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.