A friend asked what made me happy here. Good question Swimming in the harbor, with sea lions and turquoise swells. Witnessing tropicbirds soaring, banking and braking just inches from a cliff. Riding my bike up the mountain to the rain forest where oranges and corn grow. Every physical challenge here is exhilarating: the air is brilliantly clear and dry, the roads have few cars and I have no fear of sharks.
What makes me less than happy? It is the human world that makes me worried, even paranoid at times. There is a great desire for political and economic independence here, that, to me, is the same as a blank check to exploit all of the resources the islands contain. There is lip service to conservation, but many of the powerful folks here see the conservationists, like the Darwin Foundation, as the enemies of progress. We are the outsiders who like to order local folks around, even though we don´t know or care about them.
There are two distinct cultures here: the islanders who want the islands to develop, and those who believe that the resources are extremely limited. The second group points to the lack of potable water (almost none), lack of sewage treatment (non-existent), lack of oil (none), and lack of excellent schools (there might be one). True, there are three turbines on the wind farm, and there is a plan for sewage treatment, but there is also a population that doubles every 11 years.
Last night over supper, some of us had a loud debate. One person felt that the islanders have it too easy, since government employees (including teachers) get a sizeable bonus due to the distance from the mainland and the high prices. The local folks are not "hungry" and so they have no incentive to innovate, worry about the future, study and plan. People are spoiled.
Others think that the island cultures are all like this; isolated from other provinces, Galapaguenos have their own narrow view that is based on their self-interest. There is not one bookstore here and no movie theatre (or any other kind of theater), so folks inbreed their ideas. The more expansive and eccentric notions die off, since there are so few interested in the unconventional. People are ignorant.
Another theory is that the people are like Darwin´s finches. They exploit their environment so that they survive. They adapt. But they do not feel any intrinsic need to develop their culture, since such development has no purpose. They are existentialists in that their experience is their teacher. Philosophy, ethics and such abstract ideas are as remote as Ulan Bator. Not a single bookstore on the Galapagos! People find a niche and stagnate.
I am not sure what to think. I have to refer to what makes me fired up and that wold be swimming, biking and viewing birds. Why is it that, in this pristine setting, surrounded by exquisite bays and sugary sand, no one swims? Of the 7,000 residents, not a single person swims more than a few strokes. (One notable exception: a large group of teenagers learned how to surf from some tourists and enjoy the big waves.) No one is kayaking or sailing. There are few cyclists and very few runners. I cannot think of a better thing to do than to encourage local people to get involved in their rugged and beautiful landscapes.
So as to change some of this, I am co-heading this island´s Ciclovida Cristobal - as in biking/life/san cristobal. We will have a book store on the boardwalk, biking games (jumps, obstacle courses), BMX acrobats, massages, and face painting. I lobbied for swimming lessons but that was a bit too radical. All of this ocean stuff will have to wait.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Orange People
On Saturday, Juan Carlos Guzman and I were biking in the fog-covered highlands, about 8 km north of the provincial capital, Puerto Baquerizo. His Haro aluminum and my Airborne titanium frames took us from the lustrous bay, filled with fishing boats, through the grimy barrios, and up a steep hill, past goats and cattle, past the overgrown cemetery and into the “garua” or misty rain. We left the asphalt and veered down the trail leading to a novel and critical experiment in environmental control. Our bike tires skidded on the crushed volcanic cinders, a crumbly kind of bubbly rock that is the color or iron oxide.
We fish-tailed to a stop at a varnished sign announcing a Darwin Foundation experiment to control invasive plant species, especially the accursed blackberry. Due to its massive number of seeds (often dropped by birds), blackberries blanket every one of the islands. This is a disaster for endemic plants, most of which are snuffed out by the aggressive "mora." And, if the endemic plants die, then the famous and exotic animals (finches, too) that depend on their seeds will die. Even though I love blackberry pie and cobbler more than anything else, I can see that here, at least, mora is something akin to evil incarnate.
Herbicide is the only large-scale way to control mora, although the only effective, long term way to permanently eradicate the berry is for humans to pull up every plant and burn all of them. That is difficult, since we are talking about billions of plants that live among scraggly bushes with large thorns. Other than herbicide and digging out the roots, the only other antidote may well be coffee plantations. Coffee trees shade the shorter bushes, thereby making sun-craving blackberries unable to thrive. So, oddly enough, Conservation International, an NGO here that is usually identified with goals like the preservation of endemic species, is helping to increase the number of non-native coffee plants in hopes of stopping mora. The head of CI, Fernando Ortiz, is quoted in yesterday's NYT article about “two-legged” threats to the islands and possible answers, including the coffee tree planting programs.
Coffee plantations will succeed, perhaps, since Galapagos coffee is, indeed, excellent. Still, the magnitude of plantation makes this solution impractical for most farmers, and such projects will hardly dampen the spread of mora. That is why the CDF is experimenting with types of herbicide, in the hope that a minimal application can be made more effective. The CDF land, donated by a local tour organizer, has dozens of squares, each with mora that has been treated by some kind of weed killer. The land seems spent, quite unfertile, but that is the point, it seems.
While admiring the agricultural plots, we saw a roundish woman and teenage boy emerge from the forest. Both were dressed in smudged T-shirts and muddy boots. The woman, who turned out to be the boy's aunt, carried a long machete and the boy toted a sack of giant oranges. They told us that they made their living by harvesting oranges throughout the highlands. This seemed illegal, by my hometown standards, so I tried to think of a non-judgmental question. I finally asked if the private land owners liked their oranges and she responded by saying that most are absentee landowners and never harvest anything. Private lands without fences are everyone’s domain, as long as the visitors only take fruit.
Her day’s wandering had another purpose: she was upset because her prized pig had escaped into the wild. We offered our condolences and then she offered us four large oranges. I fumbled at the skin, unable to open it at all. She reached for her machete. She grabbed another orange and nimbly cut away the skin. (I tried to suppress any worries about what else the machete might have been doing prior to cutting my orange.) Patient and meticulous, as if she were shaving a tender cheek in a barber shop, she peeled away. The shavings dropped on the cinders, and she handed me an Ecuadorian-style orange. The local custom is to squeeze the white husk and then suck out the juice out of the top, as if it were a water bottle. The juice was amazingly sweet.
As has become our custom, Juan Carlos asked about songs, poems and dances from her provincial home, meaning the province which she left to come to the Galapagos. She said that her husband was from Loja and used to sing many songs. A few years ago, however, he stopped singing. She explained, saying that her husband had joined a pentecostal church and that, aside from a ban on drinking and smoking, traditional songs and dances are forbidden. Earnestly, she explained that her husband had learned that songs of the world were often evil.
In every other L. American country I have visited, most of the evangelical songs are actually Baptist hymns from the southern USA. I was miffed that her family had dropped the ancestral customs, especially the culture that is carried via song. Still, I guess her husband has reaped much good from the church, especially in his refusal to drink. Alcohol is truly a curse for many men in my village, so perhaps this teetotaler now has what many lack: sobriety.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Ghosts in the High Part
With black shirt neatly ironed, Patrick looks like a young priest and I told him so. He laughed and confirmed that, indeed, he is a church leader, not in the Catholic church but in his Pentecostal temple. He sings, plays the electric guitar and gives sermons. I asked him what it was like to live in the Galapagos.
"I was born here, one of the few who have lived all of their lives on this island. I was born in Progreso, the village made famous by the sugar planter named Cobos. He was successful for two reasons: he was ahead of his time in machinery and his workers were prisoners. The way Cobos is honored today is not with photos or a statue. Instead, some of the gears from his sugar mill are in the Progreso roundabout."
I told Patrick that the gears are surprising. What about statues? Even statues of animals. After all, Puero Ayora, the largest town on the Galapagos, has statues of a tortoise, albatross, iguana and sea lion. Yellow gears????
"We want to remember Manuel J. Cobos since he was the first successful capitalist on the islands. However, we don't want a statue because Cobos beat his workers. Even though his sugar plantation employees were prisoners, they deserve rights, too. The prisoners might have been bad people, but they could not take it any more so they killed him. One inmate stole his revolver, shot him and then another finished Cobos off with his machete.
Ever since then, the spirits of the dead dictator and the prisoners rise up from time to time. They are around Progreso and I hear them all the time."
Patrick's tale brought back memories of the "Enchanted Isles" and an obscure poem by Herman Melville. Melville visited the Galapagos and was horrified by what he saw. His observations were incorporated in Moby Dick and a poem, excerpted below:
THE ENCANTATAS
(Enchanted Isles)
The Isles at Large
-- "That may not be, said then the ferryman,
Least we unweeting hap to be fordonne;
For those same islands seeming now and than,
Are not firme land, nor any certein wonne,
But stragling plots which to and fro do ronne
In the wide waters; therefore are they hight
The Wandering Islands; therefore do them shonne;
For they have oft drawne many a wandring wight
Into most deadly daunger and distressed plight;
For whosoever once hath fastened
His foot thereon may never it secure
But wandreth evermore uncertain and unsure."
"Darke, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave,
That still for carrion carcasses doth crave;
On top whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owl,
Shrieking his baleful note, which ever drave
Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl,
And all about it wandring ghosts did wayle and howl."
Because life is hard here, you have to be very innovative and persistent to survive. Cobos somehow managed to build roads and canals, a pipeline and a waterworks all before the 20th century.
"Cobos paid the price, though. According to legends, he had told the workers that they were not allowed to pick any fruit from his prized guava trees. One day, he discovered that a boy had taken a piece of fruit. He called the boy out of his hut and whipped him to death. The mother, outraged by his cruelty, yelled to Cobos that the guava trees would never again bear fruit. Furthermore, she cursed him in vowing that he would never leave the islands alive. Today, you will notice that the tens of thousands of guava trees yield no fruit at all. And, by the way, Cobos was killed by the workers who hacked him to death."
"
"I was born here, one of the few who have lived all of their lives on this island. I was born in Progreso, the village made famous by the sugar planter named Cobos. He was successful for two reasons: he was ahead of his time in machinery and his workers were prisoners. The way Cobos is honored today is not with photos or a statue. Instead, some of the gears from his sugar mill are in the Progreso roundabout."
I told Patrick that the gears are surprising. What about statues? Even statues of animals. After all, Puero Ayora, the largest town on the Galapagos, has statues of a tortoise, albatross, iguana and sea lion. Yellow gears????
"We want to remember Manuel J. Cobos since he was the first successful capitalist on the islands. However, we don't want a statue because Cobos beat his workers. Even though his sugar plantation employees were prisoners, they deserve rights, too. The prisoners might have been bad people, but they could not take it any more so they killed him. One inmate stole his revolver, shot him and then another finished Cobos off with his machete.
Ever since then, the spirits of the dead dictator and the prisoners rise up from time to time. They are around Progreso and I hear them all the time."
Patrick's tale brought back memories of the "Enchanted Isles" and an obscure poem by Herman Melville. Melville visited the Galapagos and was horrified by what he saw. His observations were incorporated in Moby Dick and a poem, excerpted below:
THE ENCANTATAS
(Enchanted Isles)
The Isles at Large
-- "That may not be, said then the ferryman,
Least we unweeting hap to be fordonne;
For those same islands seeming now and than,
Are not firme land, nor any certein wonne,
But stragling plots which to and fro do ronne
In the wide waters; therefore are they hight
The Wandering Islands; therefore do them shonne;
For they have oft drawne many a wandring wight
Into most deadly daunger and distressed plight;
For whosoever once hath fastened
His foot thereon may never it secure
But wandreth evermore uncertain and unsure."
"Darke, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave,
That still for carrion carcasses doth crave;
On top whereof ay dwelt the ghastly owl,
Shrieking his baleful note, which ever drave
Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl,
And all about it wandring ghosts did wayle and howl."
Because life is hard here, you have to be very innovative and persistent to survive. Cobos somehow managed to build roads and canals, a pipeline and a waterworks all before the 20th century.
"Cobos paid the price, though. According to legends, he had told the workers that they were not allowed to pick any fruit from his prized guava trees. One day, he discovered that a boy had taken a piece of fruit. He called the boy out of his hut and whipped him to death. The mother, outraged by his cruelty, yelled to Cobos that the guava trees would never again bear fruit. Furthermore, she cursed him in vowing that he would never leave the islands alive. Today, you will notice that the tens of thousands of guava trees yield no fruit at all. And, by the way, Cobos was killed by the workers who hacked him to death."
"
Monday, September 28, 2009
Of idealism and realpolitik
SOME OF YOU WONDERFUL READERS ASKED ABOUT WHO TOOK THE PHOTOS AND HOW. I TOOK ALL OF THEM WITH MY NIKON D200 AND AN 18-200 LENS. THE ANIMALS, SEA AND SKY SEEM TO BE POSING, AS IF TO SAY, "SNAP AWAY, GRINGO! I LOOK GOOD!!!" THE RARE FUR SEAL (BELOW) WAS TWO FEET AWAY. A SEA LION SLEPT ON MY FOOT WHILE I VIDEOTAPED. DARWIN'S FAMOUS FINCHES EAT BREAKFAST WITH ME AND GIANT RAYS SLEEP AS WE VIDEOTAPE.
The Galapagos National Park is in charge of the 97% of the islands' land mass. Most of the land and the maritime areas are in a pristine condition, that is, without the influence of human settlement. Park officials, from the time of the Park's founding 50 years ago, have done a spectacular job of maintaining a world for flora and fauna (as well as tourists)that is minimally affected by introduced species. The result is that much marine and land life is not too different from what Charles Darwin observed in 1835. This is especially true on the uninhabited islands, where humans have left few feral dogs, cats, and rats.
The head of the park's educational programs is a wise and affable guy named Marco Hoyos Garcia. He has a crew cut, is from Ambato, talks softly and wisely about the 12years of intractable problems. He has been accused of being unable to wield a big stick, but he is operating successfully in a turbulent political world.
After talking with him, I have a kind of epiphany, realizing that, though I don't get paid for my work, I get to meet stellar folks like Marco Hoyo. He is calm, smart, and patient.
He sees a troubled future in store for the islands and the Park, because the non-park areas are intensely populated by the aggressive species known as "human being" a.k.a. "immigrant" --- this is THE most deadly of all "invasive species." He has some suggestions that make a lot of sense.
"We have to know the facts, first of all. We must find out, scientifically, what to do. We cannot just tell people whatever we think might work; there has to be a basis for what we say. Everyone has a point of view based on their personal preferences, but few can see the scientific truths. Secondly, we have to have enforcement of existing laws, or the laws are not worth the paper they are printed on. The police, Park and national officials cannot just pass the Special Law for the Galapagos and expect it to exist on its own. There has to be law enforcement. Finally, for folks to change their behavior, there must be some incentives. People don't just change. They have to see a reason to change. At this point the only incentive is a negative one.
"At the Park, we try to teach the teachers and the kids by offering them trips on our boats. That way, local people see the Galapagos wildlife and, all of a sudden, they see the reasons to not dump trash, to conserve the environment, and to be proud to be a Galapagueno. This is the incentive we offer.
"My concern is that there is no unity here because people come from many provinces. One day, hopefully, they will know what it means to be a Galapagueno."
Marco also told me that there had been a crisis in community confidence, and that, instead of uniting the community, it has ripped neighbors apart from each other. Here is what happened. A porno ring was discovered, and some residents were arrested and jailed. After the discovery, "experts from the continent" were called to help the community to understand sexual abuse and how to prevent it. In the months that followed, there were revelations of frequent violence against women, including injuries of wives by their husbands in the house and, occasionally, in public. The officials in town encouraged all residents to report any such incidents, so many folks took the recommendation at face value. There were "denuncios" of teachers, mothers and fathers. Now teachers are afraid to touch children, even on their shoulders, and parents fear their neighbors.
The Galapagos National Park is in charge of the 97% of the islands' land mass. Most of the land and the maritime areas are in a pristine condition, that is, without the influence of human settlement. Park officials, from the time of the Park's founding 50 years ago, have done a spectacular job of maintaining a world for flora and fauna (as well as tourists)that is minimally affected by introduced species. The result is that much marine and land life is not too different from what Charles Darwin observed in 1835. This is especially true on the uninhabited islands, where humans have left few feral dogs, cats, and rats.
The head of the park's educational programs is a wise and affable guy named Marco Hoyos Garcia. He has a crew cut, is from Ambato, talks softly and wisely about the 12years of intractable problems. He has been accused of being unable to wield a big stick, but he is operating successfully in a turbulent political world.
After talking with him, I have a kind of epiphany, realizing that, though I don't get paid for my work, I get to meet stellar folks like Marco Hoyo. He is calm, smart, and patient.
He sees a troubled future in store for the islands and the Park, because the non-park areas are intensely populated by the aggressive species known as "human being" a.k.a. "immigrant" --- this is THE most deadly of all "invasive species." He has some suggestions that make a lot of sense.
"We have to know the facts, first of all. We must find out, scientifically, what to do. We cannot just tell people whatever we think might work; there has to be a basis for what we say. Everyone has a point of view based on their personal preferences, but few can see the scientific truths. Secondly, we have to have enforcement of existing laws, or the laws are not worth the paper they are printed on. The police, Park and national officials cannot just pass the Special Law for the Galapagos and expect it to exist on its own. There has to be law enforcement. Finally, for folks to change their behavior, there must be some incentives. People don't just change. They have to see a reason to change. At this point the only incentive is a negative one.
"At the Park, we try to teach the teachers and the kids by offering them trips on our boats. That way, local people see the Galapagos wildlife and, all of a sudden, they see the reasons to not dump trash, to conserve the environment, and to be proud to be a Galapagueno. This is the incentive we offer.
"My concern is that there is no unity here because people come from many provinces. One day, hopefully, they will know what it means to be a Galapagueno."
Marco also told me that there had been a crisis in community confidence, and that, instead of uniting the community, it has ripped neighbors apart from each other. Here is what happened. A porno ring was discovered, and some residents were arrested and jailed. After the discovery, "experts from the continent" were called to help the community to understand sexual abuse and how to prevent it. In the months that followed, there were revelations of frequent violence against women, including injuries of wives by their husbands in the house and, occasionally, in public. The officials in town encouraged all residents to report any such incidents, so many folks took the recommendation at face value. There were "denuncios" of teachers, mothers and fathers. Now teachers are afraid to touch children, even on their shoulders, and parents fear their neighbors.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Of Humpbacks and Sharks, madness and grace
For a month I have been working for the Charles Darwin Foundation, a large non-profit dedicated to scientific and social research throughout the Galapagos. Aside from designing curriculum on history, I get to travel. Here are reflections on a sailing trip.
Four days ago a group of ten of us were exploring the eastern isles. We were on board the Beagle, a two-masted sailboat owned by our captain, Augusto Cruz. Each day, the Naional Park guide, Daniel Sanchez, encouraged us to snorkel, hike and kayak. As it turned out, Alan Hesse, a British cartoonist, and I were kayaking near the island of Bartolomeo. We were being watched by crew members on the inflatable speedboat. After a few minutes paddling near penguins and boobies, we saw Daniel standing in his 'panga,' wildly motioning us to turn around.
"WHALE AHEAD!!" he and our crewmates yelled.
Alan and I paddled like maniacs the length of the bay, out into the ocean. We leaned into each stroke, desperately trying to outrace the 40-horsepower engine. How many times in a lifetime do we get to see a whale up close? Was a killer whale, blue or what?
We caught the motorboat. Even better, since we had a tiny turn radius, we could easily follow the whales' regular surfacing. Soon we were glued to the rhythms of mama humpback and baby. Compared to us, both were megasized, the baby weighing unknown numbers of tons. Mom was bigger than a tractor trailer, gliding with grace, showing a black smoothness that was massive and sinuous. Behind the hump was our tiny sailboat, a speck getting ever smaller.
Every 3-4 minutes, madonna and child surfaced with geysers announcing their presence. They undulated, rose in curving vastness, side by side, knobbly faces touching each other -- and almost touching us.
I wondered where they were headed, only to realize they might be directly below our flimsy yellow plastic. It was then that I recalled a lecture by my hero and professor of American Literaure, Leo Marx. He told many semesters of rapt Amherst students about the madman on the whale, attempting to cross to the other side, past the wall of unknowing. Ahab knew there was something more to life than his mechanistic existence, killing the whale might yield his clue, maybe in death he truth would be known. Leo Marx made us all feel that we were Ahabs, ready to harpoon our white darkness, to suffer for truth. I remember being unable to breathe when I realized Leo was Ahab, and this insane tension was in our red hall. Leo was on the whale, in public view, for us to witness.
We students were madmen, too, we were Ahabs, incensed at the stupidity of the mundane, bewitched by the fog of ultimate truth, outraged by just about anything. When the lecture was over, the silence was deafening. Then the whole class erupted in applause, standing up for our own Ahab..
Next to the humpback whale, I didn't care if I died. He was truth incarnate. "Humpback" What a silly moniker for the most graceful giant I had ever seen. Like Quasimodo, these humpbacks were reviled by many, feared and hunted. But my humpbacked Madonna was sublimely wise, transcendentally good. Too awful to contemplate that they will be hunted by Japanese whalers.
Are these not two of earth's most gentle and lovely creatures, at home on our blue earth? It was one of those moments. Here was birth and motherhood, sea and sky, black giants and puny humans. Ahab and Gregory Peck were alive. Quasimodo was a saint. The lectures of 1969 were alive. Alan and I were hanging between life and death, on the back of grand mammals, carried forward in life by a subtle coaxing.
We saw the waters flatten when they rose. Flukes climbed to the sky and slapped the green sea. We sat, gaping, too mesmerized to move away. Mother and child had no fear in their vast home.
Someone yelled to me that I was in danger of being smashed. Or tossed tossed like a matchstick. Life in that moment seemed too extraordinary. Why worry about death?
. . .
The next day, at a neighboring island, we made a wet landing and walked on one of the Park trails. We detoured around red land iguanas and boobies standing right in the middle of "our" path. We crossed a spit of land, and at the sea's edge, we spotted fins of some white-tipped sharks. They were sliding in the water, just yards from the water´s edge. Not thinking about Jaws, we stepped into the wavelets.
You need to realize that we tourists had become domesticated, due to the utter fearlessness of all island creatures, whether they be hawks or iguanas. Boobies and albatrosses had wandered up to us every day. Sea lions slept on our feet. So, we stood in 2 feet of water, naively snapping photos of fins and shadows. We did not notice their muscular gray bodies getting closer. Then, in a moment I won't forget, the sharks turned right into our little forest of pale legs. They brushed against our shins and feet. They swiveled, bending and propelling, touching our flesh lightly. They made a slalom course through our legs and headed out of the lagoon. They were as gentle as the waves themselves.
Sharks and humpbacks. Two heavenly creatures. Earthly beings living in the sea. Misnamed and misunderstood, hunted and hated. And yet they are the repository of nature's grace. They shed light on our manic selves. They are evidence that there really is something on the other side.
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