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?”