Brief exposure to Lima through the bus window lookingglass on the way to our Cusco flight. I like it. Folks on brightly painted city buses smile and wave and the air conditioned tourists. Stoplight street performer spinning an improvised devil stick in traffic hams it up for us, knowing that there's no way we can tip him; we applaud silently, and he gives us a big grin and that Hawaiian sign.
Crazy traffic going every way, but no horns blaring - it's all, in a way, cool. Yeah, I like it.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Virtual World, Connected. Almost.
Our friends Ruben and Lauren - I've written about them, right? Wonderful, fascinating people. We'd move in with them if we could, or failing that, would pretend to have died in order to get them to raise our kids for us. Lord knows they'd do a much better job of it. They travel like anything, too.
Anyhow. In our few minutes in the Lima airport, I found a weak wifi signal and synced my feeds to read on the plane. Now at 37,000 feet enroute to Cusco, I'm reading the morning's tweets. There's one from Ruben - they were somewhere in the Lima airport too, on their way back from Cusco.
Anyhow. In our few minutes in the Lima airport, I found a weak wifi signal and synced my feeds to read on the plane. Now at 37,000 feet enroute to Cusco, I'm reading the morning's tweets. There's one from Ruben - they were somewhere in the Lima airport too, on their way back from Cusco.
Last night
It's 11:30 p.m. at the Lima airport, and at the moment, we're not impressed with Yvonne. The first hint of trouble came as we were doing our international transfer. Third time you go through an airport, you start to feel like you know the place. We'd made our way into the maze of check-in, baggage dropoff, tax stamps, etc. when Gregor caught up with us and explained that there was a problem with the Dixons. You see, we'd all been booked on a flight that left around 8 o'clock. But the Dixons had been booked on a flight that left at 8 o'clock that morning - almost 12 hours ago.
Gregor says he's on it, though, and we should just focus on getting ourselves through the process. He is, and we do, and shortly find ourselves hanging out in the boarding area, slurping up the free wifi and wondering what's going on back at check in. Gregor comes sprinting down the hall as they call our row and gives us the bad news: the ticket agents say there's no room on the flight tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Or tomorrow night. They also said that if he didn't bolt through the boarding process right then, *he* might not make it onto the flight either. The Dixons, it would seem, were on their own.
We settled into our seats, speculating whether they'd just head back to the states early or...?, and were a little surprised at how many empty seats there were as the flight attendants started to close the door - then opened it again to let on Mike, Susan, Anna, Carol and John. Somewhere in the game of LAN telephone tag, the airline realized that there *was* space on the flight, and sent them along at the last minute.
Fast forward to our late night arrival at Lima. Plan, according to the playbook, is that we put up at the airport hotel and get up early for the flight to Cuzco. Except that, as we muster at the loading zone with our luggage, Fidel (our new found Peruvian minder) explains to us that the "airport hotel" Yvonne booked is not actually the one across the street from where we're standing. It's the one 40 minutes away by bus. After some quick sidewalk strategization, we conclude that the most efficient course of action is to just get on the bus and go. Eh - we'll just keep the kids pumped with caffeine and chocolate tomorrow, and everything will be fine.
Non-logistics: the story that keeps coming down to us is that Lima is "the Inca's revenge". Apparently, before things went completely to hell in a handbasket between them, the Incas recommended this location for a capital city. And apparently, it's the most godforsaken chunk of land in the entire broad land of Peru. From here, I can't really tell - it's dark and foggy.
Impression: heard what sounded like Ecuadorean folk music coming from the airport cafeteria in the Quito passenger lounge. Went in looking for a chocolate bar, and found the wrinkled short-order cook behind the counter crooning a song while accompanying himself with elaborate fingerwork on a beautiful old nylon string guitar. He smiled when I tried drumming along with my hands, nodded - almost apologetically - when he came to the end of the song, as if to say "Indulge this old man his little excesses, will you?" These Ecuadoreans - I like them, I really do.
Gregor says he's on it, though, and we should just focus on getting ourselves through the process. He is, and we do, and shortly find ourselves hanging out in the boarding area, slurping up the free wifi and wondering what's going on back at check in. Gregor comes sprinting down the hall as they call our row and gives us the bad news: the ticket agents say there's no room on the flight tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Or tomorrow night. They also said that if he didn't bolt through the boarding process right then, *he* might not make it onto the flight either. The Dixons, it would seem, were on their own.
We settled into our seats, speculating whether they'd just head back to the states early or...?, and were a little surprised at how many empty seats there were as the flight attendants started to close the door - then opened it again to let on Mike, Susan, Anna, Carol and John. Somewhere in the game of LAN telephone tag, the airline realized that there *was* space on the flight, and sent them along at the last minute.
Fast forward to our late night arrival at Lima. Plan, according to the playbook, is that we put up at the airport hotel and get up early for the flight to Cuzco. Except that, as we muster at the loading zone with our luggage, Fidel (our new found Peruvian minder) explains to us that the "airport hotel" Yvonne booked is not actually the one across the street from where we're standing. It's the one 40 minutes away by bus. After some quick sidewalk strategization, we conclude that the most efficient course of action is to just get on the bus and go. Eh - we'll just keep the kids pumped with caffeine and chocolate tomorrow, and everything will be fine.
Non-logistics: the story that keeps coming down to us is that Lima is "the Inca's revenge". Apparently, before things went completely to hell in a handbasket between them, the Incas recommended this location for a capital city. And apparently, it's the most godforsaken chunk of land in the entire broad land of Peru. From here, I can't really tell - it's dark and foggy.
Impression: heard what sounded like Ecuadorean folk music coming from the airport cafeteria in the Quito passenger lounge. Went in looking for a chocolate bar, and found the wrinkled short-order cook behind the counter crooning a song while accompanying himself with elaborate fingerwork on a beautiful old nylon string guitar. He smiled when I tried drumming along with my hands, nodded - almost apologetically - when he came to the end of the song, as if to say "Indulge this old man his little excesses, will you?" These Ecuadoreans - I like them, I really do.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Day of Many Airports
Eastbound, airborne out San Cristobal. Billy dropped us at the airport, handed us our boarding passes and sent us on our way. Now the Bailar/Hong-Dixon-West-Cohn clans are enroute to Guayaquil, connecting to Quito, where we'll wait for our connection to Lima, where we'll arrive some time late at night in an exhausted, overtraveled heap. Four airports, three flights, six cranky kids and ten frazzled adults. But we're still having fun. I think.
You know that point you get to, somewhere about 7 days into a trip, where you first feel "done"? The initial adrenaline's worn off, and you've not yet gotten into the long distance runner's pace. Loss of sleep is taking its toll, and you look at the day's itinerary thinking "Oh, great - another [island, temple, spectacular vista, exotic species, etc]. Ho hum."
Well, we got there yesterday. Crossing back over the north end of Isabela on our way back, we stopped for snorkeling and a hike at James Bay on Santiago, then on for a hike and snorkeling on diminutive Rabida. Rabida was vivid, but I honestly can't remember what the heck we saw or did at James Bay - I've got to check the camera to jog my memory.
A long distance runner knows this point well. It's the point where you've got to turn inward, accept the losses, and just keep going. If you've done it enough, you know it'll get better. You'll find your pace; sleep will come, and you'll soon be engaged and fascinated again with your travels. We're not there yet, not nearly. Hopefully, a day of being plugged into portable electronics while alternately sprawled in waiting room lounges or crammed into pressurized metal tubes shooting across the sky will help. Hopefully, but we're not counting on it.
Anyhow - yesterday. Since I can't remember James Bay, let's talk about Rabida. The vivid red sand looked unreal. As fine as dust, blowing across the beach and the couple of dozen sea lions we shared it with. We started with a wet landing, hauling our snorkeling gear ashore in mesh bags and stuffing it on the rocks at the edge of the sand, after which Billy led us on a short trek of one of the bluffs. The guide books talk about Rabida's flamingoes, but the lagoon they used to inhabit went off kilter a couple of years ago. Temperatures rose, and the brine shrimp died off, taking with them their stiltwalking predators. Nowadays, the lagoon appears uninhabited, emitting a vaguely unpleasant odor from its green, brackish waters.
Coming around the first bend from the beach, we came across the very recent remains of a baby sea lion in the middle of the path. Two juvenile galapagos hawks stood watch in a bush a few paces away while a mockingbird tried to get through the fur to the ever-prized moisture within. Not an appetizing sight, buone that reflected the full circle of life on these islands.
Up to the crest of the hill through Martian desert dust, counting finches flitting among the cactus and sandalwood trees. Amusing ourselves at the "stop here" sign posted mere inches before a sheer cliff wall that plummeted into the sea below. Regional trials for the (locally-appropriate) Darwin awards?
By the time we made it back to the beach, the mockingbirds had made some progress on opening up the sea lion (Andy: "Ewwwww!"), but were now under the gaze of *four* hawks in close watch who seemed waiting only for someone else to finish up the hard work before swooping in. We didn't stick around to watch.
Back down to the water, everyone geared up for snorkeling as a pair of zodiacs from another ship approached the beach. I'd already had an unbeatable day of snorkeling the day before (ref: manta and bat rays), so decided to try simply hanging out on the beach and watching the unfolding sea lion-tourist ballet. They looked... just like we did: piling onto the sand, pulling out cameras and beach towels like marines securing a beachhead, pointing fingers and telephoto lenses at the various mother-child sea lions and squealing (did *we* squeal?) "Oooh look, look, look! That one's nursing!"
Eventually, they too filed off onto the path toward the ex-sea lion and ex-flamingo lagoon, and I was left alone to mind the beach by myself. It was a nice quiet moment, constantly punctuated by the braying of baby sea lions ("Moooooooommmmmm!"), barking of mother sea lions ("You stop chewing on that nice man's snorkel!") and grunting of the scattered alpha males ("Hey! You! Yeah, you! No, the other you! No.. Oh, never mind.")
The dinghies eventually started sweeping the area around the down-current point to retrieve snorkelers, then swung back to the beach to pick me up, along with our scattered, dust-covered and sea lion-chewed gear.
[postscript: currently waiting in the embarkation lounge in Quito at 7:30 pm, having spent all day in airplanes/airports. We'll probably get through customs in Lima around midnight, then on a plane to Cuzco way too early tomorrow morning. Current challenge is that the agent who arranged our tickets appears to have booked the Dixon clan on a different flight to Lima - one that left at 8:00 this morning. Uhhhhh - Gregor's working on it.]
You know that point you get to, somewhere about 7 days into a trip, where you first feel "done"? The initial adrenaline's worn off, and you've not yet gotten into the long distance runner's pace. Loss of sleep is taking its toll, and you look at the day's itinerary thinking "Oh, great - another [island, temple, spectacular vista, exotic species, etc]. Ho hum."
Well, we got there yesterday. Crossing back over the north end of Isabela on our way back, we stopped for snorkeling and a hike at James Bay on Santiago, then on for a hike and snorkeling on diminutive Rabida. Rabida was vivid, but I honestly can't remember what the heck we saw or did at James Bay - I've got to check the camera to jog my memory.
A long distance runner knows this point well. It's the point where you've got to turn inward, accept the losses, and just keep going. If you've done it enough, you know it'll get better. You'll find your pace; sleep will come, and you'll soon be engaged and fascinated again with your travels. We're not there yet, not nearly. Hopefully, a day of being plugged into portable electronics while alternately sprawled in waiting room lounges or crammed into pressurized metal tubes shooting across the sky will help. Hopefully, but we're not counting on it.
Anyhow - yesterday. Since I can't remember James Bay, let's talk about Rabida. The vivid red sand looked unreal. As fine as dust, blowing across the beach and the couple of dozen sea lions we shared it with. We started with a wet landing, hauling our snorkeling gear ashore in mesh bags and stuffing it on the rocks at the edge of the sand, after which Billy led us on a short trek of one of the bluffs. The guide books talk about Rabida's flamingoes, but the lagoon they used to inhabit went off kilter a couple of years ago. Temperatures rose, and the brine shrimp died off, taking with them their stiltwalking predators. Nowadays, the lagoon appears uninhabited, emitting a vaguely unpleasant odor from its green, brackish waters.
Coming around the first bend from the beach, we came across the very recent remains of a baby sea lion in the middle of the path. Two juvenile galapagos hawks stood watch in a bush a few paces away while a mockingbird tried to get through the fur to the ever-prized moisture within. Not an appetizing sight, buone that reflected the full circle of life on these islands.
Up to the crest of the hill through Martian desert dust, counting finches flitting among the cactus and sandalwood trees. Amusing ourselves at the "stop here" sign posted mere inches before a sheer cliff wall that plummeted into the sea below. Regional trials for the (locally-appropriate) Darwin awards?
By the time we made it back to the beach, the mockingbirds had made some progress on opening up the sea lion (Andy: "Ewwwww!"), but were now under the gaze of *four* hawks in close watch who seemed waiting only for someone else to finish up the hard work before swooping in. We didn't stick around to watch.
Back down to the water, everyone geared up for snorkeling as a pair of zodiacs from another ship approached the beach. I'd already had an unbeatable day of snorkeling the day before (ref: manta and bat rays), so decided to try simply hanging out on the beach and watching the unfolding sea lion-tourist ballet. They looked... just like we did: piling onto the sand, pulling out cameras and beach towels like marines securing a beachhead, pointing fingers and telephoto lenses at the various mother-child sea lions and squealing (did *we* squeal?) "Oooh look, look, look! That one's nursing!"
Eventually, they too filed off onto the path toward the ex-sea lion and ex-flamingo lagoon, and I was left alone to mind the beach by myself. It was a nice quiet moment, constantly punctuated by the braying of baby sea lions ("Moooooooommmmmm!"), barking of mother sea lions ("You stop chewing on that nice man's snorkel!") and grunting of the scattered alpha males ("Hey! You! Yeah, you! No, the other you! No.. Oh, never mind.")
The dinghies eventually started sweeping the area around the down-current point to retrieve snorkelers, then swung back to the beach to pick me up, along with our scattered, dust-covered and sea lion-chewed gear.
[postscript: currently waiting in the embarkation lounge in Quito at 7:30 pm, having spent all day in airplanes/airports. We'll probably get through customs in Lima around midnight, then on a plane to Cuzco way too early tomorrow morning. Current challenge is that the agent who arranged our tickets appears to have booked the Dixon clan on a different flight to Lima - one that left at 8:00 this morning. Uhhhhh - Gregor's working on it.]
Summer Winter Summer Winter Summer- December 27th
Last week, as we approached the solstice in Quito, just south of the equator, I mused to the kids how we were going to be missing winter - in the south hemisphere, it was the spring solstice, turning to summer. Twenty miles north, on the other side of the equator, it was nominally turning to winter. Yes, I know that around here, the notion of summer vs winter is about as meaningful as whether the current time of day is a prime number, but where we're from, it's more than symbolic. Some time last night, north and west of Santiago Island, we crossed the equator into winter.
I'd stood on the foredeck as we left land behind. It was unnerving to look at the receding coastline and see nothing but darkness. No lights anywhere along the expanse. There were simply no people, no roads, no civilization on Santiago.
Reaching the north end of Isabela, we turned west into rougher water. I was nominally asleep at this point, but the chop from the Pelagic current bounced us around like a giant martini shaker - ca chunk - ca chunk - ca chunk. Dreams of slow motion earthquakes and pink plastic squid (in a weird turn of omens, this morning I discovered a small squid that had washed up on our balcony during the night).
By dawn, we'd turned south, and Vanessa woke us with an early announcement that we were crossing the equator (again). Everyone to the bridge for the event. Captain Diego crossed it diagonally, then spun the boat around to cross north again, and let Jinwon cross it straight south for good measure. At this point, the crew lets Jinwon do almost anything mechanical he asks - he drives the dinghies, runs the winch. Mechanically inclined? Yes. His Christmas present, which he'd been begging for, was the promise of a leaf blower.
Anyhow. Tucked under the chin of the Isabela "seahorse" and jumped from the boat for some snorkeling. Best sea life we've seen yet. Clear, clear water, sea turtles galore, penguins, puffers, triggerfish, jellyfish, swarms of little transparent things and rays. Flocks of bat rays flowing in slow motion formation flight. And a manta. A biiiiig manta. Slowling winging its way out of the massive uplift cave we were swimming in.
By the time Gregor, Terry, Schuyler and I decided to swim back to the Nina, we'd been in the water for over two hours. The others had, one by one, waved the dinghy over and gotten shuttled back. I got back on board, took a loooong, hot shower, somehow remained awake through lunch and flopped to sleep before the boat was moving again.
I'd stood on the foredeck as we left land behind. It was unnerving to look at the receding coastline and see nothing but darkness. No lights anywhere along the expanse. There were simply no people, no roads, no civilization on Santiago.
Reaching the north end of Isabela, we turned west into rougher water. I was nominally asleep at this point, but the chop from the Pelagic current bounced us around like a giant martini shaker - ca chunk - ca chunk - ca chunk. Dreams of slow motion earthquakes and pink plastic squid (in a weird turn of omens, this morning I discovered a small squid that had washed up on our balcony during the night).
By dawn, we'd turned south, and Vanessa woke us with an early announcement that we were crossing the equator (again). Everyone to the bridge for the event. Captain Diego crossed it diagonally, then spun the boat around to cross north again, and let Jinwon cross it straight south for good measure. At this point, the crew lets Jinwon do almost anything mechanical he asks - he drives the dinghies, runs the winch. Mechanically inclined? Yes. His Christmas present, which he'd been begging for, was the promise of a leaf blower.
Anyhow. Tucked under the chin of the Isabela "seahorse" and jumped from the boat for some snorkeling. Best sea life we've seen yet. Clear, clear water, sea turtles galore, penguins, puffers, triggerfish, jellyfish, swarms of little transparent things and rays. Flocks of bat rays flowing in slow motion formation flight. And a manta. A biiiiig manta. Slowling winging its way out of the massive uplift cave we were swimming in.
By the time Gregor, Terry, Schuyler and I decided to swim back to the Nina, we'd been in the water for over two hours. The others had, one by one, waved the dinghy over and gotten shuttled back. I got back on board, took a loooong, hot shower, somehow remained awake through lunch and flopped to sleep before the boat was moving again.
Boxing Day
Southbound from North Seymour Island to refuel at Balta.
Yesterday was about as unlike Christmas as I can conceive of. Woke early (as usual) to a steady downpour (unusual), and stumbled around the cabins offering "Feliz Navidad" to the crew, most of whom had forsaken Christmas with their families to staff the ship. Jobs on a ship like this, I gather, are hard to come by. Vanessa, our crew director, did manage to slip away for midnight mass with her family, who I gather had come over to the island, at least for the evening. And Manuel's wife also lives on Santa Cruz, so he got to escape for a little while. But Eduardo, Diego, Marcello, Xavier and the rest spent their Christmas eve and day tending to their American customers. We were as gracious and appreciative as we could be, but to them, we're customers, not family.
As the morning rain gave way to hot and muggy, we went ashore with Billy to explore the Darwin Research Station at the edge of town. Tortises - little itty bitty ones smaller than your hand, big guys that seemed as big as a VW Bug (but realistically, weren't). Billy cut us loose after the tour for a walk back across town to the dock, with an hour and a half for souvenir hunting. In the sweltering heat, everyone's kids were pretty much toast at this point, despite the infusions of soda and ice cream, but we staggered through the gauntlet of tourist beach shop t-shirts and carved tagua nut trinkets with surprisingly little collateral damage. Even found a supermarket where we could buy macaroni for Andy, as an offering against her gradual wilting in the absence of her favorite foods.
Yeah, about the kids. I guess we hadn't put enough thought into the fact that they wouldn't have tons of unstructured time where they could romp about. Well, they do have it on the boat at measured intervals: between the morning activity and lunch, between the afternoon activity and dinner, etc., but they're both going to go back to school exhausted and feeling like they've not actually had a vacation. Jem shows the stress in subtle ways, but being rebellious and obstinate. Andy shows it by bursting into tears when you ask if she's going swimming. Or ask her anything, for that matter. Yes, they'll look back on this as having been a fabulous life experience, but right now, they're miserable a little more that 50% of the time.
Afternoon of Christmas day was on South Plaza Island. Low, flat and arid as all hell, but strewn with pretty red succulents (which the land iguanas eat), the leftover pieces of small birds (eaten by owls), and fur and skeletons of baby seals (no eating involved - they just "didn't make it").
On the cliff edge at the highest point of the island, the kids found the scattered bleached bones of a sea lion and decided to play "CSI Galapagos", reassembling them in the approximate order that the sea lion had had them. Lots of puzzlement over whether this one was a flipper or scapula, or that one was a hip or shoulder, but the result looked at least like something that might have once lived on earth. Lots of time time spent admonishing others not to step on that iguana - which igua...? AAACK!!! - oh, *that* iguana.
This morning, another hike - this one on North Seymour. The feature here was more boobies than... oh heck, my imagination boggles to think of how to end that sentence. But we spent a lot of time watching courting rituals up close to the path (4-5 feet): the female sits looking uninterested while the male does his slow motion Charlie Chaplin one-leg-up-at-a-time dance. Picks up a twig and shows her: See? We could use this to build a nest! Aren't I a grand provider? She grunts in response. He continues a bit then, not looking like he's getting anywere, slowly high-steps a dozen feet away. She gets up and follows, then plonks back down, looking again uninterested, but a little less so, and the dance repeats.
Billy reminded us that boobies don't actually build nests, but both male and female retain vestigial behaviors of picking up twigs and small useless rocks and setting them down near their mate, to demonstrate, uh, something. Sort of like the way men buy small useless rocks to give to their mates and...
Anyhow. Beside the boobies were frigate birds. Bazillions of them, swooping and swarming over the cliffs, stealing twigs from each other mid-flight, and stealing fish from the boobies when they could manage it. The word of the day? "Kleptoparasitic".
More snorkeling - chased a small shark, buzzed by a squadron of diving sea lions (one of whom came up belly-to-belly with me, sniffed in my face, then shot off into the green like a rocket, clearly having decided that I wasn't that interesting after all.
And now, after lunch, we're kicking back. Xavier and Rambo have outdone themselves with an Ecuadorian spread, and those who aren't sipping coffee-sugar-milk on the back deck have rolling into their cabins for a nap. Our life is soooo rough.
Yesterday was about as unlike Christmas as I can conceive of. Woke early (as usual) to a steady downpour (unusual), and stumbled around the cabins offering "Feliz Navidad" to the crew, most of whom had forsaken Christmas with their families to staff the ship. Jobs on a ship like this, I gather, are hard to come by. Vanessa, our crew director, did manage to slip away for midnight mass with her family, who I gather had come over to the island, at least for the evening. And Manuel's wife also lives on Santa Cruz, so he got to escape for a little while. But Eduardo, Diego, Marcello, Xavier and the rest spent their Christmas eve and day tending to their American customers. We were as gracious and appreciative as we could be, but to them, we're customers, not family.
As the morning rain gave way to hot and muggy, we went ashore with Billy to explore the Darwin Research Station at the edge of town. Tortises - little itty bitty ones smaller than your hand, big guys that seemed as big as a VW Bug (but realistically, weren't). Billy cut us loose after the tour for a walk back across town to the dock, with an hour and a half for souvenir hunting. In the sweltering heat, everyone's kids were pretty much toast at this point, despite the infusions of soda and ice cream, but we staggered through the gauntlet of tourist beach shop t-shirts and carved tagua nut trinkets with surprisingly little collateral damage. Even found a supermarket where we could buy macaroni for Andy, as an offering against her gradual wilting in the absence of her favorite foods.
Yeah, about the kids. I guess we hadn't put enough thought into the fact that they wouldn't have tons of unstructured time where they could romp about. Well, they do have it on the boat at measured intervals: between the morning activity and lunch, between the afternoon activity and dinner, etc., but they're both going to go back to school exhausted and feeling like they've not actually had a vacation. Jem shows the stress in subtle ways, but being rebellious and obstinate. Andy shows it by bursting into tears when you ask if she's going swimming. Or ask her anything, for that matter. Yes, they'll look back on this as having been a fabulous life experience, but right now, they're miserable a little more that 50% of the time.
Afternoon of Christmas day was on South Plaza Island. Low, flat and arid as all hell, but strewn with pretty red succulents (which the land iguanas eat), the leftover pieces of small birds (eaten by owls), and fur and skeletons of baby seals (no eating involved - they just "didn't make it").
On the cliff edge at the highest point of the island, the kids found the scattered bleached bones of a sea lion and decided to play "CSI Galapagos", reassembling them in the approximate order that the sea lion had had them. Lots of puzzlement over whether this one was a flipper or scapula, or that one was a hip or shoulder, but the result looked at least like something that might have once lived on earth. Lots of time time spent admonishing others not to step on that iguana - which igua...? AAACK!!! - oh, *that* iguana.
This morning, another hike - this one on North Seymour. The feature here was more boobies than... oh heck, my imagination boggles to think of how to end that sentence. But we spent a lot of time watching courting rituals up close to the path (4-5 feet): the female sits looking uninterested while the male does his slow motion Charlie Chaplin one-leg-up-at-a-time dance. Picks up a twig and shows her: See? We could use this to build a nest! Aren't I a grand provider? She grunts in response. He continues a bit then, not looking like he's getting anywere, slowly high-steps a dozen feet away. She gets up and follows, then plonks back down, looking again uninterested, but a little less so, and the dance repeats.
Billy reminded us that boobies don't actually build nests, but both male and female retain vestigial behaviors of picking up twigs and small useless rocks and setting them down near their mate, to demonstrate, uh, something. Sort of like the way men buy small useless rocks to give to their mates and...
Anyhow. Beside the boobies were frigate birds. Bazillions of them, swooping and swarming over the cliffs, stealing twigs from each other mid-flight, and stealing fish from the boobies when they could manage it. The word of the day? "Kleptoparasitic".
More snorkeling - chased a small shark, buzzed by a squadron of diving sea lions (one of whom came up belly-to-belly with me, sniffed in my face, then shot off into the green like a rocket, clearly having decided that I wasn't that interesting after all.
And now, after lunch, we're kicking back. Xavier and Rambo have outdone themselves with an Ecuadorian spread, and those who aren't sipping coffee-sugar-milk on the back deck have rolling into their cabins for a nap. Our life is soooo rough.
Christmas Eve
Overnight, Captain Diego motored us 40 miles west, to Punta Cormorant on Floreana Island, where we were going to look for sea turtles, flamingos and stingrays. Cormorants? Not so much. Turns out the area is so named because, if you're a bored explorer and have run out of saints to name your places after, you can squint at this spit of land in a particular way, and it apparently *looks* like those birds you just saw back at - what was that place called? - Punto Marine Iguana.
Anyhow, like the other islands we've visited so far, the flora looks like it's established itself here to acclimate itself to growing at the gates of hell. Dry, rocky, and hot, hot hot.
Billy led us up the rise along a dirt path that looked out over a salt flat peppered with flamingos. How can something look so graceful and so awkward at the same time? Billy had clearly paid them off, since a flight of eight cooperatively popped their heads up and splashed across the flat in a formation takeoff, orbiting the area in wing-to-wing figure eights, seemingly for a National Geographic photo op.
Down the other side of the hill was sandy beach where... uhh, we saw lots of stuff. Rays, a few turtles. A galapagos penguin (first time I've seen Billy excited about seeing someting: "A penguin, guys! Look, a penguin!"). It was a heck of a lot of fun - the snorkling, the eagle rays and finding myself unexpectedly face to face with a sea tortise, but that was... hours ago.
And right now is very different. Because where I am now is alone on the top deck of the Nina, anchored in Puerta Ayora at 10:30 pm on Christmas eve.
Here and now, the red-green lights of the ships anchored around mix with streetlamps from the surrounding town, reflecting off the water like an ufathomably large Christmas ornament. Overhead, the moon is going down, and Orion is standing on his head amid a swath of stars brighter that seems possible. The southern cross is a kite rising to the south amid the masts of bobbing sailboats. The air is filled with an unmistakeable trace of woodsmoke. The diesel thrum of the "Tip Top IV", anchored a bit closer to us than she should be, muffles the lapping of water against our sides and the harbor breakwater.
Which of my senses could tell me where I am? In how many different ways is this time and place remarkable? Can I count them? Should I? Or should I just tilt my head back and breathe in the wonder of it all? Silly question [end of post :)].
Anyhow, like the other islands we've visited so far, the flora looks like it's established itself here to acclimate itself to growing at the gates of hell. Dry, rocky, and hot, hot hot.
Billy led us up the rise along a dirt path that looked out over a salt flat peppered with flamingos. How can something look so graceful and so awkward at the same time? Billy had clearly paid them off, since a flight of eight cooperatively popped their heads up and splashed across the flat in a formation takeoff, orbiting the area in wing-to-wing figure eights, seemingly for a National Geographic photo op.
Down the other side of the hill was sandy beach where... uhh, we saw lots of stuff. Rays, a few turtles. A galapagos penguin (first time I've seen Billy excited about seeing someting: "A penguin, guys! Look, a penguin!"). It was a heck of a lot of fun - the snorkling, the eagle rays and finding myself unexpectedly face to face with a sea tortise, but that was... hours ago.
And right now is very different. Because where I am now is alone on the top deck of the Nina, anchored in Puerta Ayora at 10:30 pm on Christmas eve.
Here and now, the red-green lights of the ships anchored around mix with streetlamps from the surrounding town, reflecting off the water like an ufathomably large Christmas ornament. Overhead, the moon is going down, and Orion is standing on his head amid a swath of stars brighter that seems possible. The southern cross is a kite rising to the south amid the masts of bobbing sailboats. The air is filled with an unmistakeable trace of woodsmoke. The diesel thrum of the "Tip Top IV", anchored a bit closer to us than she should be, muffles the lapping of water against our sides and the harbor breakwater.
Which of my senses could tell me where I am? In how many different ways is this time and place remarkable? Can I count them? Should I? Or should I just tilt my head back and breathe in the wonder of it all? Silly question [end of post :)].
Wednesday
[first internet connection since we got on the boat last week. not sure how long I've got it, so I'll post the past few entries in quick succession]
Okay, I've got to say it, because everyone's going to be thinking it as soon as I start in: Yes, we spent the day wandering around the beach looking at boobies. Nazca boobies, blue footed boobies, as well as pelicans, swallowtail gulls and an albatross or two. It's the real reason 10 year old boys want to be ornithologists: they can say "boobies" as much as they want, and be righteously indignant when someone tries to call them on it.
Anyhow. First real day on the islands. Yesterday was almost entirely transit: up and packed in the hotel lobby by 8 to catch the bus to the Quito airport. The expected hurry, line up and wait until the plane was ready, then uneventfully over an undercast sky to Guyaquil, where our flight connected out to the Galapagos. Was hoping the lingering effects of altitude sickness would abate once we stepped out at sea-level; the air did feel better, but I was queasy until well into the night.
Out of the plane in Guayaquil, into the transit lounge, then back out again for the actual hop to our Galapagos starting point of San Cristobal.
From the air, the islands really do look unearthly. A smattering of eroded red and gray rock calderas, with vegation that looks like it's giving everything it's got just to hang on.
Climbing down the air stairs to the tarmac, the heat hit us. We're on a volcanic desert island, on the equator (at the austral summer solstice and at earth's perigee, by the way), close to noon. It's hot.
The "immigration" line snakes out from the shaded area, but we squeeze as close in as we can get. The Galapagos are technically just a provice of Ecuador, but in an effort to keep out invasive species (and bolster the local economy), there is a full immigration and inspection process, along with a $100/person entry tariff.
Once past customs, our gang forms up in its usual wagon circle - Bailars? Check - four. Dixons? Check - three plus two. Wests? Two. Cohns? 4 plus one. Our island guide, Billy, has somehow figured out that we're his group, and introduces himself. He's warm and relaxed, with a broad, easy smile and a wicked sense of humor. My mother asks about open toed shoes on the hike: "Do we have to worry about snakes?" "No, there are only small ones (gestures a breadth of about 4 feet with his arms), and usually they're just food for the tarantulas." But he does seem to have a convincing answer for everything. We like him right away.
By the time we're out of the airport, it's approaching three o'clock. We're led to a minibus that takes us to the harbor, and take turns pointing at the luxury yachts and dilapidated rust buckets, calling "Ah - there's ours!" Turns out that the gorgeous luxury yacht over there on the left? That *is* ours. We're led to dinghies and motored aboard. Onboard? Wow. The Nina is, um, gorgeous, elegant and spacious. We are gonna be soooo pampered.
After some brief but much appreciated pampering, Billy announces that it's time to head into town for a visit to the interpretive nature center. We're just getting used to the pampering, but don't have the energy to revolt. Back into the dinghies, onto the pier, stepping over the sea lions who own the place the way feral dogs own third world town squares, and into the bus.
Nature center is, um, a nature center, but Billy keeps it engaging. Still the kids are *so* done with sitting/standing and listening. We're allowed 45 minutes to wander the town, play on the swingsets and watch sea lions, before we're due on the dock for our dinghy ride back to the Nina.
The plan, we're told, is that we'll lift anchor around midnight and cross southwest to Hispanola, dropping anchor in time for a leisurely 6:30 a.m. wake up call.
I turn in, and wake around 12:30 hearing the sounds of machinery being grudgingly kicked into life. The engines take turns breaking into a rumble, and I can tell from the sound of the waves striking the bow that we're underway. The boat gently pitches fore-and-aft as we leave the harbor and gain speed. Then less gently, verging into not-gently-at-all. Eventually, we're smacking waves and flying along in slow motion canter that has everything in the cabin creaking and banging in unison. I drift in and out of sleep, dreaming that I'm a paddleball being whacked at the end of a short elastic cord by an obsessive-compulsive kid in a propeller beanie.
And then it's quiet. The sun is coming up, and I've clearly been asleep. Devon's picking up all the pieces of electronics that flew off the shelves during the night, and telling me to watch my step. Apparently my glasses (also formerly on the shelf) were a casualty; one of the lenses is unaccounted for, and presumed to be somewhere on the floor.
But it's still, and my stomach is (reasonably) calm. We gather at 7 for breakfast and Billy apprises us of the morning's plan: hiking the way-too-many-species loop trail at the west end of the island.
The hike is, well, the Galapagos in a nutshell. Sally Lightfoot crabs, rainbow colored iguanas, lava lizards, albatrosses, swallowtail gulls and tropicbirds. Sea lions riding the surf in. And of course, boobies. Nazca boobies and blue boobies. Itty bitty baby boobies, too. Really. We've got pictures.
By 10:30 we're feeling done - we've got species overload. And did I mention that it was wicked hot? Billy leads us back to the dinghies where we're hauled back aboard the Nina for lunch and more pampering. Which brings us to now, where we've motored over to the other side of the island for some snorkeling. Devon tells me it's time to put on wetsuits...
Okay, I've got to say it, because everyone's going to be thinking it as soon as I start in: Yes, we spent the day wandering around the beach looking at boobies. Nazca boobies, blue footed boobies, as well as pelicans, swallowtail gulls and an albatross or two. It's the real reason 10 year old boys want to be ornithologists: they can say "boobies" as much as they want, and be righteously indignant when someone tries to call them on it.
Anyhow. First real day on the islands. Yesterday was almost entirely transit: up and packed in the hotel lobby by 8 to catch the bus to the Quito airport. The expected hurry, line up and wait until the plane was ready, then uneventfully over an undercast sky to Guyaquil, where our flight connected out to the Galapagos. Was hoping the lingering effects of altitude sickness would abate once we stepped out at sea-level; the air did feel better, but I was queasy until well into the night.
Out of the plane in Guayaquil, into the transit lounge, then back out again for the actual hop to our Galapagos starting point of San Cristobal.
From the air, the islands really do look unearthly. A smattering of eroded red and gray rock calderas, with vegation that looks like it's giving everything it's got just to hang on.
Climbing down the air stairs to the tarmac, the heat hit us. We're on a volcanic desert island, on the equator (at the austral summer solstice and at earth's perigee, by the way), close to noon. It's hot.
The "immigration" line snakes out from the shaded area, but we squeeze as close in as we can get. The Galapagos are technically just a provice of Ecuador, but in an effort to keep out invasive species (and bolster the local economy), there is a full immigration and inspection process, along with a $100/person entry tariff.
Once past customs, our gang forms up in its usual wagon circle - Bailars? Check - four. Dixons? Check - three plus two. Wests? Two. Cohns? 4 plus one. Our island guide, Billy, has somehow figured out that we're his group, and introduces himself. He's warm and relaxed, with a broad, easy smile and a wicked sense of humor. My mother asks about open toed shoes on the hike: "Do we have to worry about snakes?" "No, there are only small ones (gestures a breadth of about 4 feet with his arms), and usually they're just food for the tarantulas." But he does seem to have a convincing answer for everything. We like him right away.
By the time we're out of the airport, it's approaching three o'clock. We're led to a minibus that takes us to the harbor, and take turns pointing at the luxury yachts and dilapidated rust buckets, calling "Ah - there's ours!" Turns out that the gorgeous luxury yacht over there on the left? That *is* ours. We're led to dinghies and motored aboard. Onboard? Wow. The Nina is, um, gorgeous, elegant and spacious. We are gonna be soooo pampered.
After some brief but much appreciated pampering, Billy announces that it's time to head into town for a visit to the interpretive nature center. We're just getting used to the pampering, but don't have the energy to revolt. Back into the dinghies, onto the pier, stepping over the sea lions who own the place the way feral dogs own third world town squares, and into the bus.
Nature center is, um, a nature center, but Billy keeps it engaging. Still the kids are *so* done with sitting/standing and listening. We're allowed 45 minutes to wander the town, play on the swingsets and watch sea lions, before we're due on the dock for our dinghy ride back to the Nina.
The plan, we're told, is that we'll lift anchor around midnight and cross southwest to Hispanola, dropping anchor in time for a leisurely 6:30 a.m. wake up call.
I turn in, and wake around 12:30 hearing the sounds of machinery being grudgingly kicked into life. The engines take turns breaking into a rumble, and I can tell from the sound of the waves striking the bow that we're underway. The boat gently pitches fore-and-aft as we leave the harbor and gain speed. Then less gently, verging into not-gently-at-all. Eventually, we're smacking waves and flying along in slow motion canter that has everything in the cabin creaking and banging in unison. I drift in and out of sleep, dreaming that I'm a paddleball being whacked at the end of a short elastic cord by an obsessive-compulsive kid in a propeller beanie.
And then it's quiet. The sun is coming up, and I've clearly been asleep. Devon's picking up all the pieces of electronics that flew off the shelves during the night, and telling me to watch my step. Apparently my glasses (also formerly on the shelf) were a casualty; one of the lenses is unaccounted for, and presumed to be somewhere on the floor.
But it's still, and my stomach is (reasonably) calm. We gather at 7 for breakfast and Billy apprises us of the morning's plan: hiking the way-too-many-species loop trail at the west end of the island.
The hike is, well, the Galapagos in a nutshell. Sally Lightfoot crabs, rainbow colored iguanas, lava lizards, albatrosses, swallowtail gulls and tropicbirds. Sea lions riding the surf in. And of course, boobies. Nazca boobies and blue boobies. Itty bitty baby boobies, too. Really. We've got pictures.
By 10:30 we're feeling done - we've got species overload. And did I mention that it was wicked hot? Billy leads us back to the dinghies where we're hauled back aboard the Nina for lunch and more pampering. Which brings us to now, where we've motored over to the other side of the island for some snorkeling. Devon tells me it's time to put on wetsuits...
Monday, December 21, 2009
Bonked
Yesterday? Yesterday was awesome. Careening along narrow mountain roads in a tippy tour bus while Antonio pointed out the window at the black-faced ibises and caracaras passing our windows, indulging us when we passed through a town that was having a fiesta (you want to get out? Okay - but only 15 minutes!).As best as I can tell, being a gringo who can string together the phrase "May I take your picture?" is as good an ice breaker as you can imagine. Especially for kids - the kids just go nuts hamming it up. But also the grownups. That woman standing behind the guitar-toting teenagers - I asked them if I could take their pic, and she moved out of the frame. But they waved her back, as if having the three of them together was the whole point of the shot. I love that beaming, confident smile of hers.
A few more Antonio-may-we-stop opportunities later, we made it up to the Delgado ranch, nestled on the flank of 18k'+ Antisana volcano (the ranch is only a wimpy 13,000' up). The Delgados apparently are the largest landholders in Ecuador, and administer something like a million acres of Ecuadorean highland as a nature preserve. The ranch house, or at least *this* ranch house was on a broad sweeping slope across the stream from a cabin where Alexander von Humbolt apparently did a lot of his Ecuadorean research. The pics over at http://picasaweb.google.com/david.cohn/20091220Quito give a feel for the ranch house, cabin and general landscape. They don't give a feel for the sound Devon made as I almost slipped off the muddy little footbridge crossing the stream. Somewhere between "I'm going to kill you!" and "OMG - are you alright!??"
This morning. Uh.. the nice thing about growing up in Colorado is that altitude doesn't faze you in the least. Unless you've been away from the mile-high state for over two decades. I woke up this morning wondering how someone had managed to sneak an anvil into my brain case. Surely it was just jet lag? But no, I spent the better part of today's guided perambulation through Quito's old town focusing on keeping the horizon roughly level (not a trivial task in Quito, even for the unafflicted), and stumbling along after our group.
Presidential palace (more cheery schoolkids), churches (cheery priests), the equator line (cheery tourists). And me looking around all the time like a pole-axed donkey. I'm completely bonked. Probably shouldn't be posting in this mental condition, should I?
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Late last night..
Arrived. Caught up with the Dixons back in terminal E, boarded and vegged for the entire flight. Watched "Up" on the in-flight system, and stared out the windows.
Came tearing into Quito on time at 9:40 - the field elevation is something like 9500', meaning the landing speed was...impressive. Then piled out and into the inevitable immigration/baggage/customs line where we waited for, let's see... two hours. Ready to be done now.
Jorge met us outside with the neatly-printed Cohn/Dixon sign and herded us out through the crowd and into a waiting bus where we are now sprawled on our way to the hotel. Don't need to be ready until, uh, 8:00 in the morning.
Came tearing into Quito on time at 9:40 - the field elevation is something like 9500', meaning the landing speed was...impressive. Then piled out and into the inevitable immigration/baggage/customs line where we waited for, let's see... two hours. Ready to be done now.
Jorge met us outside with the neatly-printed Cohn/Dixon sign and herded us out through the crowd and into a waiting bus where we are now sprawled on our way to the hotel. Don't need to be ready until, uh, 8:00 in the morning.
[On the road to/from Antisana today. Photos at http://picasaweb.google.com/david.cohn/20091220Quito]
Southbound Zigzag
[a day old - just got internet access]
I don't think I've ever done this before: out over the Pacific this morning - Atlantic this afternoon (layover in Miami), and southbound out over the Pacific again on the way to Quito. I guess it's a bit easier down where Central America gets all skinny.
Anyhow. Had two hours in Miami to feed and exercise the kids. And to check up on whether Ricardo's opinions are really infallable.
Ricardo is the director of the Launch Team. "Launch Czar", I think his official title is; his desk is one wall over from mine. He is a tall black man and has a soft Jamaican accent. He also has many opinions. The scary thing is that, when he shares them with you, I've yet to find him wrong about one.
Yesterday, when I grabbed my bag on the way out, Ricardo and I waved our respective farewells and he wished me a good flight to Ecuador. I let on that I wasn't going all the way that day, and related my south-east-southwest zigzag.
"Hmmm... Miami. Better get some good Cubano food while you're there."
Sorry - wasn't going to be a chance; we weren't leaving the airport. Had a two-hour connection through MIA.
"That's okay. La Carreta, on Concourse D, between Gates 37 and 39."
Huh?
"Trust me."
That's all he needed to say. "Trust me" is for when Ricardo is speaking ex cathedra.
We got into MIA on time, and had the expected number of minutes to kill. Also a couple of kids. No, we weren't seriously contemplating killing them, but with the I've-been-sleep-deprived-caffeinated-and-cooped-up-on-a-plane behavior they were giving us, the thought did cross our minds more than once (in fairness, we probably would have just left them in Miami).
Anyhow, once we'd gotten them filled with pizza and sent them up and down the stairs about 20 times, they settled in with books and iPod, and I was free to pursue my little quest.
To be fair, I had no idea I was looking for "La Carreta, on Concourse D between Gates 37 and 39." He'd given me a name, a concourse and a couple of gates, but I was scrambling to make sure I'd packed enough USB cables and whatever, and the details never managed to set up lodging in my long term memory.
But I've always trusted my luck for stuff like this, and haven't died for it yet, so off I set. We were in the small "E" concourse spur, and F looked promising. But you can't get there without going our and back through security, so I backtracked to the interminable featureless walkway that led backwards to Concourse D. Wall-followed to a likely-looking nexus and caught the scent of pulled pork and savory rice. "La Carreta" it was.
Is this the place? Summoned the magic Google box in my pocket([miami concourse D food]), and the first result was a one-box entry for La Carreta: 5 out of 5 stars - remarkable Cubano food in the least likely of all places: Concourse D of the Miami airport.
Ordered a to-go box of Arroz Imperiale - yellow rice, chicken and steamed veggies doused in a hot, heavy cream sauce. Damn good. Brought it back and even shared some with Devon.
Chalk one more up for Ricardo's infallability. Now I just need to remember to ask him how to deal with overcaffeinated kids...
I don't think I've ever done this before: out over the Pacific this morning - Atlantic this afternoon (layover in Miami), and southbound out over the Pacific again on the way to Quito. I guess it's a bit easier down where Central America gets all skinny.
Anyhow. Had two hours in Miami to feed and exercise the kids. And to check up on whether Ricardo's opinions are really infallable.
Ricardo is the director of the Launch Team. "Launch Czar", I think his official title is; his desk is one wall over from mine. He is a tall black man and has a soft Jamaican accent. He also has many opinions. The scary thing is that, when he shares them with you, I've yet to find him wrong about one.
Yesterday, when I grabbed my bag on the way out, Ricardo and I waved our respective farewells and he wished me a good flight to Ecuador. I let on that I wasn't going all the way that day, and related my south-east-southwest zigzag.
"Hmmm... Miami. Better get some good Cubano food while you're there."
Sorry - wasn't going to be a chance; we weren't leaving the airport. Had a two-hour connection through MIA.
"That's okay. La Carreta, on Concourse D, between Gates 37 and 39."
Huh?
"Trust me."
That's all he needed to say. "Trust me" is for when Ricardo is speaking ex cathedra.
We got into MIA on time, and had the expected number of minutes to kill. Also a couple of kids. No, we weren't seriously contemplating killing them, but with the I've-been-sleep-deprived-caffeinated-and-cooped-up-on-a-plane behavior they were giving us, the thought did cross our minds more than once (in fairness, we probably would have just left them in Miami).
Anyhow, once we'd gotten them filled with pizza and sent them up and down the stairs about 20 times, they settled in with books and iPod, and I was free to pursue my little quest.
To be fair, I had no idea I was looking for "La Carreta, on Concourse D between Gates 37 and 39." He'd given me a name, a concourse and a couple of gates, but I was scrambling to make sure I'd packed enough USB cables and whatever, and the details never managed to set up lodging in my long term memory.
But I've always trusted my luck for stuff like this, and haven't died for it yet, so off I set. We were in the small "E" concourse spur, and F looked promising. But you can't get there without going our and back through security, so I backtracked to the interminable featureless walkway that led backwards to Concourse D. Wall-followed to a likely-looking nexus and caught the scent of pulled pork and savory rice. "La Carreta" it was.
Is this the place? Summoned the magic Google box in my pocket([miami concourse D food]), and the first result was a one-box entry for La Carreta: 5 out of 5 stars - remarkable Cubano food in the least likely of all places: Concourse D of the Miami airport.
Ordered a to-go box of Arroz Imperiale - yellow rice, chicken and steamed veggies doused in a hot, heavy cream sauce. Damn good. Brought it back and even shared some with Devon.
Chalk one more up for Ricardo's infallability. Now I just need to remember to ask him how to deal with overcaffeinated kids...
Friday, December 18, 2009
Committed
The moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way."
— W.N. Murray, The Scottish Himalayan Expedition
Or, at least, that was the idea. The "whole stream of events" that were supposed to raise in our favor didn't quite kick in, but we've made it to LA on the shakedown leg of the family expedition to South America. Two parents, two kids. We're camping at my mom's tonight, then at an ungodly hour in the morning, the five of us (mom in tow) heading back to LAX to catch our nine-hour hopscotch flight to Ecuador. I, uh, cringe with anticipation.
Still, our tally on "unforeseen events raising in one's favor" is way ahead of the Bailar-Hong clan, who we're due to meet in Quito tomorrow night. They're flying out of DC, and just tagged up to let us know that, the airline thinks they'll be able to get out ahead of the 20 inches of snow that are forecast to hit tomorrow morning. But, he admits, "we could have issues".
In any case, we're definitely committed.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Green to a Blind Man
Final bits of packing - do I bring the Tevas or just aquasocks? Which phone charger? Do I have enough USB cables? I think these questions settle once and for all what kind of traveler I've become. Or is that just "tourist"?Jeff Greenwald distinguishes not on the basis of what you pack and where you go, but what your intent is, and how open you keep your mind. The tourist goes to see what they expect to see, while the traveler goes to see what they don't expect. Or something like that. Google's failing to dig the exact quotation up - I need to stop by the 'plex before we leave and slap up the search quality folks for letting me down (No, no, I'm just joking - really! Please don't cut off my query stream!).
Of course, it's not just black and white, is it? There's a spectrum there. To coin a new dictum, Every traveler is another man's tourist. If you're backpacking across the Thai hill country, you're going to meet that guy who thinks you're a dilettante for using Goretex and Vibram soles. At least - that's what you're going to worry when you meet him, right? Because we all want to be travelers, and none of us want to be tourists.
But in reality, he's not going to be thinking that - he's going to be grooving in his own trip, the way you're grooving in yours. And if he is, to hell with him - it's not a contest. Maybe you can share some of your satori with him.
Anyhow, D and I are just full tilt in pre-trip packing freakout stress. Stuff flying. Not at anyone, just around. You learn so much about your spouse under stress. And yourself.
She'd just washed all the sheets so we could come home to a fresh bed, and I tried helping by putting the pillows in their cases. There are, if I understand correctly, four different types of pillows, which must be matched to the three different kinds of pillow cases. To the best of my perception, there are big pillows and small pillows. Red pillowcases and white pillowcases. I fit them best I can, but my combinatorics tell me that there's only a one in 16 chance I've got them right.
She's never upset, just continually mildly incredulous. "You really can't tell the difference, can you?" "No, sorry." "The soft vs. firm, heavy vs. light?" "No, sorry." How to explain? They're pillows. You put your head on them and sleep? Explaining the distinctions? It's like explaining "green" to a blind man.
She gives me that look. That look that I remember from an Aztec Two Step song I heard one night in northern Vermont (which is a whole other story). That look that says "You're all I've got - I guess you'll have to do." She smiles and shakes her head at this poor pillow-differentiation-impaired man, and together we resume sorting aquasocks and counting USB cables.
[Shortly after I posted this, Jeff Greenwald (no, I'm not name dropping) sent me the quotation, which he attributes to G.K. Chesterton: “The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.” - ah, the scary power of social networks!]
Of course, it's not just black and white, is it? There's a spectrum there. To coin a new dictum, Every traveler is another man's tourist. If you're backpacking across the Thai hill country, you're going to meet that guy who thinks you're a dilettante for using Goretex and Vibram soles. At least - that's what you're going to worry when you meet him, right? Because we all want to be travelers, and none of us want to be tourists.
But in reality, he's not going to be thinking that - he's going to be grooving in his own trip, the way you're grooving in yours. And if he is, to hell with him - it's not a contest. Maybe you can share some of your satori with him.
Anyhow, D and I are just full tilt in pre-trip packing freakout stress. Stuff flying. Not at anyone, just around. You learn so much about your spouse under stress. And yourself.
She'd just washed all the sheets so we could come home to a fresh bed, and I tried helping by putting the pillows in their cases. There are, if I understand correctly, four different types of pillows, which must be matched to the three different kinds of pillow cases. To the best of my perception, there are big pillows and small pillows. Red pillowcases and white pillowcases. I fit them best I can, but my combinatorics tell me that there's only a one in 16 chance I've got them right.
She's never upset, just continually mildly incredulous. "You really can't tell the difference, can you?" "No, sorry." "The soft vs. firm, heavy vs. light?" "No, sorry." How to explain? They're pillows. You put your head on them and sleep? Explaining the distinctions? It's like explaining "green" to a blind man.
She gives me that look. That look that I remember from an Aztec Two Step song I heard one night in northern Vermont (which is a whole other story). That look that says "You're all I've got - I guess you'll have to do." She smiles and shakes her head at this poor pillow-differentiation-impaired man, and together we resume sorting aquasocks and counting USB cables.
[Shortly after I posted this, Jeff Greenwald (no, I'm not name dropping) sent me the quotation, which he attributes to G.K. Chesterton: “The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.” - ah, the scary power of social networks!]
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Scavenger Hunt, Interrupted
"Cargo shorts" + "North Face" seemed like a match. I hauled over into the right lane and squeaked into a parking spot just past the store, ready to score the first item on my list.
But when I got out of the car, I was disoriented. I'd driven this block a bizillion times since we'd moved back to Palo Alto, and been in the North Face Store probably a dozen times, but I was completely baffled by the thing I was standing in front of. It couldn't have been here before, or I would have seen it.
But when I got out of the car, I was disoriented. I'd driven this block a bizillion times since we'd moved back to Palo Alto, and been in the North Face Store probably a dozen times, but I was completely baffled by the thing I was standing in front of. It couldn't have been here before, or I would have seen it.
Maybe it was only there if you were in the right frame of mind to see it, like Harry Potter's "Platform 9 3/4", or the back of the C.S. Lewis' wardrobe. But there it was, set half back in a grass lot brimming with purple flowers and dotted with park benches: an enormous cylindrical concrete tower.
It was clearly old - the ivy had made it halfway up and tumbled wide at the base, burying the features at groud level and giving the whole thing a bit of Sleeping Beauty mystique. At the front of the lot, there was a strange electromechanical device looking somewhat like a water pump set in cement, and adorned with an explanatory sign.
Pablo's Rule #15 of exploration: when somebody gives you a sign, read it.
Turns out that this was the site of the first municipal water works on the west coast. In 1898, the city fathers wrote a bond to fund construction of a water tower to provide reliable access to clean water, and this is was the standing artifact of their work. Other explanatory signs amid the heather and lavender and lupin described the history of the project, with pictures and testaments to its foresight.
I found myself stopping at each sign, reading, looking up, sitting and breathing in the cool lavender air while reflecting on this little bit of history lost under my nose. It was probably only five minutes I spent there, getting my little lesson in stopping and (literally) smelling the flowers, but it was enough. When I turned, back to my task list, it didn't seem all that urgent any more. It would get done, it would get done.
(Of course, once I got into North Face and pushed my way through the parkas and arctic gear, I realized that I'd be mocked mercilessly if I dared ask whether they had shorts tucked somewhere amid the mittens and goggles. I crossed that item off my list as "do without" and moved on to seeing what I could do about Frankenstein's power requirements.)
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Continuing Prep for The Trip - Part Three, in which I acquire a new razor
Part of being a dad is simply knowing how to do Fix Things That Need To Be Fixed. Instinctively. Things that we've never peered inside of before, especially if they require expertise that is far out of our scope of training. Especially if failure to do them correctly will result in loss or damage to personal property. Including eyebrows, or limbs. That's why we're always in the emergency room, being treated for ailments like routine removal of stray lawnmower parts from our extremities (or vice versa). Because the lawnmower needed to be fixed, and we're dads, so it's expected that we're the ones who know how to fix it.
Which explains why I've just bought a new razor.
You see, the batteries in my old one needed to be replaced. That handy Norelco I got in grad school (heck maybe it was college?) had been soldiering on since before I could grow an actual beard - the no-that-scruff-on-my-chin-is-a-beard rite of passage is another story. Every few years, when the time-between-charges got down to the same range as time-required-to-shave, I'd find an appropriate shop and drop the device off. Given $20 and a week or so, they'd return it to me with fresh batteries installed, cleaned and charged, ready to press its whirling little razor blades against my neck for another few years.
But this trip is coming up (did I mention that we're actually going on a trip? I may not have....), and my longtime companion is getting close to the I-don't-wanna-charge up-anymore stage (the razor people, the razor! Sheesh...). But now, you see, I'm a dad. I should be able to fix this thing myself, right?
And so, armed with Google, much in the way a toddler might be armed with a hand grenade, I set off to replace the batteries myself. Found replacement batteries online at BatteryBarn.com, with two-day shipping for a total of $12.98 - hey, I'm even saving money!
Three days later, when the pair of shiny blue nicads arrived, I sat down to the task of actually opening my little ol' Model 4586XL. Which, apparently, required tools I didn't have. But y'know, That's Okay (another dad maxim), because, we can, y'know, find something else that'll do the job. Smaller than a crowbar.... figured out that the eyeglass screwdriver Devon kept in the pantry could wedge into those little slots just fine, and with enough pressure would dislodge the Torx nuts (and I'll buy her a replacement screwdriver before she even notices that her old one has gotten kind of mashed up at the tip).
Popped the back off and started poking around. Batteries are right on top, but they're soldered in place, and the connectors are tucked under the circuitboard. Which meant I had to get the board out of the case, only to discover that there were two circuitboards, back to back, that had to be separated by gently pulling on the springly plastic connectors that looked like they should just come apart.
Anyhow, to make a short story not too overly long, I got everything apart, unsoldered the old batteries, soldered the new ones in place, and got everything back together while only minorly electrocuting myself. Par for the course.
Including the bit where, when the power switch was flipped, absolutely nothing happened. Pulled it apart again and went poking around with the multimeter (every dad has a multimeter, you know). There was definitely electricity in the batteries - even after the "electrocuting myself" part. And power was going through much of the circuitry - I could register usable voltages all over both boards. Applying power directly to the motor demonstrated that it was working, but somewhere in the maze of the printed circuit, something was dead.
I cleaned the area around my solder joints. I poked some more. I reassembled. Dead, dead, dead. Devon was giving me that pitied look that she does when she knows I'm doing one of those Things A Man's Gotta Do. I was pretty sure she hadn't seen the eyeglass screwdriver yet.
So I took it apart again and laid it out on the counter, a little electronic corpse at a bathroom-counter wake. It sat there for close to a week before I finally laid it to rest, chucking the plastic housing and putting its innards in with our collection of circuitboards to be dropped off at the greenwaste facility.
And three days ago I walked into Target and unceremoniously plunked down some unknown sum on a Norelco Arcitec 1050X, which looks vaguely like what H.R.Giger's alien would have shaved with if it had chosen Norelco. If all goes well, it should last me another twenty-odd years, by which point I'm expecting us have nanobots that do our shaving for us. In the meantime, if those Li-Ion cells need to be replaced, well, if we weren't able to do it ourselves, it would say something like "No user serviceable parts" on the side, wouldn't it? After all, I've already got a tool that works great for opening those Torx screws...
Which explains why I've just bought a new razor.
You see, the batteries in my old one needed to be replaced. That handy Norelco I got in grad school (heck maybe it was college?) had been soldiering on since before I could grow an actual beard - the no-that-scruff-on-my-chin-is-a-beard rite of passage is another story. Every few years, when the time-between-charges got down to the same range as time-required-to-shave, I'd find an appropriate shop and drop the device off. Given $20 and a week or so, they'd return it to me with fresh batteries installed, cleaned and charged, ready to press its whirling little razor blades against my neck for another few years.
But this trip is coming up (did I mention that we're actually going on a trip? I may not have....), and my longtime companion is getting close to the I-don't-wanna-charge up-anymore stage (the razor people, the razor! Sheesh...). But now, you see, I'm a dad. I should be able to fix this thing myself, right?
And so, armed with Google, much in the way a toddler might be armed with a hand grenade, I set off to replace the batteries myself. Found replacement batteries online at BatteryBarn.com, with two-day shipping for a total of $12.98 - hey, I'm even saving money!
Three days later, when the pair of shiny blue nicads arrived, I sat down to the task of actually opening my little ol' Model 4586XL. Which, apparently, required tools I didn't have. But y'know, That's Okay (another dad maxim), because, we can, y'know, find something else that'll do the job. Smaller than a crowbar.... figured out that the eyeglass screwdriver Devon kept in the pantry could wedge into those little slots just fine, and with enough pressure would dislodge the Torx nuts (and I'll buy her a replacement screwdriver before she even notices that her old one has gotten kind of mashed up at the tip).
Popped the back off and started poking around. Batteries are right on top, but they're soldered in place, and the connectors are tucked under the circuitboard. Which meant I had to get the board out of the case, only to discover that there were two circuitboards, back to back, that had to be separated by gently pulling on the springly plastic connectors that looked like they should just come apart.
Anyhow, to make a short story not too overly long, I got everything apart, unsoldered the old batteries, soldered the new ones in place, and got everything back together while only minorly electrocuting myself. Par for the course.
Including the bit where, when the power switch was flipped, absolutely nothing happened. Pulled it apart again and went poking around with the multimeter (every dad has a multimeter, you know). There was definitely electricity in the batteries - even after the "electrocuting myself" part. And power was going through much of the circuitry - I could register usable voltages all over both boards. Applying power directly to the motor demonstrated that it was working, but somewhere in the maze of the printed circuit, something was dead.
I cleaned the area around my solder joints. I poked some more. I reassembled. Dead, dead, dead. Devon was giving me that pitied look that she does when she knows I'm doing one of those Things A Man's Gotta Do. I was pretty sure she hadn't seen the eyeglass screwdriver yet.
So I took it apart again and laid it out on the counter, a little electronic corpse at a bathroom-counter wake. It sat there for close to a week before I finally laid it to rest, chucking the plastic housing and putting its innards in with our collection of circuitboards to be dropped off at the greenwaste facility.
And three days ago I walked into Target and unceremoniously plunked down some unknown sum on a Norelco Arcitec 1050X, which looks vaguely like what H.R.Giger's alien would have shaved with if it had chosen Norelco. If all goes well, it should last me another twenty-odd years, by which point I'm expecting us have nanobots that do our shaving for us. In the meantime, if those Li-Ion cells need to be replaced, well, if we weren't able to do it ourselves, it would say something like "No user serviceable parts" on the side, wouldn't it? After all, I've already got a tool that works great for opening those Torx screws...
Friday, December 11, 2009
The tyranny of the blank page
Last month, during November, I indulged in the exercise of writing something every single day. Not because I actually had something to say, but because I was trying to indulge various guides, from Julia Cameron to Anne Lamott, saying that it was important - as a writer - to just write. Whether or not you had anything to say. Just start writing, and something will come of it.
It was a remarkable experience, and I found that - even on days when I really didn't have anything to say - after a paragraph or two of stumbling, I usually found myself treading a path that held some narrative I wanted tell. That "life list" I'd never gotten around to writing down. The dusty pine smell of summer camp that takes me back, a world away, into what seems like someone else's life of small towns, and horses, and that romance that, well, neither of us were really sure was happening. And toenails. Looking through my notes, I apparently spent a page or two writing about toenails? What? I don't know, at the moment, I don't have the nerve to go back and read it.
Which, oddly enough, is one of the rules Natalie Goldberg sets out in Writing Down the Bones: after you've finished a piece of work, it's none of your business - move on to something else. At least for a while, otherwise you freeze with your work and censor yourself.
So, the point here is that you may start seeing more posts that aren't exactly about "roadtrips", as the blog title would imply. They may in fact not be about anything at all. They may just be me waking up and fighting the tyranny of the blank page to get words down on a page, hoping that some forgotten story from my past will emerge. Sorry. I do apologize for the added cruft, but think of it as a convenient excuse to spend a little more time in your browser away from that code review you've promised to finish. Besides, as I was fond of reminding audiences at the open mics I used to play "For years I've suffered for my art. Now it's your turn."
It was a remarkable experience, and I found that - even on days when I really didn't have anything to say - after a paragraph or two of stumbling, I usually found myself treading a path that held some narrative I wanted tell. That "life list" I'd never gotten around to writing down. The dusty pine smell of summer camp that takes me back, a world away, into what seems like someone else's life of small towns, and horses, and that romance that, well, neither of us were really sure was happening. And toenails. Looking through my notes, I apparently spent a page or two writing about toenails? What? I don't know, at the moment, I don't have the nerve to go back and read it.
Which, oddly enough, is one of the rules Natalie Goldberg sets out in Writing Down the Bones: after you've finished a piece of work, it's none of your business - move on to something else. At least for a while, otherwise you freeze with your work and censor yourself.
So, the point here is that you may start seeing more posts that aren't exactly about "roadtrips", as the blog title would imply. They may in fact not be about anything at all. They may just be me waking up and fighting the tyranny of the blank page to get words down on a page, hoping that some forgotten story from my past will emerge. Sorry. I do apologize for the added cruft, but think of it as a convenient excuse to spend a little more time in your browser away from that code review you've promised to finish. Besides, as I was fond of reminding audiences at the open mics I used to play "For years I've suffered for my art. Now it's your turn."
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Tiny ironies
But that's not really what I wanted to write about today. To be honest, I'm not sure what I did want to write about today, I just want to satisfy the insatiable curiosity the world (that's you) must undeniably have about my every thought and activity (Did I tell you about cutting my toenails this morning? No? Good. Well....)
But I'm being fairly mellow on the trip planning at the moment. Easing into that "create a big pile of stuff you might need in the middle of the floor" phase. It's like a nesting phase, where you make big piles: electronics (the GPS, the netbook, the transformers), equipment (snorkel, mask, camera), clothes (hats, sunglasses, goretex). Kind of fun at this point, because there aren't any hard decisions to make - that comes at the "pruning and packing" phase, and I'm still oblivious to the actual necessities of the trip. Yes, I've printed out the recommended packing list, but looking at it would spoil the blissful ignorance of the nesting phase.
Anyhow - we've got a houseful of 10-year-old boys running amok below. They're currently incapacitated by the TV, but the noise level below is rising, suggesting that some of them are breaking free. I'll tell you more about Ecuador in coming days, and after that, there's Liberia (yes, that's right - Liberia), maybe with Ghana tacked on as an exploratory trip afterwards. Yeah, these coming months are looking prime for some roadtrip writing...
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Looming
There are some people who seem perpetually serene - life just is. You know these people, right? And you know that I'm not one of them. I can't seem to live my life without being in some state of dynamic instability, always falling forward into the next thing and feeling like I somehow always just manage to get my foot out in front of me, onto that stepping stone before I crash into the rushing stream.
At least that's how I feel. I know that, in reality, if I don't get everything done by the time we leave for Ecuador, it'll still be okay (did I mention we're going to Ecuador? And Peru? Roadtrip!!!!). Because "everything" is really an overblown concept, looming on the mental horizon and blocking out the morning sun. Because we can't do everything. "Everything" means making sure we've got the right power adapters for the new razor, movies loaded onto the travel computer, triplicate copies of documents (passport, itinerary, medical photocopies stacked and sorted - one copy with us, one to our parents), the right number of waterproof layers, sprayed and dried, the right....
At some point, you're just arranging paper doilies for the snacks you've prepared for the house sitter, and you realize that the entire thing is ridiculous. We've got our tickets, we've got our passports, and we've got our immunizations. We're going.
Life - not even travel - doesn't need to be a constant panicked rush, and I forget that. It's the river, it will come, it will take us, and we'll all get there, one way or another.
So - did I mention we're going to Ecuador? In about two weeks. Ever since she was a kid, D's been wanting to go to the Galapagos. About a year and a half ago, some college friends of ours who have kids the same age decided that this was the time to do it, and dove into doing all the heavy lifting to set the trip up. Find a boat, find a guide, negotiate the itinerary, etc. (you've got to get these things in place about a year in advance for the Galapagos). Pretty much, all we had to do was say "yes" and send deposits at the appropriate times. There'll be four families, in three generations, on the boat for about one and a half weeks. Some time on the Ecuadorean mainland beforehand, and a brief "drive by" of Machu Picchu afterwards, and we're all counting on this being the trip of a lifetime. Of course, we're still packing, figuring out what kind of doilies to use for..
At least that's how I feel. I know that, in reality, if I don't get everything done by the time we leave for Ecuador, it'll still be okay (did I mention we're going to Ecuador? And Peru? Roadtrip!!!!). Because "everything" is really an overblown concept, looming on the mental horizon and blocking out the morning sun. Because we can't do everything. "Everything" means making sure we've got the right power adapters for the new razor, movies loaded onto the travel computer, triplicate copies of documents (passport, itinerary, medical photocopies stacked and sorted - one copy with us, one to our parents), the right number of waterproof layers, sprayed and dried, the right....
At some point, you're just arranging paper doilies for the snacks you've prepared for the house sitter, and you realize that the entire thing is ridiculous. We've got our tickets, we've got our passports, and we've got our immunizations. We're going.
Life - not even travel - doesn't need to be a constant panicked rush, and I forget that. It's the river, it will come, it will take us, and we'll all get there, one way or another.
So - did I mention we're going to Ecuador? In about two weeks. Ever since she was a kid, D's been wanting to go to the Galapagos. About a year and a half ago, some college friends of ours who have kids the same age decided that this was the time to do it, and dove into doing all the heavy lifting to set the trip up. Find a boat, find a guide, negotiate the itinerary, etc. (you've got to get these things in place about a year in advance for the Galapagos). Pretty much, all we had to do was say "yes" and send deposits at the appropriate times. There'll be four families, in three generations, on the boat for about one and a half weeks. Some time on the Ecuadorean mainland beforehand, and a brief "drive by" of Machu Picchu afterwards, and we're all counting on this being the trip of a lifetime. Of course, we're still packing, figuring out what kind of doilies to use for..
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