surface with the single lane for vehicles.

I crossed the bridge to the other side where the cars gain access. As I neared the far side I could see many of the cars pause, often for more than a minute before continuing on. This seemed strange until I got to the entrance.

Shrine at Bridge Entrance

Shrine at Bridge Entrance

There I found a glass-encased shrine with a richly clothed Jesus and Cross. Many of the drivers in this deeply religious country would stop, cross themselves and then cross the bridge. As they asked for blessings for a safe journey I too gave thanks: for the chance to witness this bridge.

In 3 days I leave Arequipa. A week after that I leave the country. But if I ever return to Perú this city is tops on my list of places to revisit. The people are welcoming, the climate is wonderful, and Puente Bolívar will still be there.

Finding Shoes, Big Shoes, in South America

When I herniated 2 discs in my lower spine I immediately lost an inch of height. This was back in 1986 and it came right after losing a vicious fight with a cast iron bathtub. Minutes earlier it was just the 2 of us on a staircase when the body said “No more.” And so did my doctor.

He said that if I continued this insanity then more discs would rupture. I was a licensed plumber at the time. Lifting heavy appliances and bath fixtures was the norm. He predicted that after a while I’d be tightening my belt up around my armpits. Literally, not just figuratively, I’d become a knuckle-dragger.

Maybe not in so many words, but that was his warning. It was time for a change. Thus, along with the bathtub, my 20-year construction career truly came crashing down around me. And it left me even more disproportionate than the way I was born. These days though my bigger inequity is my feet.

At the base of a shrinking body I float on size 13 shoes; kind of a circus clown effect. Or maybe an overgrown Hobbit. Canal boats. Land skis. Anyway, as a result I have lived through any number of embarrassing moments over the years: tripping on some things, kicking (not purposely) other things. In the past 18 months I’ve been getting my feet stuck under the front seats of mini taxis while trying to unfold out of the back seats.

All this podiatric warfare has taken a toll on my shoes. My shoes are the only barrier between my twinkling toes and the foreign elements of travel. For as much as 12 hours a day, virtually every day, I am on my feet. I am wandering and yes, even wondering on city streets, mountain paths, jungle trails, in airport terminals, at ferry landings and within hotel lobbies. I’m in restaurant dining rooms, local markets, museum halls and theater aisles. In the same pair of shoes.

My shoes are a mess. Their terminal fatigue has surpassed permissibility in polite company. I need a new pair, badly. Ah, but not so fast. Size thirteens (or 47’s down here)? Good luck, Gringo.

The majority of people living south of the Equator are not tall. Take last night, at the restaurant. My waitress barely came up to eye level as I was seated. While she, standing there wondering what this foreigner might say, was poised with order pad in hand. And that is generally the case. If you expect a face-off, take a seat.

Certainly there are tall Peruvians, and I saw more than one in Lima. However the majority of them were getting out of their Mercedes’ and sprinting to the air-conditioned tennis club; the upper-class whites. When they go shopping, they hop on a flight to Miami. The folks on the street and out of the capital are built like the waitress and dozens of waitresses like her. It’s no surprise that my needs are not their needs.

If you are shopping for clothes and you’re visiting from up north you can try a tourist-focused mall in one of the major cities. With patience you can paw through the racks and occasionally find something larger than a medium in shirts or slacks. Maybe the color’s not right, and not all styles are represented, nevertheless large and extra-large do exist. But shoes? Get ready for a special treat there, Pluto.

When the time came to replace my shoes it was also for me the beginning of a new career. I had no idea that I was to become the frontman for dozens of aspiring comedians. That was revealed when I entered my first South American shoe store. This was in Ecuador. The owner, who happened to be holding a pair of pliers, offered to cut off my toes. In between fits of doubled-over laughter he swore that he could make me cram into a pair of size 9’s. Ah, Ha ha ha.

The thing is, Ecuadorians are giants compared to the many four-foot-aughts I meet on the streets here in Perú. These folks are tiny! Have I said that before? And they sell shoes to match. Trudging through upscale malls in Lima, in Cusco, and finally here in Arequipa I meet with an equal mix of mirth and chagrin at each shop. But we all have a great time and I’m happy to say that I have made the day for many a bored shoe vendor. Shock and awe, but in a novel way.

Because you see in South America it’s not like with Donald Trump. He and Marco Rubio went at it over hand-size, somehow equating such with masculine development. Here, guess what? They whole-heartedly equate the same (and truly believe it) with shoe-size!

My Spanish is getting pretty good, though when spoken rapid-fire I still miss a lot. What I don’t miss though, are the wide-eyes and red faces of the women clerks at shoe stores. Ah, the traveling life.

I was recounting my most recent shopping disappointment to the owner of my hostal, Juan Carlos. He stopped me right then and there. “Kaaal,” he said. (German names are not easy for Spanish speakers) “It’s time to rejoice!”

He knew the solution to my shame. It was found just a half-dozen blocks from La Casa de Sillar where I am staying. His single mother has a torrid yet chaste affair (South America is conservative you know) going on with José and Juan Carlos explained that I had to go see him. José would save me.

Don José is a zapatero, an old-school shoemaker. I found his workshop just before sunset and at the same time I also met the master himself. He had just pedaled up to the curb on a well-maintained Trek mountain bike. Returning from a 3 hour siesta, he was energized and ready for business. Doña Gloria, Juan Carlos’s mother, had warned him to be on the lookout for the gringo, so he wasn’t surprised to see me. We hit it off immediately.

Don José, with his motocicleta in the background.

Don José, with his motocicleta in the background.

I had complemented him on the bicycle racing posters plastered on his walls. I also mentioned that after retiring from the university I became a bicycle mechanic. That did it. Our friendship was cemented for good.

José competes in his age group (he’s 47) in both road races and on mountain trails. He also rides motorcycles. He had both a road machine and an enduro along with his Trek crammed into the 4’ x 12’ workspace. The shop was lit by a single dangling lightbulb. This place was more than packed: it was floor-to-ceiling jammed.

One of my battleships is on the counter.

One of my battleships is on the counter.

But he found me a foot-high stool and had me hunker down for measurements. As we sat, soon joined by his friend Charles, we spent the next 2-1/2 hours reviewing each other’s lives and dreams. The time flew by. Part way through our talks, José showed me some of his current projects.

He was re-soling a pair of trainers for Doña Gloria, a labor of love to be sure. Plus, he was putting finishing touches on a largish pair of what seemed to be dancing slippers. This elegant footwear in black leather, covered with decorative metal studs, was a custom pair he was crafting for the neighborhood transvestite. I know that this person will like them because they also have shiny metal inserts that wrap around the heels. The inserts match the studs. Fancy is as fancy does.

These shoes of hers say a lot about life in South America. Yes, the countries are conservative. Yes, both the Catholic Church and the political systems condemn the life we generally take for granted in the US. Though back home it’s not that extreme opposites in lifestyles often associate with each other. Nonetheless, our legal system does protect our differences. Except for North Carolina, but that story’s for someone else’s telling.

In contrast, life on the street in Latin America is a working model for “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” As long as you’re not harming anyone, as long as you’re not pestering others with your personal dramas, people here know how to get along. Even when lifestyles and needs are not openly admitted to. I knew that these studded beauties were sure to please.

Of course there are the anal types (Freudian, I mean) who are uptight about pretty much everything. But they are a small part of the Latin population and simply tolerated, but only just. Life here is far more inclusionary than the polarized, exclusionary life most common up north. Liberals with liberals, conservatives with conservatives; don’t cross the street.

“We don’t have much, but we’ve got each other,” are the words to live by in these parts. I’m very comfortable with this. And I know that Andelina (her working-gurl name) will be comfortable with her shoes as well.

José attending to my Sole

José attending to my Sole

OK, My feet are measured: lengthwise, widthwise, outlined, multiple circumferences noted. I’ve picked out the color: a medium brown; the style: a sober, semi-dress walking shoe. In one week I will have my first hand made pair of zapatos (shoes). They should go well with the new pair of navy wool trousers and gray sports coat I picked out earlier this week.

I’m getting ready for Chile. The people there are living with the most vigorous economic climate in South America. They dress accordingly. I’m tired of looking like a tourist. Or, as another waitress opined to me, a mendigo, a beggar. But she exaggerates: the poor people here dress better than the rich gringos from up north.

For the curious, these shoes have set me back a full forty-five dollars. Sure, that’s a lot of money for custom-made full leather shoes, but this is Perú. That’s how things are done here.

Postscript: It’s a week later, I’m a couple of twenties thinner, and I’m sitting in a restaurant wearing my new kicks. They’re a few hours old but already they feel like old friends. José built in some amazing cushioning (both in the soles and the interiors) and I’m ready for some long days walking south in a skinny country. Prepare yourself, Chile: I’m on my way.

Gracias, Maestro!

Gracias, Maestro!

Mil Gracias, Maestro Zapatero!

Chemtrails in the Heavens

What follows is a social and political comment paid for entirely by my monthly Social Security Check. Thanks, Uncle Sam! Direct deposits and an international ATM card are my true friends; they keep me wandering and wondering.

Sung to the tune of “Red Sails in the Sunset,” the title of this post refers to a disturbing “religion” I’ve been encountering with far too much frequency: the idea that somehow we are being subjected to heinous yet ill-defined chemicals sprayed atop us from on high. Therefore, and in defense of my own sanity, I chose exercising my only authentic strength: pure, seat-of-the-pants speculation. Spend enough time alone with just your own thoughts (rather than mired in Facebook/Status updates) and you too can conjure.

So this is a rant. It is a break from my travels. It is an unabashed diatribe roiling against what I see as yet another unsettling development in the continuation of dumbing down in the US. That it has primarily found a home in our newest generation, The Millennials is of little comfort. These folks are our future and I am deeply concerned about it and them. However somewhere along the way the current election process insinuated itself and I have woven the two into a single post.

You may travel through my musing by your own choice. If I offend, do not forget that I respect our differences. I only hope that your opinions came from your own considered reasoning and not from some pretty face broadcast around and about the ether. These times demand personal critical thinking rather than subscription to emotional jingoes.

In the beginning there was Spiro

From my personal recollections the slide into an embrace of national ignorance began with my then favorite political punching bag, the ex-Vice President Spiro T. Agnew. Picked by Richard Nixon as his first running mate, Agnew did indeed hit the ground running. He wasted little time initiating a full frontal attack against anyone questioning the folly of our war in Viet Nam.

Firing off his infamous barb claiming “effete intellectual snobs” as his nemesis, Agnew set a new low for using sarcasm to belittle opposing views; almost 50 years before the Donald shot to center stage. This particular brand of attack was actually the only weapon in Agnew’s arsenal against logic and reason. He couldn’t rely on facts, there were none.

And who among us back then could forget his change order to the dress code for the hapless Secret Service men assigned to patrol the White House? As a reminder for those who were alive then, and as an introduction for those not yet born, the leading image above is a photo of Agnew’s directive for the guards. Which operetta did he steal those costumes from?

Nattering Nabobs of Negativity

Nattering Nabobs of Negativity

Mercifully, that particular outrage endured a mere 2 weeks of wholesale national media scorn. Before their next paychecks those employees of the US Treasury were thankfully back wearing somber suits and ties. If Agnew hadn’t had to resign in disgrace over blatant charges of extortion, tax fraud, bribery and conspiracy what else might we have endured? That’s a fun thought to play with.

The Administration’s (and Kennedy’s and Eisenhower’s before Nixon’s) believed that the nation was somehow going to “Stop the Spread of Communism.” And we were going to do this by relying on tactics and strategies held over from a peaceful Philippines regime change; a decision that was less than astute. Thus the only way to sell the fear of Commies was by convincing The Silent Majority that critical thinking was suspect. So intellectuals became silly women, protests were treasonous, and anyone who thought otherwise was clearly “un-Amurrican.” Love IT or Leave IT you scummy hippies, college professors, and worst of all: scientists.

Thus the slide to Bubba-hood took off. The glorification of redneck chic, previously recognized as barely literate and anti-everything not itself, was now something to be celebrated; “I’m dumb and I’m proud!” Its corollary: that being informed and educated was somehow a thing of suspect and must be rejected became a national pursuit.

And as it has moved forward through the decades this rejection of knowledge and research and overwhelming peer-reviewed clinical evidence stymies any progress toward healing the planet.  We’re told that treasonous talk like climate change comes from over-educated limp-wristed geeks.

Thankfully Lush Rimbaugh and Hawn Shannity comfort us, singing the lullaby that those bad things just ain’t so. Facts are just an effeminate excuse, a sublimation from people who can’t afford a Hummer or whatever has taken its place these days. Let’s have another beer. Our “authentic” media heroes will bring us the truth so we don’t have to think. What a relief.

Let’s get back to Chemtrails, shall we? Trump and Roger Ailes and the rest of the pushers of simplistic nirvana are big boys and can take care of themselves. And make us all great again. Donald said so.

There’s an Illuminati hiding under my bed

Ever since I landed in Ecuador more than a year ago I have encountered a surprisingly large subset of wanderers, both there along the Equator and now here in Perú. Not surprisingly, most folks on the move and traveling the world are pretty young compared to myself. Most are 2 generations younger and if I had had children, these people would be their children.

So far, this flame is focused on people from the US. It’s not to say that young people from other lands don’t share these commonalities, but I have yet to meet any that do. I refer to the Millennials, born and bred Stateside. However I will say that when it comes to middle-age, I meet other nationals of other countries who have bought into this incredulous mindset. Which tells me that though it’s not a theory exclusive to Millennials, the dense numbers of subscribers are more localized with them.

Enough (too much? probably not) has been written of, explained about, blamed on the fact that this particular generation can expect a world with less goodwill than the world we had available to us as we ventured forth, establishing ourselves and our futures. Wholesale battalions of Millennials, with admirable educations often going well beyond 4-year Baccalaureate degrees find themselves, when lucky enough to have a job, pulling lattes and mochaccinos for those of us with mythologically disposable incomes. I’d be resentful if it were me behind the counter as well. Thanks again, Social Security!

With all the talking heads forecasting more decidedly dismal futures for Millennials than either their Gen-X parents or Boomer grandparents had, it’s no wonder that they’ve taken so completely to social media. Only by constantly checking in with others facing the same bleak existence can they remind themselves of the promised entitlement to a wonderful life. Growing up with a distorted message like that one needs constant reassurance that it really is all right and we really are having loads of fun. Let’s take another selfie so we don’t forget how it should be.

Were I fed the same creation myth I might hide behind a 3-inch (or 6-inch, sorry iPhone junkies) reality too, if only I could remember to turn on my smartphone in some regular fashion. It’s almost enough to make one think that the world conspires against them. Well, surprise! That belief does live a vigorous life.

I am constantly stunned to learn this is exactly what a disturbingly large segment of Millennials do believe. And they are more than willing to bleat this revelation to any and all with a chilling stridency. Recently I blundered into just such an encounter, the outcome of which I can only blame on myself.

In February, after the final ayahuasca ceremony at a retreat near Iquitos, I was having a heartfelt conversation with one of the volunteers. He had been a fantastic source of strength (I usually cannot walk unassisted during a ceremony) and protocol during the retreat and we were discussing our separate and possibly similar futures at other venues.

We seemed to resonate over any number of shared views, and he was somehow fascinated with a few of my life experiences and sincerely wanted to cement our friendship. This prompted an invitation to visit some of his compatriots in Vilcabamba, Ecuador. I replied that I had heard about the natural beauty of the area and might someday visit. But I cautioned him that through several accounts I learned that the place was awash with conspiracy theorists. Should that last bit be capitalized?

Well, from that point onward: DEAD AIR! By his silence I immediately knew that our budding buddy-hood had died a miserable death. Theorists indeed. It’s not theory (at least to this young man and his cohorts), it’s the TRUTH! Imagine my surprise to learn that the Illuminati, or is it the US Air Force (or is it even more widespread than that?) were out to get him. And me. And everyone else too blind to notice.



For those of you still ignorant enough to be wallowing in the pig-trough of ignorance, and I too was for a time one of you, let me tell you now that we are all doomed. I’m learning that since the mid-90’s at least, the Air Force, or is it the Illuminati, or is the Air Force following Illuminati orders most secretly; well it’s somebody, and they have been seeding the atmosphere with brain disease. Or is it GMO/Monoculture-Crop-Catalysts? Or is it anti-matter resonant frequency generators? No, really! Just look up!

And if I had been silly enough to counter that I knew otherwise, I would have been identified as ONE OF THEM! An Illuminati! But in honesty, I cannot excise that part of my brain infected by social contact with physicists and engineers; folks who do in fact know how the universe is put together. How foolish could I be not to realize that professionals who spend their lives understanding such things are mere dupes of the Illuminati? And that any resistance I might have to the Chemtrails existence validates my identity as one of the enemy?

Oh my goodness gracious sakes alive! Talking to these folks made me feel as though I was floundering in a vat of circular reasoning with no way out and the waters were rising. If this were indeed true and tens of thousands of jet pilots were conniving to poison our air, why were they willingly poisoning their own families as well? That question is not acceptable to these defenders of the conspiracy. Or perhaps (I haven’t kept up on the finer nuances of the absurd) the families of the pilots are secretly given anti-Chemtrails antidotes.

Paranoiacs have a right to be worried

Paranoiacs have a right to be worried

Maybe I need to dumb down too. In the 50’s Kevin McCarthy starred in “The Invasion of the Body Snatchers” that scared me no end. Art begets life. Donald Sutherland’s remake was no slouch either. Check ’em out…if you dare.

How can one be so educated and still not know anything?

In spite of the bulk of Millennials growing up getting gold stars at school and everyone winning while no one loses and everyone being special and everyone entitled to high-paying jobs as soon as the ink on their diplomas dries, the world really is a pretty shitty place these days. Just look at the Republican Party if you have any doubts. Somehow reality bears little semblance to what Millennials were led to believe it was going to be. Well, certainly we are all unique, that much is true. However simple mathematics tells us that we can’t all be special.

But since it’s virtually impossible to accurately assign blame for this mess we’re in, in spite of a knee-jerk resonance with jingos like making the country great again, then it stands to reason(?) that sinister forces are at play. You just have to open your eyes and look up at the skies. How could I have been so blind?

Now, how did this happen? How did seemingly rational, stable, intelligent young people ascribe to a world where someone or something has devised a most sinister plan to rob them of their birthrights? I believe that I have an idea.

The Boogie Man

The Boogie Man

As each of us progressed from infancy into childhood The Boogie Man played an ever critical role in our lives. His (am I being sexist here?) existence predicated unexplained evil, predicated a world that was not fair, predicated a life where long, hard and often boring work (if one could find it) was the only guaranteed path to success. Once we dropped our final diapers and realized that not only were we not each of us the centers of all known things, we quickly discovered that life can, at least on occasion, have some very sharp edges. Why, Daddy? The Boogie Man, of course.

With the reversal of economic progress and the upcoming generation facing a very sad future with lessening opportunity for growth and betterment, our friend The Boogie Man has now morphed into Chemtrails. You can see them everywhere in the skies these days. Just look up.

Chemtrails, they're everywhere!

Chemtrails, they’re everywhere!

These stratospheric evils, far from the innocuous vapor trails we knew and loved when the country was still great, are designed to infect the populace with something bad. Not quite sure what, but it’s got to be bad. Late night radio boobs tell us so, and if you’re sleep deprived enough (or just getting off of your brain-eating shift at the coffee bar) it all makes perfect sense. Kind of. To some.

Chemtrails are symptomatic of a larger loss of critical thinking

Spiro Agnew was the midwife for the birth of my understanding. His attack against critical thinking, sadly well received by a large segment of the population, was just the beginning of my dis-ease with cultural “values.” Fortunately I had other teachers as well.

Perhaps the most important was Neil Postman. Having published Amusing Ourselves to Death just after we elected a “movie star” as President, Postman argued that we are not threatened by Orwell’s 1984, where the State has stolen our rights, but in fact we have, along the lines of Huxley’s Brave New World, voluntarily traded those rights for the narcotic of entertainment; movie star President to be sure. But really, that was nothing compared to today as we are herding ourselves behind a real estate billionaire. After all, Trump did have his own “reality” TV show. And if reality, even TV’s version, is not entertainment, what is?

Still and yet, please don’t misinterpret my point. I welcome Donald J. Trump. He’s exactly what we need. And exactly what we deserve. Every 4 years the talking heads remind us just how broken the US electoral system is. The dysfunctional Electoral College, the delegates and those true, real Boogie Men: the super delegates, all chosen during the previous election process 4 years earlier, when today’s hot issues were inconceivable; it really is broken.

Shiva, Hindu God of Destruction

Shiva, Hindu God of Destruction

The GOP old guard have it completely wrong. The Trumpster is not a Democrats’ plant, put on center stage by Hillary to subvert a party already in serious decline. Our Man of the Hour is quite probably the disguised Hindu god Shiva: both The Destroyer and the creator.

Raised by Socialists and named after Karl Marx and Frederick Engles, I have long believed that this country will only survive by building a viable election process that includes, encourages, demands strong 3rd parties. With the current, winner-take-all, 2 party system we are saddled with, every 4 years we trade off the baton to either of 2 sides of the same coin. And the True Change that both sides swear they will bring, if we’re only foolish enough to believe them, somehow never comes.

Should then, Trump’s extremists be denied a voice? Certainly and most assuredly not. Not any more than Bernie’s fervent acolytes on the left should be denied. We need a system of inclusion not exclusion if we are to move forward into a world we barely understand. The rise of Trumpism was a given that only took the unaware by surprise. The world and especially this country are far too complex to think there can be an either/or, Democrat/Republican solution.

And should you question the sanity of 3rd parties, just tune in to some of the deeper, frantic discussions taking place right now at the upper levels of the GOP. Either they swallow a bitter pill and endorse a Tea Party ideologue who himself has vowed to destroy the party, or they fund a breakaway candidate carrying a splinter banner. Something, anything but the Donald. If they see a need for 3rd parties, why don’t you?


I am captivated by islands. Though I’m not referring to their landforms. However the ones I’ve had the luck of visiting are certainly worth appreciating simply for their natural beauties. But what pulls me to these places is the effect insularity has on the mindset of the peoples who live there.

Cut off from fast and easy access to other parts of the world, isolated population centers develop distinct identities which are both a boon and an obstacle to us transients just passing through. I’ve had the pleasure of spending some time in 3 very different such cultures.

Hawai’i in the 60’s and 70’s was an island chain in transition. Having become the 50th state of the US a few years earlier, it was also the materiel and military troop concentration point for an escalating war in Viet Nam. The ripple effect of the war created more high-paying jobs than qualified workers to fill them. One could, and often did, quit a job in the morning and have another one that afternoon.

A third element for change was the allure of the islands for the counter-culture youth, usually referred to as hippies. I was part of that culture. With so much money freely floating within the state coupled with the influx of people and new ideas, Hawai’i became one of the most liberal and free-thinking places in the country. But this was not to last.

After the war in Viet Nam ended, followed in parallel with the complete collapse of Hawai’i’s agriculture giants, pineapple and sugarcane, the state was struck low by 2 hurricanes. The first one came in the 80’s and the more destructive one in the 90’s and the devastation is still being felt today.

These successive shocks to the vitality of Hawai’i collectively morphed into a behavioral provincialism that carries on today. I witnessed this firsthand 2 years ago when asked to serve on a State Legislative Task Force for the creation of a medical cannabis dispensary system. Even though 23 other states already have fully functional systems in place the major players in the Task Force demanded a different approach, essentially commanding the reinvention of the wheel. As a result, years later the system has yet to begin treating qualifying patients with respect, let alone functional results.

Rationale for the refusal to incorporate existing, proven methods for a dispensary system focused on the fear of perhaps venturing into new territory, though in fact this was obviously not the case. To be sure, by reinventing that particular wheel the power group behind the scenes on the Task Force guaranteed the creation of a unique system of Byzantine complexity. Much of that complexity relies on the islands’ definition of terms.

The state’s interpretation of the concept of liberal and conservative thought are frequently 180 degrees out of sync with the US mainland. In Hawai’i you find leading Democrats almost maniacally opposed to the idea that cannabis could be a medicine, and you find a Republican who has been tilting against windmills for 20 years trying to introduce industrial hemp as a viable and profitable agricultural industry. So much for progressive action and conservative caution. It’s really fascinating and entertaining stuff if it didn’t adversely affect seriously ill residents.

The Galápagos Islands also model insular behaviors. Though visitors come to see the genetic diversity of the animals and the differences among identical species on the various islands, the diversity of the people on the different islands is just as pronounced and just as fascinating. Who could imagine such cultural/behavioral diversity in such a small island chain? But it exists and the differences are easy to spot. Easy, if one takes the time to sit down and have a conversation with the locals residents.

Iquitos, Peru is the 3rd island culture I am considering. And yes, it’s a city of 1/2 million people in the middle of South America. But it is also the largest landlocked city in the world without a road leading in or out. There is no overland access and it is surrounded by the Amazon jungle. Iquitos is undeniably an island, one with its own unique elements that combine to form its individuality.

Perú is a poor country, though like Mexico it is a rich country. Third largest in South America it is rich in resources and has a reasonably clear understanding of the meaning of that natural wealth. But, like Mexico, the people are achingly poor having to survive in spite of an endemic level of corruption touching all aspects of the country’s culture. Iquitos, at the tail end of nowhere, feels this poverty through an unemployment level of about 65%. So that when 50,000 – 100,000 comparatively wealthy tourists visit the city yearly, the gap between the local population and the visitors is painfully obvious to all.

This gap creates and sustains a vulture-culture, where tourists are declared open-season for opportunists year round. Though the majority of the city is virtually tourist free, the areas along the Malecon and the various historic sites in and around Iquitos are awash with wandering scam artists offering the unwary everything from bogus tours to unrealistic money exchange rates, to prostitutes, to street drugs, to ayahuasca and most likely very much more. Buyer beware and keep track of your personal items; the management is not responsible…

In Lima my first Spanish language teacher there explained to me about cultural feelings of inadequacy as an endemic Peruvian world view. She recounted a number of instances to support her argument that Peruvians regard themselves collectively as backward and thus regard visitors as somewhat intimidating. Here on the streets it is common to witness a deference shown by Peruvians toward gringos and it can be uncomfortable to those of us raised believing in universal equality. I can only image how African-Americans must have felt and behaved toward whites before widespread civil rights movements. I see that deference here in Iquitos far more commonly than either Lima or virtually all of Ecuador.

So, on the one hand you have a deferential population and on the other hand you have the bold “street sweepers” looking for any opportunity to redistribute wealth. This paradox is, in a nutshell, why Iquitos holds such magic. Yesterday, for example, I rode a mototaxi to Embarcadero Bellavista to revisit the confluence of the Rio Nanay and the Amazon. I had been there, on the water, the week earlier and I wanted to spend time on my own without being part of a small tour group.

Before I even got out of the taxi, I had shills and scammers vying for my cash; each one professing to be the real deal at, of course, the best price for you my friend. And even after I had explained (always with a smile, nothing turns uglier quicker than a scowl or a harsh word) that I was only there to take photos, 2 or 3 followed me for a good 10 minutes. Each one assured me that they understood my predicament (?) and had the one, true answer. Gracias, but no…amigo.

Anyway, after the docks drained themselves of photo-opps I decided to walk back to the Malecon, about an hour’s toil in the heat and sun. If you have read Jack London, or personally visited international port facilities then you know that the surrounding areas are not only not pleasant, but often downright dicey as regards personal safety. Yet while I do not doubt that Bellavista shares these attributes at night, I was never once made to feel in any way at risk. Any time I got off Avenida Marina, the Main Street connecting the port with the Malecon, I never experienced resentment let alone hostility. Befuddlement certainly, and even small doses of curiosity, but danger, never. Everyone is just too polite.

Several days after arriving in Iquitos I noticed that the water was rising. From the beginning of February, when I got off the speedboat from Lagunas until the end of the week there were differences in the surrounding topography. This phenomenon was why I came! From the Time/Life books and National Geographic magazines I read as a child, to the PBS and Walt Disney nature programs, I knew that the Amazon swelled and receded yearly, the result of rains in the Andes. Now I was watching it. Slowly and surely, Iquitos is becoming a geographic island as well.



La Reserva Pacaya-Samiría

After squeezing out of the over-stuffed combi from Tarapoto, I found myself wandering through the river port town of Yurimaguas in north-central Perú. The combi, a minivan remodeled to hold 12 (very small Peruvian) passengers, had 16 of us sardined on top of each other careening down from the Highlands.

As the result of endorsements by friends, telling me how pleasant Tarapoto, the “City of Palms” was, I looked forward to getting there after my 4 month Lima sojourn. Facing either a 24hr bus ride or a 1hr flight, I took a taxi from the SAE/Lima clubhouse to the airport. It was a cost difference of about $60 and very much worth it; however Tarapoto wasn’t.

Perhaps I invested too many expectations into this small town, having read so many guide books laying around the SAE/Lima Clubhouse. Perhaps those friends who spoke so highly of Tarapoto aren’t really friends. Perhaps it was just me, unable to define what I was looking for to clear my mind of a city of 10 million. Whatever the cause or causes, Tarapoto disappointed. Perhaps it could have been the haircut.

My First (and last?) Selfie

My First (and last?) Selfie

My last one in Lima had grown out unevenly and I wanted to just comb my hair straight back and keep it simple for the jungle. The young lady who sat me down and snipped away had other ideas. Sadly, I have a feeling that she had failed to articulate those ideas down to her fingers and I ended up stumbling away with perhaps the worst chopping that I’ve ever had; certainly the worst in South America.

But she had recently moved to the “Big City” of Tarapoto from a small village bordering Ecuador and I was her very first Gringo! And the first gringo that she had ever talked to. This was a big day for her tiny shop. She was nervous and flirty and amazed that I could speak Spanish, so we had a thoroughly enjoyable time together talking about all sorts of things.

As part of a larger task, I am learning to forgive perceived injustices I’ve carried as resentments over the years. I have Balkan blood in my veins and it’s normal for a Serb to pass on a grudge through generations or even centuries. If you doubt this, simply ask a Croatian. The two cultures have been at each other’s throats for a millennia. Thus, I have some deep cultural teachings to overcome. It’s now 3 weeks after the haircut and wearing a hat is no longer mandatory. All is forgiven, Floricita. Pretty much.

What truly sealed the deal about my dislike for Tarapoto happened when I found out, after an hour’s walk in searing heat and a truly brutal sun, that the chocolate factory tours were shut down because of a remodeling project. That was it; I’m out of here! I was crammed into the combi the next morning, barreling on to Yurimaguas.

Mototaxis in Yurimaguas

Mototaxis in Yurimaguas

Smaller, dirtier, and far more humid than Tarapoto, Yurimaguas is a major shipping gateway to Iquitos and the Amazon. It is also the end of paved roads in this part of Perú, and even dirt roads end just outside of town. I enjoyed my stay and found it very pleasant. People and goods arrive from the mountains and the coast in Yurimaguas for transshipment down the Huallaga River to the larger, faster Marañón and finally down to Iquitos.

The other option for reaching Iquitos from within Perú by way of water, is to reach, by land or by air, the city of Pucallpa and board a similar type of vessel traveling down the Ucayali. I expect to be in Pucallpa next month for another, very different jungle experience. Just upstream of Iquitos, the distance changing with seasonal flooding and the variable nature of large rivers, both the Ucayali and the Marañón join to become the Amazon.

By any metric the Amazon is the largest river in the world. And even here, more than 2,000 miles from its delta on the Atlantic coast of Brazil, here where it first gets its name, IT’S A BIG RIVER. Certainly at this point the Amazon equals the breadth of the Mississippi at its fullest, and either of the Ucayali or Marañón flows would rival the Missouri or the Ohio. But at this juncture I’m downstream of where I want to be so let’s go back a few days.

Yurimaguas is where I had planned to board one of Eduardo’s Boats. But Eduardo is dead and his 2 sons are now rivals in the transport business, constantly fighting each other for commerce. What was once the shipper of choice, Eduardo’s Boats is now just one of a number of shippers vying for trade. After some consultation with hotel staff and folks on the street I chose another option to make my way downstream. I’m happy that I did.

Passenger/Freighters at Yurimaguas

Passenger/Freighters at Yurimaguas

The idea of fighting for hammock space crammed shoulder to shoulder with other passengers sounded less and less appealing. Without problems (when did that last happen?) the downstream voyage takes about 3 days of constant heat, humidity, and the farts, belches, and snores of scores of unwashed bodies. It didn’t take a lot of convincing for me to break up the trip into 2 segments, going ashore at the village of Lagunas about 1/3 of the way to Iquitos.

Instead of the large and very slow passenger/freighter, I boarded a 3am speedboat in Yurimaguas and came ashore at Lagunas 5 hours later. Standing at the top of the muddy bank, José was waiting to grab my bag and take me to his office. I had signed up for his tour, Huayruro, to take me into the Pacaya-Samiría Reserve. For several days José and his wife Emilia would be my hosts and guides. We floated and paddled downstream in a dugout canoe, staying at mosquito-netted camps along the way.

The 2 of them, members of the Cucama indigenous group, are people who can and do live off the land and the rivers with a fishing line, a skinny bamboo fishing spear, a box of matches, and of course the machete. Oh, and bottled water for the gringo. Along with a roll of toilet paper for the white guy as well.

José and Emilia

José and Emilia

They had never taken someone my age on a trip with them and to say that I was pampered doesn’t do their hospitality justice. I sat amidships in the canoe and was expected to document the journey with photos and witty conversation while the two of them did all the paddling. Spanish is also their 2nd language so we got along very well. But less than a week was more than enough for me.

Near one hundred degree temperatures competing with near one hundred percent humidity takes an ever increasing toll on me each year. The mosquitos, though less in numbers and less voracious than those attacking me in the Everglades years ago, are not my favorites either. But with the oppressive heat/humidity combination and just sitting in the canoe most of each day, I struggled mightily. Though not with food.

José just speared one of many fish

José just speared one of many fish

José, paddling from the front while his wife sat in the stern, for seemingly no apparent reason would randomly steer toward one bank or the other on the opaque brown river. He’d then reach back behind him to grab his spear and within seconds he had a fresh fish at his feet. After several of these he would slice off a piece of one of the fish and thread it on a hooked fishing line tied to another 1/2-inch thick bamboo pole.

Our first piranha

Our first piranha

Then he would slap the hook onto the water’s surface with a quick flip of the pole and literally in a second or two, one of 3 species of piranha swimming nearby would become the next course in our next meal. Emilia had only packed some salt, a few tomatoes and a bag of onions when we set out. And for the next few days I picked fishbones out of my teeth breakfast, lunch and dinner. Piranha, by the way, is supremely delicious.

We went caiman spotting at night and saw even more birds by day than I had seen in the Cuyabeno Reserve in Ecuador last year. Parrots, Macaws, 3 kinds of Kingfishers, Egrets, Storks and many more took flight around each bend in the river. The Pacaya-Samiría Reserve is a national treasure and surely a place worth the struggle to reach for anyone visiting Perú. One can also visit the Reserve coming upriver from Iquitos, paying 3-5 times as much but with more pampering and fancier accommodations. Your call.

Eventually the torture ended, after the 3 of us each grabbed a paddle and fought our way upstream back to Lagunas. I was so truly taken with my guides that I left Emilia with a princely sum of 50 soles as a tip. That’s about $14.26, not a trivial amount in the jungle. But José was too wiley for me and when he dropped me off at the backpackers’ hostel, I found out that he had already paid for my night! I was humbled mightily.

Dawn on the Huallaga

Dawn on the Huallaga

Early the next morning, just after sunrise, I boarded another speedboat and zipped down the Huallaga. An hour into the trip and the river joined the Marañón, one of the major rivers in South America.

From there it was an uneventful 6hr ride to the port of Nauta where I got off in a driving thunderstorm for yet another crammed, sweaty combi ride, this time into Iquitos. I set aside 3 weeks for Iquitos, and like so many other places, 3 months would not have been enough for this amazing island in the jungle.

The largest landlocked city in the world (nearly 1/2 million population) without a road leading to it, Iquitos is worth a very long look. I’m doing just that.

On The River

Sitting here in Iquitos at the Yellow Rose of Texas, I have time to reflect. Plenty of time, really. I’ve given myself 3 weeks to soak up the history of this city and to find a way for explaining to myself just what Lima was all about.

My 4 months in Lima slipped by in a blur. After a number of false starts I finally admitted to myself that I was standing too close to events while still caught up in them to be able to recount anything accurately. This opportunity for a bit of geographical separation permits a chance to place those months in context. Here at the Yellow Rose, where I generally breakfast, I can more clearly look backwards and a bit forwards as well.

Also here at the YRT, “where the beer is colder than your ex-wife” you can find a Margaritaville style sports bar, restaurant and cafetería (what they call a coffee bar in Latin America rather than what we call a collection of steam tables back in the US of A). It will also host a TV broadcast of Super Bowl 50, so I expect to return and fight for table space this next Sunday as well. The staff is bilingual and the tables are plentiful with an unhurried feel to the place

I got to Iquitos by floating down 2 rivers after spending several days in a jungle reserve with an indigenous family. Now I’m here, where one of the rivers, the Marañón joins another, Rio Ucayali, to become the Amazon. And I’m trapped. There’s a vaguely Golden-ish Retriever asleep on my right foot and I haven’t the heart to disturb her from her snores.

Even as auspicious dates play a major role in traditional Chinese culture, so too I saw no reason not to incorporate them into my own life. A week ago, January 23rd, marked the day one year past when I landed in Ecuador on a flight from Miami. I commemorated this day by saying goodby to Lima and boarding a flight to Tarapoto. I have 5 months left on my Peruvian visa. On the surface that seems to be a lot of time, but Perú is a big place with much to see and do. And if I hadn’t left Lima when I did, I might never have done so. Yet since I accomplished most of what I set out to do there, I can view the time spent as time positive.

Primary among my goals was the important one of personal physical well-being. Traveling full-time I had fallen into the trap of many who live on the road: I was eating a lot and doing little about it other than to eat some more. Compared to my “sedentary” lifestyle before I started flexing my passport, my new habits included virtually no time to maintain any sort of muscle tone. This turned out to be a dangerous and eventually a life-threatening practice which I realized far too dramatically in September.

Once visitors arrive in the Galapagos (always, of necessity, by air) they need to board a ferry and cross a small channel between the flat rock that hosts the landing strip and the main island of Santa Cruz. As I was hoisting my bag, too big and too heavy, to heave it onto the top of the ferry, I almost landed in the water between the dock and the bobbing vessel. It was a dramatic reminder that in 9 months of travel with no proper physical exercise, I was woefully out of shape. I already knew this from earlier experiences, but there is nothing like a close call offering potentially great bodily harm to drive home the point.

An extended stay in Lima would offer the chance to rectify my physical decline and it did. Shortly after settling in at SAE/Lima I enrolled in classes at Ashtanga Perú. This type of yoga is a highly energetic form which requires the practitioner to balance on one’s hands between poses and expects the neophyte to have already attained middling level of flexibility. It kicked my ass.

But now, with the knowledge of Ashtanga gained, I can be holed up in even the smallest of hotel rooms, and have enough space to roll out my yoga mat and pummel myself into keeping up a modest level of muscle tone. By far I haven’t incorporated all the poses or asanas, but I carry a plasticized chart of them and slowly move forward, learning new asanas over time. I owe a deep thanks to Fernando, Pedro, and the rest of the staff at the Lima studio.

El Enano, Miraflores, Lima

Pulling this feeling of gratitude forward, I’m also deeply indebted to the folks at “El Enano,” which is Spanish for “the dwarf” though I never once saw one. This outdoor eating establishment, open virtually every day of the year from 6am to the next day is hugely popular with Limeños. El Enano was half way along my path to and from the yoga studio, so after practice each day it was my sole choice for breakfast with none of the other nearby eateries coming close.

Posted along the inner wall of the seating area (26 bar stools bolted to the concrete) and up near the ceiling was a menu of nearly 200 items. By far the majority of these were fruit juices, offered either singly or in combinations of 2 or more fruits. There were simply not enough days in the week, nor weeks in the months I lived in Lima for me to try them all. Though I did mark off my choices on a take-away menu I carried in my backpack just for this purpose.

Combos like carambola/maracuyá/tuna (tuna’s the fruit of a cactus) or fresa/mandarina/uva (strawberry/tangerine/grape) kept my imagination soaring and always in anticipation of the next day’s selection. Up in the northern hemisphere we keep hearing about “superfoods” and how their concentrated benefits outshine conventional products. Unless you can actually see them, arrayed in their spectrum of colors, it will be nearly impossible to know what we don’t know; thank you Donald Rumsfeld.

Shortly after arriving in Quito, Ecuador early in 2015 I discovered the wonder of such fruits that I had never heard of let alone tasted. More than a dozen years living in Hawai’i had kick-started my love of tropical fruits, but the sheer variety here in South America vastly overwhelmed even the wonderful options back in Honolulu. And now that I’m here along the Amazon, Perú offers even more than I found in Ecuador. Fruits like arazá, copoazú, taperiba, mamey, camu camu, aguaje, gamitana, cocona and many more are exciting elements in my daily life.

Fruit Vendor, Lima

Fruit Vendor, Lima

And if, for some reason, the 4 blocks to El Enano from the SAE/Lima Clubhouse were somehow too far to travel, I just walked 3 doors down to the corner and visited the pushcart street vendor. Pretty much any direction from the Clubhouse and no more than a block or two distant, vendors with their pushcarts offered fresh produce and/or fruits with this dizzying array of options.

The fruit-sellers all had their assigned locations and would set up just after dawn, hawking their freshest of fresh foods throughout every day but Sunday. Life was good and it was easy. Healthy eating, in spite of not cooking for myself, was never a difficult prospect. From weekend organic farmers’ markets to natural food stores, good food that was good for you was never far away.

Also close by I met a slowly roving band of cynical middle-aged expats who moved in circular migratory patterns throughout my adopted neighborhood. Introduced to them by a Canadian SAE Club member early in my stay, I paid my dues and joined the club for a bit. Buying a round for whomever stumbled into whichever bar they fancied that hour of that day made one a charter member. I was in.

After a week or two, or perhaps three, or was it four? (I’m a bit cloudy about those details) I realized that I didn’t want to resurrect old depression-inducing patterns and learned to keep my distance from the gang. They were nice enough guys, at least superficially, but endemic bitterness toward a world that done ’em wrong grew to be too tedious for me; especially after the 47th time of hearing the same grievous injustices.

I did pick up some tips on how to snag the best hookers and score some righteous weed. Great, just what I needed. NOT! Though they did introduce me to my street-smart Spanish teacher and until we had a cultural falling out a few months later, Ely taught me a great deal. However, picking scabs, especially in this tropical heat, will fester wounds, so let’s say goodbye to Ely and the gang and then move on. But before I go, I will say that I benefited from yet another ayahuasca delayed effect that I never would have discovered if not for this group of merry men.

Just like the disappearance of my life-long seasickness through after-effects of ayahuasca, which I discovered during September in the Galapagos, hanging out with the barflies in October taught me that I could, for the first time ever, successfully mix tobacco, alcohol, and weed without puking my guts. In previous encounters over many years I could mix any 2 of the 3 and remain vertical. But try as I might, and yes, I have tried over time, I could never join all three in one harmonious union. Now I can. Ain’t that something real special?

So yes, one could argue that Lima did slow my forward progress. As if I have some defined direction or timetable. But I don’t and if I did, just which direction is forward? And when do I have to be there? I’ve mentioned before that early on, really the first week in Quito, Ecuador a year ago, I learned that I can only make decisions one step at a time because each step opens up the most amazing circumstances and I’m taking my time to feel them out.

Two weeks from today (Super Bowl 50 played last night, I’m a bit slow posting this) I’ll be puking again at my next ayahuasca sessions. This particular retreat serves up a “pre-game” purgative for all the participants before we start with the brew of the vine. Designed to void all the cheeseburgers and fries we seem to accumulate in our “normal” lives, the folks at Nihue Rao believe that no one really practices the proper diet before an ayahuasca retreat, so the purgative will level the playing field. As it were.

So that was Lima, and this is Iquitos, with yet more jungle experiences to follow.



Sirens’ Song

When Carlo Ponti released Ulysses with Kirk Douglas as The MAN, I was 6 years old. Never one for understatement, Ponti’s over the top epic grabbed my entire being. The direct result of my watching his movie was that year or 2 later I took the plunge and borrowed both the Iliad and the Odyssey from the Bookmobile that parked in front of our house. Reading was my life back then and Homer, if anything, was even more captivating than Ponti and I devoured those 2 books. They were Adventure personified and I fantasized many incredible journeys growing up in those days.

At that age I had to be selective in my choice of adventures, since several of Ulysses’ trials were a bit too nuanced for a 1st-grader. I could understand his battle with the Cyclops; didn’t everyone have a monster under the bed? But the Sirens? I don’t know about you, but they looked pretty good to me! Yeah, there were some rocks and a treacherous sea, but I figured that there must have been some place to drop anchor and take up with all those beautiful women. Hmm, even at 6 years old…

Lima plays its own Sirens’ Song and I must admit the tune had its effect on me. After 3 months going underground in a full immersion, awash in diversions of every choice, I have only now been able to surface and take a breath, conceding that I was spellbound. But that’s not why I’m here in South America. I’m not ready to wash up on the rocks. At least not here, not now.

It will take me another month to wrap up some things. After that I’m gone. It’s been an instructional time here and I could easily call Lima home. The Peruvians that I’ve met are warm, open and love life. I’ve checked out a number of interesting and affordable barrios in several places around Lima and even La Punta in Callao.

As it happens I was in Callao the day before the US Embassy sent out an emergency alert, warning that the bordering city to Lima, the massive port of Callao, was declared a danger zone by the federal police. Finding the Christmas spirit, a number of armed robberies and fatal shootings convinced the police to close the city off and let the bandits fight it out. There really is a war zone there and if you do have the urge to visit, plan carefully. Anyway, I ate a fantastic ceviche in La Punta at a landmark establishment and truly enjoyed the day with one of my 2 Spanish teachers.

I’ve been working with Ely between her shifts in a casino as she scolds me into repeating, ever faster, corrected phrases that I had earlier botched. She’s a quick-witted soul who is striving to improve her lot. Having to quit attending the university when her dad walked out on the family, she’s been helping her mom raise her 11-yr old brother and will probably never have the chance to resume her schooling. Already in her 30’s she knows that time is not on her side.

But she speaks English very well and hopes to set up a personal guide service working through the SAE/Lima Clubhouse. The Club is always being asked for advice on things to do here and Ely is as good as anyone for revealing some of the treasures buried here in a city of millions (I’ve heard “official” population figures of anywhere from 8 to 10 million, but no one will ever really know).

Before he ran off, Ely’s dad was one of thousands upon thousands of independent taxi drivers in Lima. Unlike Ecuador, and especially Quito, taxi drivers in Lima are fully un-regulated and the single most dangerous form of transportation in the city. Every guidebook agrees with the US Embassy and warns about kidnappings, armed robberies and other delights when the unwary hop in for a frightening cross-town ride.

When we ride the taxis Ely does all the interrogation of potential drivers while I stand away from her with my back to the street. Gringos are always charged double. But we have no trouble. She is street-smart and knows where and how to move anywhere one could want to go, so she can spot a weasel and rejects most taxis.

Visiting, day and night, many off of the guidebook listings, we’ve used the taxis; independent, broken-down private buses; combis, which are minivans stripped down with miniature seats bolted in; an occasional city bus; the limited access Metropolitano bus-train and other, less traditional ways of going from A to B. I’m helping Ely draft a brochure for her services and it will be posted prominently here at the Club. I’m rooting for her to make it and I think she’s got the drive to succeed.

Jenny, on the other hand, is my academic teacher. One of the English and Spanish language faculty at a university here, she’s moonlighting and has been affiliated with the Club for several years. We visit museums, cafes, and some notable highland restaurants. Jenny’s been helping me to understand the immense social upheaval caused by decades of gruesome terror during the years of the Shining Path maoist guerillas. It’s not a pretty lesson and many of the photo-essays on display are very hard to stomach. Yet like the Holocaust museums, the belief in Perú is that if we continue to see we will continue to remember and we must never forget.

At the height of the insurgency, during the 1980’s and 90’s, the Shining Path took few hostages and wiped out entire villages and even regions of the country. They were such a destabilizing force that millions of indigenous families and whole pueblos fled the highlands to flood into an already over-crowded Lima. The city will never be the same.

The shanty-towns that crawl up the steep hillsides circling Lima are now home to a disturbing and restless population entirely unregulated by any standards. Up in the hills, the residents pay 5 times the cost of water delivered within the legal city limits. Water delivered in open barrels with E. coli and other biological goodies at no extra charge. Ahh, city life.

Once the home of the Spanish colonial Viceroy, Lima has been an upper-class city for hundreds of years, with the white criollos ruling a poor and backward country. This tight group of powerful families kept immense riches harvested from all parts of Perú. Even now there are wealthy sections of the city that steal one’s breath with their opulence. Billionaires? They’re quite happy here, thank you. For centuries Lima had a ruling class and an underclass and it was easy to distinguish who was who. Until the Shining Path butchered its way onto the scene.

Never a big fan of television, I watch even less here in Lima. But I’ve seen one commercial many times now and it, in a microcosm, is indicative of the immense social change. The opening shot is of a man stepping down from (what else?) an overcrowded city bus. He looks like millions of other Limeños, an ordinary sort dressed casually and walking purposefully while a voice-over begins extolling the virtues of building wealth. This everyman nods his way past street vendors, shoe-shine men, small shops and other scenes from the bustle of big-city life.

Eventually he enters a doorway and is handed a hardhat, walking past groups of workers in an ever-expanding view of a major construction site. He strides up to face a newly poured concrete pillar, gives it a hearty slap, turns around and gives the OK to the expectant workers. He smiles, they smile and then all hop back to building this skyscraper as the commercial fades to the investment logo. Everyone’s happy.

This man, short of stature with prominent indigenous features, looks like most of the people on the street and the message we received was to judge him by his performance and not his appearance. With so many waves of refugees fleeing the central mountains into Lima for 30 years, the power structure has undergone massive change. This man represents the change.

Whites, while still at the controls of the super-wealth, are no longer necessarily the ones getting things done on the ground. They are frequently no longer the major players nor the ones in charge of running the chaos of 21st Century Lima. It’s been a very painful growth and anti-discrimination signs and posters abound throughout the commercial districts. But discrimination still exists and the signs are simply the admission of a work in progress.

Which is about all that’s working now. Perú holds its general elections in 6 months. My friends tell me that this will be like all the previous pre-election times when all governmental offices essentially close up shop and go home. For the full 6 months. But for me, this was a boon.

Personal and family business mandated a quick spin back to US soil. So this past week I dropped in on my Tampa-based older brother and we connected with my younger brother too. It was great seeing both at once and we ought to do it more than every 1/2 dozen years or so. On my way back into Perú I made the obligatory stop at the immigration booth at the airport.

Known for a dearth of compassion, the airport office almost never gives out more than the standard 90 day tourist permit. Yet when I got to the front of the line and spoke, in Spanish, to the official I pleaded my case for an extended term. And when I asked the officer for the maximum time of 6 months (which is often granted at overland immigration stops but not at the airport), he just glared at me and said NO. But then he wrote 183 days on my passport, smiled and sent me on my way. I think that he was being filmed and wanted to project his limitless powers to the powers that be. Good Man, and by the way: thanks!

So his getting back at the system through his rebellious action gave me the opportunity to invest this wealth of days into a 5 month jaunt around what a number of anthropologists believe to be a cradle of civilization. I’m reading the book 1491 these days and it is riveting. The author is taking revenge on his grade school and high school history teachers by showing what the Western Hemisphere was really like before Columbus and his ilk set sail. To all of you who, like myself, were subjected to standard public school drivel, we’ve been lied to; big time.

New (though some of the conclusions are more than 30 years old) discoveries about just how large and complex indigenous cultures were have trashed what we learned way back when. Although way back when isn’t too far back since the author’s sons are receiving the same old lies. Those pesky Pilgrims were really far more doltish and the surrounding “Indians” were far more advanced than what I learned in Mr. Scandary’s 5th Grade history lessons. Though I did like his collection of old National Geographic Magazines.

I’ll hit the road soon. Though I make no promises, I believe that my posts will resume a more frequent schedule. I’m eluding the Sirens and making a break for the jungle in February. We’ll have to see. In the meantime, happy holidays for and to all. I never did like prepositions.

Galapagos Wrap-up, pt. IV

Arriving on Isla San Cristóbal I was more than ready for change. My time on Isla Isabela had put me into a dismissive and negative mood and the sooner I was off the island the better. So I went to Isabela’s airport an hour early and met Veronica, another passenger also eager to be gone. She’s a director in the Ministério del Ambiente, kind of a Parks & Recreation Bureau within Ecuador’s central government.

I didn’t know it at the time but she’s a high-level functionary within the workings of the country’s civil service. I found this out later when visiting a Sailors’ Museum and saw a bronze plaque with her name on it. The plaque commemorated the new museum and its major benefactors, with her name prominent on the list.

Anyway, Veronica suggested some things to do while I visited San Cristóbal. One of them was the path that began at the island’s Darwin Interpretation Center and continued to the summit of a hill overlooking the main city of Puerto Baquerizo Moreno. Following that advice I was to take that trail several times during my stay, each time just before sunset. Muchas Gracias, Veronica!

She was very proud of that trail, having recently attended its grand opening after having worked to get it funded and built. She also took my phone number and promised to call and meet while we both visited the island. But this time I was ready for those notorious subjunctive tenses and (rightfully) didn’t expect the call to come. By now I’ve started to recognize “the meeting that will never be.” On the road for less than a year and I’m already making some cultural progress ;}

Who I did meet though were people very different than the folks on Santa Cruz or Isabela. I found people who were not on the make. The people of Santa Cruz, and more specifically Puerto Ayora, are there for your money. They are friendly enough to be sure, but the town and the island by extension, is there to redistribute the wealth (and property if you don’t hold on to your purse) from the visitors of the developed world and relocate this wealth among the people of the developing world. Visitor and resident alike knows this and there’s no misunderstanding. And at a coarser and sleazier level the same is true on Isabela. But San Cristóbal is different.

It also has an airport allowing flights from the mainland, though the traffic is far less than at the main landing strip on Baltra servicing Santa Cruz. And it also has sights and tours to some relatively unique features, like the only natural fresh water source in the Galapagos. What keeps this island different in flavor is the presence of federal offices, a large naval base, and national commercial fishing administration. There are dry-dock facilities, freight-forwarding yards and other trappings of non-tourist related activity. So one’s chances of meeting someone not involved with tourism are far easier on San Cristóbal. No scams for a change, and a welcome one too.

In Puerto Baquerizo Moreno the streets are clean. And the waterfront promenade with its one-way street was named, but what else? Avenida Charles Darwin. All the shop fronts and park benches in the sun and the shade were well-cared for. This port town was neat, proud, and yet still had time to be friendly.

Just outside the Darwin Interpretation Center there is a brand new UNC/Chapel Hill facility housing earth and/or natural sciences graduate students with lecture halls and common areas as well. The architecture blends well with the surrounding structures and land forms. It was the beginning of fall semester and the grad students seemed to be mixing rather smoothly with the local residents. This island is definitely different from the others.

Yet again Janina was right by revealing to me that the people can be every bit as interesting as the animals. I got a first-hand view of her thesis and now am a believer too. People can and do change rapidly in different social structures. They had clearly done so among the inhabited islands of the Galapagos. But do they evolve? Maybe, if they are as adaptable as guppies.

Which brings me to perhaps my biggest failure while visiting the Galapagos: I never visited Floreana, the mystery island. The last, smallest, of the inhabited islands, Floreana boasted a tale of death, perhaps murder and certainly deceit; mistresses and scandal with transformation following hellfire. Being south of the main island group, this outpost holds itself back from the others.

Set completely ablaze by a whaler’s prank in 1819, it is now believed that a number of important and unique species of animals were lost in the conflagration that consumed the entire island. Descendants of the original settlers from early 20th Century still run the single hotel on Floreana. And if I ever return to the Galapagos, I’m going there very early in the trip.

Back on San Cristóbal, one night walking, I encountered a sea lion pup not more than a very few hours old. Cruising along the town’s seawall and encountering herds of sea lions is vaguely reminiscent of San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. The difference being that the hundreds of sea lions use the beach here, plus the common piers and sidewalks to bask; Watch your Step!!

Barely able to move with most of the umbilicus attached, as was the placenta to the mother, this particular little pup was too weak and still too new to use the flaccid skins that would become flippers. When I returned barely 8 hours later those same flippers had somehow “inflated” and were now able to carry the pups weight as it struggled to find its mother to nurse.

Witnessing both of these sea lion pup events I was accompanied by a recent friend, Michaela. Twenty years my junior, this owner of a German travel agency and I had bumped into each other on 4 islands now, so we ended up wandering the docks and eateries along the waterfront. I was fortunate that Michaela speaks far more English (she’s fluent) than my 4 words of German. We compared notes of our various day tours and she collected the information for her clients back home. My second regret, after Floreana, is that I never directly introduced Janina and Michaela. I’ve made some amends via the computer and I sincerely hope that both of them thrive.

In Puerto Baquerizo Moreno I had my first (and only) lobster in the Galapagos. It was pretty good and pretty cheap. Seafood in the Galapagos is generally a bargain.  Along with visiting Floreana, I will spend more time on this island should I get blown back to this part of the world. If I weren’t so fond of Janina and her family on Santa Cruz, I’d fly directly here from Guayaquil. And being retired, I’d happily and easily spend a month in these islands. Now THAT, would be a vacation!

It’s mid-November as I’m writing this and I’m living a comfortable life in Lima; the Galapagos is a long way away. When I consider those various experiences there and the people I met, I think often about how I could improve on my trip. And the most obvious change would incorporate my new love of being aboard a boat. I would root out more day-trip boat tours, or perhaps even a short multi-day cruise. But I wouldn’t learn to SCUBA dive here. These waters are for experienced divers.

The unique life systems that motivated Darwin to devise his theories were themselves the results of unique geologic and geographic conditions found nowhere else on the planet. These islands sit at the collision point of 5 major and 4 minor ocean currents.

From the massive Humboldt Current bringing both cold water and surprisingly cool air temperatures up from the Antarctic, to the nutritionally important Pacific Equatorial Under Current bringing food eastward from the ocean depths to feed the whales, to the Panama Current bringing rain and clear diving waters, these currents form a complex set of powerful forces which endanger the unwary. So learn to dive elsewhere, learn safety and emergency procedures and then you can put the knowledge to good use here.

A day-trip for SCUBA divers will cost somewhere under $200/person. It’s all-inclusive with well maintained equipment, just show up with your bathing suit (and a set of warm, dry clothes). But if you’re like me with size 13 feet, bring your own fins. Each of the populated islands offers day-trips and with some pre-planning before leaving home one can easily dive in almost all of the biomes in the islands.

What about the last-minute cruise packages, said to be possible at amazing discounts? Possibly. But marketing has changed over the last several years. When the Islands started accepting tourists wholesale a generation ago, the park was geared solely for the well-heeled who could afford multi-day cruises aboard all manner of yachts. There were no land-based facilities and the choice was expensive cruises or stay home.

As more travelers visited the islands, the galapagueños rose to the challenge and began offering trips for land-based tourism. Each year saw newer and more extensive and comprehensive ways to experience these islands without committing to an expensive cruise package that virtually dictates every minute of every day. The change in emphasis from cruises (which, to be sure, still exist in a multitude of options) to land-based day trips brought about a corresponding change in what gets flogged to the newer generation of bargain conscious traveler.

Now that all the hip travel guides mention the lure of last-minute cruise deals that is exactly what is (said to be) offered by every business everywhere on the islands. Of course it begs the question: if they are all last minute, how can this be a bargain? I’m still waiting for that answer. The various agencies, sporting goods stores, and shoeshine boys, each of whom offer tickets to everything everywhere network amongst themselves with smartphone apps, so the deals of a decade ago are deals no more.

What this means is that one sees a leveling of pricing that follows the increase in choices. So one now still has the option for a pampered but rather rigid cruise package (which take the traveler to places off-limits to the day-trippers) or a more personalized though still regulated series of land-based 1/2 day and full day tours. As there is some wriggle-room in pricing for the land-based tours, a general homogenization of offerings among vendors markedly dampens opportunities for bargaining. Yet it doesn’t hurt to ask. Hidden treasures exist if you seek them out and you don’t have to pay the asking price.

The Galapagos Islands is an experience every bit as astounding as people say. I barely touched on what is there and how a visitor can see it. I met a Scottish couple in Quito who spent £800 between the 2 of them, for a week. That’s a bit less per day than I spent and one of them had a sea lion come up to him and kiss his GoPro® while snorkeling off Isla Española. I watched it on their computer back at the SAEX Clubhouse.

There are as many ways to visit the Islands as there are visitors. Pick one…

Isla Isabela, an Island With an Attitude; Galapagos Pt. III

I enjoyed my stay on Santa Cruz, but as Janina predicted, it was more for the people than the animals. Certainly the animals were fun and fantastic. Yet having worked in an oceanarium at Makapu’u back in the 70’s, I had been surrounded by and somewhat inoculated to the sight of whales and dolphins, sea lions and seals, penguins and boobies, though not inoculated from the tourists and the schlock.

Puerto Ayora had its quota of schlock with more in reserve should anything be found lacking. As for tourists, even though I was visiting during the off-season there were enough of them out and about that I could only imagine, horridly, what it must be like in the high-season. It’s a question that I hope to never have answered.

So consider this: Way-back-when, after standing eyeball to eyeball with a dolphin (OK, our eyes were probably at least 3″ apart); and with my hand and arm up to my armpit stuck down his throat, pulling out the plastic flowers he had swallowed, I’m no longer filled with visions of unicorns and elves and angels and our noble brothers from the sea. Although, come to think of it: I don’t think that I ever was.

This 1,000lb. beast with a mouth full of needle-point teeth was even less happier than I was by being there, as we were, together. It was not the kind of scene one might have watched during “Flipper” re-runs. And it left me with a working knowledge that while these are impressive beasts, the intersection between humans and animals is usually no fairytale and often not very pretty either.

My point here is that yes, the animals of the Galapagos are an amazing sight to witness, a sight and experience found nowhere else. But I don’t see these animals with the same wonder that others do. I’m glad that I went snorkeling and walked amongst the nesting seabirds, but I gained far more insights walking amongst the nesting humans.

Back in Hawai’i and 40 years ago I’d had a Humboldt penguin nail my foot through a brand-new pair of RedWings. Those work boots had just cost the greater part of my weekly salary! I’ve had my calf sliced open by the razor-sharp trailing edge of a sea turtle’s flipper while transferring it to a holding tank. I’ve disposed of buckets offal and vats of blubber from a beached pygmy Sperm whale after its necropsy on the beach near Kahuku. Though, on the good side, I’ve also built a circus cart for a sea lion to pull through the crowd and made a pair of Elton John-like sunglasses for a dolphin to wear during a fashion show.

Are my views jaundiced towards these creatures? I don’t think so. But neither do I have stars in my eyes when staring down a sea lion in the surf; enjoyable certainly, but transcendent? Hardly. So when it was time to leave Puerto Ayora, I was happy to go. After the high-season, now that at least 1/3 of the shops and restaurants were shuttered, it can be a bit gloomy and careworn.

Puerto Ayora still functions year-round, but it ain’t Disneyland. Instead of Mickey Mouse this and Donald Duck that, the town serves up Darwin on the half-shell. As named on all the islands, I walked down the main drag: Avenida Charles Darwin. One could buy Darwin bar-drinks and Darwin t-shirts and mugs and placemats. And as on 2 other islands, there is the Darwin Research Center and several Darwin statues. Even the chief factotum at my hostal (a friendly and industrious young Ecuadorian) was named Darwin. It was time to visit Isla Isabela, or at least time to leave Santa Cruz.

So I took a 6am speedboat (40′ sportfisher really) on a 2hr, $30 rollercoaster ride to the largest island in the chain, Isabela. Janina had arranged my stay, but in the confusion of a dawn sailing I misplaced her notes and never did meet the person who was supposed to greet me at the dock holding my name on a sign. There were a number of people there each holding various signs, but none with my name. So I flagged a taxi and rode the 2km into the island’s only town (pop., about 3000), Puerto Villamil. My plan was no plan really, but to stay for perhaps 3 days, depending on my mood.

Except that while Puerto Ayora is dismal, Puerto Villamil is bleak. With streets of hard-packed sand and garbage strewn along the lava fields, this village is beaten down, knows that it’s down and isn’t putting up a fight. The food is nothing but destitute collections of bits and pieces of something scooped onto a plate while the person dishing it out stands over me and demands an exorbitant price. The bars are tattered and grimy, the hostals are closed. No tropical paradise here.

The place was weird; both in the words of the guide I met the next day and also in my immediate feelings after getting off the speedboat from Isla Santa Cruz. In the ride from the dock to the center of town, with a taxi driver willing and wanting to sell me almost anything, I saw old mattresses and junked TV’s, trashed clothing and broken furniture strewn far across the lava fields and the houses (shacks, really) far more rundown than in Puerto Ayora.

What you find in Puerto Villamil is a sluttish attitude and everyone seems to expect my money, and a lot of it to boot. The people know they have something unique and they milk it for what they can but they aren’t particularly “green” by any means. I found on several occasions that a tension openly exists between a large segment of the Galapageños and transient scientists regarding the environment and it is very apparent here on Isabela.

At Puerto Villamil fishing is a major source of income for my erstwhile and reluctant hosts. And legal fishing, observing and adhering to quotas and obeying off-limit species harvesting is not a major source of joy. The Chinese pay enormous prices for illegal shark-fins and the scarce and protected sea cucumbers, and money talks. Being told that these animals can generate more money alive than dead is a concept as foreign and as ridiculous to the fishermen as is the idea of sustainable tourism.

It’s a true shithole, Isabela is, and I was so very happy to hop on a small plane and leave. I decided to fly to the far eastern side of the archipelago. By flying I would be taking less than an hour’s time instead of spending an entire day shuttling from Isabela to Santa Cruz and finally to San Cristóbal in fishing boats. It was time to visit Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, the provincial capital of the Galapagos. There on Isla San Cristóbal I ended up having the best of times.