I am Lee Marvin

Yesterday, a store manager in the airport motioned for me to come to her candy counter. In a loud whisper and with big green eyes, she asked, "Are you a movie star?"

"Huh? Sorry. Are you talking to me?" I said. I almost burst out laughing, but, considering that anything that is weird can and will happen here, I simply stared and waited for whatever was to come next.

"I have some friends, some foreigners who are waiting for their plane. They identified you as Lee Marvin. And since I like to meet all of the stars, I wanted to meet you."

"I see. Well, thank you. That is nice to hear. But, actually, I'm not an actor at all."

"You look like him, they say, and I'd like to ask for your autograph and a picture. Come to my restaurant tonight. It is right behind the church."

Remembering the Dirty Dozen, I felt a surge of energy because I admired the idea of Lee taking the criminals, building a fighting force that learned to work and even love one another. Long ago, others had compared me to Lee, but, somehow this was different. This was in a foreign country, far from Hollywood. And I no longer was determined to hide or deny my looks. Many tell me I look just like my dad and I am dismayed to not be just Tito. And, to be like Lee is to have big lips and a sad brow. So I was in denial of the likenesses. But, now that Dad is no longer here and neither is Lee, I am ready to shoulder the distinction. When Dad died, I realized that, thank God, there was still someone with his good looks. His bald head is my bald head and his lips are mine. As for Lee, his raging and shooting could be my metaphorical trip through life.

The shop owner´s name is Marianna Avila. She told me that, since 1985, she has met most of the stars who have visited the Galapagos. At first, I simply nodded when she invited me to her bar. But, at 8:00, I found myself with nothing to do. So I biked over to the church and into a yard with circular tables and umbrellas. Behind the tables was a door that opened into a living room. There, a large guy (who reminded me of Marco) was examining his new Fuji camera. It turned out that Rodrigo, her nephew, as back from his life in Brooklyn, NY. He offered to make me a mojito complete with her fresh ingredients.

El Barquero advertises itself as "the oldest bar in the Galapagos, with 20 years of experience, visited by local, national, international, and Hollywood celebrities. It is not much in the way of a bar, rather, more of a living room with a little garden. She was so happy I had come and immediately took out various cell phones and snapped pictures of herself and me. Lee was honored with an entire page. She added my a list of my best films and notes on my life. I signed: "Love You! Lee Marvin aka Tito Craige"

Turns out she has hosted Richard Gere and Angelina Jolie, among hundreds of others.

We looked up Lee on the internet and discovered that he had died in '87, at the age of 63. But now, on Thanksgiving of 2009, Lee, like Lazarus, he is alive again.

Voluntary Servitude

At the Casablanca Hotel’s seaside cafe, I met the flamboyant and fascinating Ruth, a young woman whose hardships and love affair touched me in ways I could not have predicted. I was drinking a frothy mochaccino, when an English accent caught my ear. I turned to see curly hair attached to a ruddy, brightly burned face. In a clipped accent, she ordered her coffee and the most “chevere” item on the chalkboard, a torta de chocolate -- the famed chocolate cake, smothered in chocolate sauce. Her Spanish was modest but comprehensible; she had been in-country for only a few weeks, I figured. She gesticulated rapidly, as if she was angry.

The cure for my intense island fever was a conversation with a foreigner. I found myself introducing myself to anyone who might share a smile and a story.

“Are you perhaps from the British Isles?” She turned towards me, and her irritation seemed to disappear. “Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but can I help you order?”

“No, he knows what I want. It is always the same.”

“Yes, I like the coffee here... it is the only place that serves the beans that always seem to get exported. I’m Tito Craige and work at the Darwin Foundation. What are you up to?”

"Good to meet you,” she said in proper English. “I am from northern Britain and I'm working as a volunteer at the Hacienda Tranquila in the highlands."

I guessed she was about 22, bursting with an energetic voice, and properly British.

"Nice. Sounds like an interesting placement and you are living in the prettiest part of the island.  There are so many lush farms."  Looking at her sunburned arms, I had a spot of envy, suspecting that she was discovering the old-timey farms where all of the original colonists had lived.

I blathered on. "And it must be really cool to be an international volunteer, to really make a difference.  So, how is it going?"

"I hate to say this, but it is awful. Mind if I tell you about it?"

"I'm all ears."

"The eight of us volunteers, from all over Europe and the US, paid hundreds dollars to the owner of the place that is called Tranquil Plantation or actually Hacienda Tranquila. We were told that the owner ran a non-profit that found ways for foreign volunteers to improve life in the Galapagos specifically. The purpose of the organization, we were told, was to provide benefits the community, especially the children, and help give locals an understanding of the importance of preserving the fragile environment.”

“Is that what happened?” I asked.

“Our job has been to remove non-native plants so endemic flora can return, but the whole thing started off badly since we were flown to the wrong island.  Then we came to San Cristobal by speedboat and were housed in a beautiful place, but only for one night. We were taken to the owner’s ‘holiday home’ where we were welcomed by the energetic Fabien, a guy whose real identity was hidden behind his street name, Billabong. The place was beautiful; we thought we’d finally arrived in paradise.  However, to our surprise, we were there just enough time for the Hacienda to collect our huge volunteer fees.  We were then transported to the Hacienda, located in the highlands, 20 miles from the town. It was cold and rainy, a different climate from the port of Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, and we were shocked to find that we were housed in what can only be described as a shack with half-built walls.  It was filthy. It felt like something out of a horror movie. A cow’s skull rested on the sign greeting visitors. By 8 o’clock at night we were huddled in our sheets, very cold without any blankets. The half-completed walls allowed the rain to pelt us, so my friend Abby asked for a blanket. She was given a flea-bitten curtain and we froze. The next day, we were told to fix our own meals, but there were so many flies that I could not see the surface of the rice I cooked. I had to throw it away.  At night, the rats came out and it was scary. The toilet never flushes and the smell is revolting."

I was gasping at the thought of my daughter suffering this kind of abuse and I wondered what Ruth’s family would think. But I had to find out some background first and I asked her if we could continue talking later in the day. I did some sleuthing around town, to find out if her allegations could possibly be true. From the Charles Darwin office, I discovered that all links had been cut with the Hacienda due to its exploitation of its volunteers and its l lack of a non-profit status.

I asked what she had been told before arriving. "We believed that we were assisting the landowner in his efforts to extend the natural park areas. But now I see that we had been lied to about the nature of the work, the farm and its connections. The Hacienda Tranquila is a for-profit farm, a business that makes money from its workers instead of paying them.”

In the weeks that followed, I discovered that the clever owner had hoodwinked dozens of groups of volunteers into paying to the right to live in squalor and increase the value of his hacienda. The perfect scam. Even worse, the owner published internet information (since removed) claiming to have an affiliation with the Charles Darwin Foundation.

I met with Ruth and Abby again. I asked, "are you safe from any threat of violence? Are you going to survive? If you leave, will anyone take revenge on you?”

"I don’t know and I don’t really care,” said Ruth. “I cannot stand to be there one more day. Know what? We fix food on cutting boards that were used to cut bloody meat. The filth is unbelievable."

I was getting infuriated. How could such a rip-off exist in “paradise.” Or maybe that is what Eden was, a place where everyone finds his shot at profit. I had heard of dull and boring volunteer placements, but this one seemed dark, evil. I felt queasy just thinking of paying to fly from Europe to Ecuador and then paying more to live in an unsanitary dump so you could do unpaid work all day. 

"Ruth, that sounds like a nightmare. I am old enough to be your dad, so forgive me if I ask some fatherly questions. Do you think you should continue to work with Fabien? Perhaps you should leave before something worse occurs."

Ruth, who had a tough, almost belligerent way of talking, turned reflective and spoke quietly: "I have so much invested in this.  I will see myself as a big failure. I must have made a huge mistake and I am just so frikkin' stupid.  I had planned to use my savings for a Masters program.  Instead, I spent all that I had saved so that the owner can get his Masters in the States. I am paying for him to have a great time and get trained in exploiting people.  I am also living in utter misery. I want to leave."

Without hesitation, I told her, "Then leave and don't feel one iota of regret or guilt.  No one has a right to exploit you.  At the very least, you must have a decent place to live, warm covers, sanitary food, and freedom from rats. For the money you paid, a person should be cooking your meals and providing snacks, too."

Ruth looked at me as if she had still more secrets to reveal. In a hoarse whisper, she said, "Oh, Tito, it gets worse.  Guess what the work is? It is to take machetes and cut down blackberry bushes that have taken over the niche once held by endemic plants. But, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure this out, if all you do is cut them, it is living mowing grass: the billions of blackberry bushes come back stronger.  If you don't dig up their roots, the work is useless.  We are almost willing to live in these conditions if we knew the work we were doing was worthwhile but so far it seems disorganised and pointless. In fact, we are helping make things worse”

At the Darwin offices where I was working, I asked about the Hacienda.  I was shocked to find out that the farm is, in fact, owned by an absentee landlord who chose a bunch of deputies/thugs, the leader of whom is that he has given management responsibilities to Fabien, a man so so consumed by surfing that he hardly had time to manage a plantation. He had a reputation as an absent minded and charismatic fellow. He is charming but he had absolutely no skills or training to be left in charge. His interests lay purely in surfing or chatting up the latest volunteer to arrive, in hopes of a romantic liaison.

Ruth then called her dad in England who urged her to leave immediately.  Between angry, staccato comments, Abby asked me if I knew any places to stay.  I sent her to a nearby hostel, a breezy stuccoed building next to the bay.

Two days later, Ruth met me over a cappuccino, but, this time, she brought the other 8 volunteers.  All were upset and a few were determined to leave. Ruth, by far the most outspoken, was quite clear about her course of action.

"I am going to shut that place down. It will never rip off another volunteer.  I will go on 'net and make sure that no one has to go through what I experienced. We are covered by mosquito bites. We have been lied to.  Know what is worse?  Last year, when I was 21, I was a raging liberal and wanted to have a career helping people. I used all of my savings to come here to try to improve the lives of Ecuadorians, but, instead, I have been mistreated and I don't like it.  I think I have become a conservative.  I think I will simply try to become rich and forget poor people."

Within days, three of the eight left, Ruth, Abby and an American girl who later became quite a legend in the small town of San Cristobal.  The other volunteers, horrified to have wasted so much money, felt they had to stay.  In the weeks that followed, those who left had the time of their lives. Ruth, Abby and another woman extended their planned three-week visit to two months, took scuba diving courses, partied and fell in love with the magic and beauty of the island. 

Those who stayed told Fabien that they were not happy with the work or living conditions. At first, he paid them no attention, but the volunteers organized a strike, in that they refused to cut blackberry canes.  Instead, they began to dig up the roots, even when they were ordered to stop. The owner was silent and Fabien was confused; had no idea what to do and feared for his job if the owner blamed him for the rebellion.

One volunteer was a tall, bearded and earnest Scandinavian named Paul: "You won't believe this, Tito. One day, we were awoken and told that about a kilometer away a party had taken place the night before.  The teenagers had left a mountain of trash and guess who Augusto said would clean it up?  Us!  Can you imagine?  We, who are foreign volunteers, are to become garbage collector for the locals! We refused to do what we were told. Of course, we had wild parties at university, but we would never have expected volunteers from abroad to come and clean up or crap!”

“So,” I asked, what happened to the strikers?”

Paul spoke with great animation, “Instead we suggested using the time to make some bins ourselves, and teach the locals about recycling. Cleaning it up for them will not do any good, we need to educate these people. They do not realise how fragile these islands are.”

By mid-November, all of the volunteers left but the long-termers had, to some extent, succeeded in changing the farm. The house had walls and the toilet flushed.  The work slow-down had succeeded in as much as the owner acknowledged that some changes were needed. Perhaps he feared the loss of income from wealthy foreign volunteers, should his fiefdom be revealed. He must have realized that, to avoid irreparable damage to the reputation of his organisation, he would have to clean up his act.

Last night I talked with Ruth. She was enthusiastically drinking rum and enjoying the attention of a certain Fabien.  Yes, it was the very Fabien who was in charge of the Hacienda. He is a broad-shouldered, wiry man with narrow eyes and electric movements. He reminded me of a large cat, maybe a puma. Other volunteers told me that he used to live in the Amazon jungle where he had lived as his ancestors had, hunting animals and people. Now he was a surfer, hitting on tourists.

A month later I saw Beth and Abby at the best known outdoor grill. Beth had mellowed, and her angry tones were almost gone. She even asked me about the word “humble” as in, “I would not know how to be humble with my parents. It just isn’t something I do. How would I start? What do I say that is humble if my parents ask what I will do with Fabien?” That prompted many comments from the gathering. It was a last-night-on-the-Galapagos entourage, all eager to down some fresh fish or beef off of the grill. Some said that her question itself indicated a sea change in attitude. Others suggested that she look lovingly at her parents and accept that they did the best they could.

I asked Beth how she reconciled her awful experiences at the Hacienda with the relationship she was enjoying with Fabien. She looked at me with a smile and then a frown: "I love him but I don't accept some things. In fact, I got so mad at him last week, because he was talking to some other girls and ignoring me. I took a chair and threw it at him. It hit his face and you can still see the bruises. I told him that he had better behave."

I could not believe she had tamed this surfer/hunter. After all, she was a British gal from far away, unable to speak Spanish or hold her liquor very well. Somehow, she was having a partnership of equals, or at least that is what it seemed to me. I asked her why she trusted someone who enforced a cruel regimen from an absentee landlord who had robbed them of their funds.

She told me earnestly, "It is funny how things turn out. I have really changed because of finding out what he is really like. He is very gentle. He helped me when I twisted my knee and I was in enormous pain. He came to my hotel room and brought a local healer who massaged and manipulated my leg.”

And how about the others who will soon be caught in the hacienda’s web of deceit, I asked.

“After our protests, he has rebuilt the hacienda and everything is better. You won't believe this but I am going up to the hacienda tomorrow to help him paint."

A month later, Abby called to say that Beth and Fabien were still in a relationship, though they were far from one another. Beth was planning a trip back to the Galapagos. Fabien was working at the hacienda.

Abby, on discovering that I was returning to the Galapagos for a short stint, had one request for me: “For Ruth’s sake, could you check on Fabien’s behavior? See if he is running around with anyone else, OK?”

The Golden Age

For the oral histories I am assembling, I've been interviewing Sergio Mora. He is a gaunt and grizzled 78-year-old known as a spry fellow who is capable of dancing and singing at any moment. Last week he invited me to attend a meeting of the Third Agers (aka Golden Agers), and, if I was well behaved, I could join in three years. To check it out, I attended the recent arts workshop where five men and women practiced drawing iguanas and dolfins. A young local artist drew outlines and the oldsters filled in the pictures with lines and colors.

Inspired, I asked for pencils and started drawing faces. I started getting chills, as I remembered my father's world. As as artist, he must have been silent and solitary for hours if not days. The artist who was helping out told me that his father, too, was an artist, and that I must continue to draw. "You are really talented, and, after a few days, all of your talent will come back. You should draw because you are remembering your father and you're good." Wow.

Sergio's story: "The way we carried things was on a donkey. In the 40s the only way to go to the continent was to take a boat for five or six days. If you had a heart attack, you just died. We were cured by medicinal plants and God's blessings. Farmers like me were really healthy because we never used chemicals while farming. Thanks to good health, my mother lived to be 96 and died only four years ago.

As a farmer, I used to barter with the fishermen, trading corn and beans for fish. There was no cash. Some things had no price and were totally free: avocados, oranges, lemons and plums.

Before WWII we had a house made of cactus leaves, sugar cane and bamboo. Rain entered and termites ate a bit of the house each day. After the war, people had a chance to get a free house from the US military base on the island of Baltra. [The US withdrew its forces from Baltra when the war ended.] An official organized us into a line and, eventually, I chose the house you see here. With a few friends, we took the house apart, packed it up in big bundles, paid the captain for shipping and reconstructed it here on this island. The house was made of white pine from the United States and it lasted many years. [Maybe the pine was from NC or SC??] After decades, the pine rotted and only the uprights made of the local wood called matarsarno were left. So I removed the old pine and replaced it with poured concrete.

"Paradise" is a concept that is used to sell the Galapagos to tourists. This has become a business. Those in the business with a lot of money can make a lot more money. You have to have capital. A big problem is that the National Park helps sea lions more than people. These islands cannot really be called a "Heritage Site for Humanity." They should be called a "Heritage Site for Inhumanity." [The UN named the islands as a World Heritage Site.]

Now, we have a organization called People of the Third Age and it is for people who are 65 and older. Tito, you can aspire to become a member in three years. One of our jobs is to document our lives. Look at my painting of houses and beaches in 1940. You can see the old wooden pier, the old town hall, the cementery on the beach and the mountain village above town."

Later, I interviewed Sergio's wife, Natalia. She had puffy, speckled hands that patted her clothes patiently. Her face was filled with curves, so much so that her eyes were slits. Due to my earlier visits, she seemed to be warming up and had lots to say:

"I have a problem with my hand because it never healed properly. You see, I fell three years ago and the doctors on the islands were not help. After a few weeks, I flew to Guayaquil to get it looked at. The doctor said he would give me pain medication and then operate. So, I came to the clinic but he was chugging alcohol and was drunk. Finally, they operated and installed two nails near my shoulder. In the weeks that followed I was in continuous pain. I went back to the doctor, and he told me that the nails could be removed. I agreed, but, as he was starting to operate, I felt like someone was breaking my arm. I screamed and screamed for Jesus. The nails were removed, but, to this day, I cannot move two of my fingers. I am 84 and this is hard for me."

I felt her hand and it was warm, soft and inert.

Evangelicos

"En que le puedo ayudar," he said gently. His chunky short body, soft voice, and stubby fingers were framed by a wooden shed´s double bays. Behind him were dozens of bike tires, gleaming chrome forks and oily tools. "How can I help you," he was asking.

"I am Tito Craige and I am so happy to meet you."

"Me llamo Jesus Bueno. Un gusto de conocerle." I am Jesus Good and I am happy to meet you.

I had to suppress a laugh, since I had no idea there even was such a name. Was he joking? Perhaps he was a nut or a colleague of people like the basketball player World B. Free. I was tempted to say that my name was The Buddha or Adam Smasher. Maybe Che Guevara.

After a moment of being tongue-tied, I mumbled, "Jesus, we are organizing a day without cars for Puerto Baquerizo. We at the Darwin Foundation want to encourage kids to use their bikes throughout the day. The idea is to increase the safe spaces where kids can play. It is our first such day and we were wondering if you could help us repair kids´ bikes."

He looked at my eyes, as if searching for something. He was not sure what a tall, skinny gringo could possibly want from him. The wind blew quietly and some teenagers quietly repaired their bikes behind me.

"If I had a hand pump, I could help you. All I have is an electric air compressor and I need a pump."

"Aha," I said. "Yes, I have a Specialized pump, the professional kind, and it works for all kinds of tire valves."

"Great. Well, I will be there and am glad to help. I have some old bikes that I will lend to the town´s kids, so all can ride."

"Jesus," I said, "that is so chevere (cool). There will be some handicapped adults and kids. Is it ok for them to try out the bikes?"

"No problem. Excuse me, Tito. May I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Do you go to church?"

"Not really."

"You are welcome to come to ours. We would be happy to have you any day of the week. There are no commitments needed. Be our guest."

"Thanks. Is that the church across from the barbeque place?"

"Yes, and next to the basketball court. God has a special road for you and it will help you ifind your way. This road is the way for you to lead a happy life. There are always detours that look good. But God has posted signs saying ´danger´ around those routes that involve drinking and drugs, wife abuse and sloppiness."

"Yes," I said, "it is sure easy to fall into those traps."

"God gives us lots of signs for the right path. We just have to follow his suggestions. But it takes work. Some people, for example, have houses that they never get around to cleaning. Things get dirty and unhealthy. You have to clean your house, just like you need to clean your life."

"Yes, it takes a lot of self-discipline to keep things working in my life," I had to admit.

"Well, the soul is like that. It needs lots of attention and self-discipline. Of course, we are all sinners, but the person who sins and shows remorse will be healed. He is cleaning his dirty house. A Christian who changes himself after committing a bad deed is a person who is on God´s path."

"Thanks, Jesus," I said. "I appreciate your sharing. I feel better just chatting with you!"

"Tito, thanks, too. I like to talk. You see, I get lonely here since my brothers, Jose and Lauro, are gone. I am not married, so I get lonely, but I know that God has made me feel I am at home. He will do the same for you."

"Un gusto, Jesus," I said. I wandered away, somehow happier. Jesus the Good. Good Jesus?

Last Saturday, during the Via Activa, there were no cars, but there were hundreds of bikers and hikers. And, of course, Jesus. He was fixing flats and pumping tires. Maybe he was helping people inflate their lives. And clean their houses.

Since then, Jesus and I have formed a bit of a friendship. We are dreaming of some bike events, bike rentals, bike sales. I have not found the will to go to the church, but I feel a kinship with his steady style. In the Galapagos there are many who drink, smoke, play video games and watch tv. Jesus has given up all of these, and I am finding myself less and less interested in the only one of these activities that I still do -- beer consumption.

_______________________________________

I was supposed to be the coordinator of the Via Activa. Since I have no idea how to organize an Ecuadorian town, I had to rely on many others. There were folks from the culture office, the children and teen advocacy NGO, the vice mayor and police chief, several community organizations, and, of course, the two locos, Tiro and Chaso. Virtually the entire town witnessed their spectacular bike jumps, and the day was a huge hit.

There was only one curious event, and that occurred when we were putting the finishing touches on the bike jumping dirt pile. After leaping off of the second ramp, the bike acrobats landed on a giant mound of volcanic dirt. The pile was so large that my office manager decided to place a Charles Darwin Foundation sign on side of the mound. I picked up a wide piece of cloth that has our logo on it. It also says that the CDF supports conservation efforts. I was ready to display this banner, but Juan Carlos told me, abruptly, that the notion of conservation is completely the wrong thing to talk about in this town. He used the work "jodida" which basically means that the concept is, to the local folks, screwed up or worse. I was surprised that conservation has become a dirty word, almost like words that we can remember during the Cold War. Commie. Faggot. Now conservationist.

Day of the Defunct

"Here are some baked 'babies,'" the waitress said "just out of the oven. You can choose the red boys or the blue girls."

"OK... Thanks!! But I can´t tell them apart."

"Doesn't matter. And while you are here, I´m going to give you the drink called mora colada, something special for the Day of the Dead, Dia de los Difuntos."

"Cool. Muchas gracias."

The blackberry drink was a thick, sweet juice, made from cinnamon, cloves, pineapple, currants, and some kind of flour paste. The babies and drink are highland Ecuador traditions brought here from the "continent" for the first day of November. Nationally, this is day to honor the dead and involves trips to the cemetery, cleaning up lawns around graves, and preparing food for the ancestors. Luis told me that the neighboring grave caretakers eat your food for the dead, so that, later, you imagine that the dead appreciate your generosity.

I am glad that today is overcast. Less sun means less sunburn and I am a roasted marshmallow if there ever was one. I have gone past the state of tanning, past the usefulness of sunblock, and I am now in a perpetual state of nut brownness. Some from Quito are so horrified to become deep brown that they wear long sleeve shirts and long pants, even when the sun is blasting. I just get darker.

I have been living in the highlands, about 2,000 feet above the seaside village of Puerto Baquerizo Moreno. Due to a lack of water for 6 weeks I had not a single shower. My friends in town gracioiusly offered their bathrooms.

My new apartment is in town, close to work, 10 degrees warmer and vulnerable to the sounds of roosters, dogs and cats. One night, over supper, I described my prior highland home, and I found out that there is plenty of intrigue up there. I wonder why we always find out these things after whaving left...

The land was owned by a couple, the story goes. A fight broke out, and the wife killed her husband. The local officials did not arrest her but she was forbidden to own the property. Soon thereafter, she left to live on the continent.

Later, a friend and I are chilling, drinking beer. A lovely woman says hi and we invite her to sit down. Shiny lip gloss, glowing smiles animate her. She is gracious, funny and well read: "I love to swim, travel and eat supper with a couple of friends." She is from the continent, but she has business interests in the islands, etc.

After she entertains us with talk of spiritual awakenings, she leaves. Then a nearby acquaintance comes to me and whispers in my ear. "She is the one who owns the property where you were living. It is she who cannot get access to the houses or land. Be careful!"

Could it be that this is the woman who sent her husband to the next world? Is this an urban legend? I will keep you posted...