The Wanderer

2009-02-02T10:09:00.003-08:00

Caminante, son tus huellas

el camino, y nada mas;

caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino,

y al volver la vista atras

se ve la senda que nunca

se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante, no hay camino,

sino estelas en el mar.

- Antonio Machada

Translation:

Wanderer, your footsteps are

the road, and nothing more;

wanderer, there is no road,

the road is made by walking.

By walking one makes the road,

and upon glancing behind

one sees the path

that never will be trod again.

Wanderer, there is no road -

Only wakes upon the sea.

Caribbean Paradise

2008-04-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

How do I describe my life down here? What words can I use to describe the beauty that surrounds me - the different shades of green, the luminous quality of the Caribbean, the smell of rain in the forest, the feel of the sand under my feet, the taste of coconut rice and beans? I am blessed.

Today I woke up late – around 7am. The birds wake up around 5:30. I allowed myself some sleepy, half-conscious train of thought while still in bed. The forest smelled fresh this morning after a short rain the night before. I decided to take Harley for a walk. Harley is a Brazilian Mastiff with whom I share this property. He is massive. He was excited to get out, but less excited at my interest in identifying every bird I spied on our walk. The diversity of birds that one can see in a tree astounds me. Standing in one location, I saw at least 10 species of birds arrive, socialize, chatter and leave. I tried my best to memorize the details of their coloration, shape and behaviors so that I would later be able to identify them. Due to Harley’s persistence, we continued along the “Mango walk” – named for the impressive mango trees that spill over with mangos when it is the season – up the hill to a clearing with an impressive view of Caribbean coastline. It is an overcast day, there is thunder in the distance, hovering over the ocean, blurring the line where ocean ends and sky begins. We continue along, listening to the birds and looking at the jungle plants that I have yet to become acquainted with. I hear a thump thump of a woodpecker and turn around. At first I see just a hole in a rotting tree trunk and continue on. Thump thump again. I turn around and a little yellow and red head sticks out of the whole, looking a bit guilty. He looks around – up, to the side, down. He has his beak slightly open as if he were panting from all that hard work. I admire the brilliance of the yellow and red on his head. Harley comes up and slobbers on my hand – a signal that we must continue on our way.

Back at the house, I diligently scribble down the Latin names of all the birds I saw on the morning walk and enjoy a bowl of granola, fruit and homemade yogurt as I look out across the ocean. I wonder how the surf is today. Where can I surf? I give Julie a call. Where are you headed? She wants to go to Manzanillo. I tell her I’ll meet her at beach break and we’ll make a plan. Beach break is looking pretty shabby – small and choppy. Julie says, Let’s head to Manzanillo. When its bad every else, Manzanillo is good. So we put the boards on the roof and head off to Manzanillo.

Manzanillo is at the end of the road. Where the road ends, the Gandoca Wildlife Refuge begins. We drive as far as we can, park the car, strip down to bathing suits and barefeet, grab the boards and take off for the 10 minute walk to the surf break, passing through gorgeous jungle forest and spectacular views from rocky outcroppings. The surf break is not a place for beginner’s to paddle out. There is a narrow channel walled by sharp reef on either side. Julie paddles out and I watch for awhile, not sure how confident I am in my ability to navigate this treacherous paddle. There are 4 guys out surfing and they are good. I am intimidated but not willing to completely back down yet. Two guys come into the beach and encourage me to paddle out. One guy shows me exactly where to go and what to do and sends me on my way. I keep looking back for directions and he yells for me to paddle hard. I jump on the board and off I go. I am shaky when I arrive at the break, but elated. I wait patiently for my confidence to build as I become familiar with the wave and how it breaks. I watch closely as others ride it. Once my nerves have settled, I wait for my wave. When it comes, I do what my body knows and paddle hard. I feel the wave behind me and give one last strong paddle – I’m in! I stand up, on the lip of the wave and immediately turn the board to ride along the face, trying to avoid a steep drop. I can’t believe it – what an amazing wave – gorgeous! I pull out just in time, land on the board and off I go, paddling out for the next one. I’m surprised to feel like I know what I am doing. Surfing is like that. One day, you can paddle out and feel like you have no idea what you are doing in the ocean. It washes you around, spits you out, pummels you with its waves. Those days (like the day before) I ask myself – do I really know how to surf? But the next day, you can perform like a champion, surfing as if you had been every day of your life. Your experience in the ocean hasn’t changed but the ocean has, the waves have. In addition, it is a question of self-confidence and faith in your ability to handle a board in the ocean. I guess today was a good day for it.

After a couple of hours in the ocean, 2 really nice waves, 2 short rides that ended less elegantly and a couple of anemone thorns in my big toe, we decided to head back through the jungle to the car, stopping briefly in the freshwater creek to clean the boards off. Back in the house, I made myself a healthy salad with boiled egg and rice and find myself sitting on the deck of the house, staring out at the beautiful expanse of ocean, wondering how I arrived at this point in my life. Trying to trace back the sequence of events that brought me here, to this deck, in the solitude of the jungle, looking out across a great expanse of ocean while the pitter patter of rain and the hum of crickets gently plays background music. Looking forward to what the world will bring next.

Long time a-comin'

2007-08-11T16:30:00.000-07:00

Haven't written in awhile. Been lost in the Caribbean jungle down here. I blame the heat. Just added a few links to the site so you can see some of the organizations I work with down here. Here's a picture just to entice some visits to my Caribbean paradise.

Puppy pile

2007-02-07T15:46:00.000-08:00

My travel companion

2007-02-07T15:42:00.000-08:00

Barley

2007-02-07T15:39:00.000-08:00

How can I work things out so that I can adopt this adorable creature???

Food shopping!

2007-02-07T14:31:00.000-08:00

Yes, that is toilet paper on top of the car! 648 rolls of it!!

Contentment?

2007-02-02T10:04:00.000-08:00

I was looking into an expansive sunset, I could seen a big, round moon rising in my rear-view mirror, the river floated along on my left and the mountains rose to my right. With a smile on my face, river water in my hair, a two-month old puppy on my lap, I drove towards the setting sun in contentment.

The day hadn’t started as wonderfully as it ended…Stephen and I were on food-shopping duty. We had started the morning at Puelche – Argentina’s version of Costco – a huge warehouse, filled from floor to ceiling with bulk food items (The main difference being that Puelche somehow landed a lakefront property with a view of the Patagonian Andes . . . I would have rented a room there if one were available). We had the task of buying enough food for 40 people for 2 months. Yikes! We had a list of all the items and quantities needed and only 6 hours, 5 friendly Argentine employees, 4 credit cards and 12 flat carts later, we had everything we needed. It took two trips to actually move the food away from Puelche with the Nissan truck strategically loaded from floor to roof with bags of rice, pasta, milk powder, etc etc. The 648 rolls of toilet paper and the ten 3-kg bags of cereal were strapped onto the roof rack. The plan was for me to take as much food as possible (and the puppy that was adopted by our guacho-landlord’s son) to our field base, an hour north of Bariloche in the wild, windy steppe. As I chugged along with the loaded-down Nissan out to field base, I expected any minute to look in the rear view mirror and see endless rolls of toilet paper or bags of pasta strewn across the highway. But all was going according to plan (the puppy had even stopped crying and was sound asleep) and I was strangely excited by the challenge of organizing all the boxes, cans and bags of food into 6 distinct piles. But, of course, as always, nothing really follows a pre-determined plan out here . . .

I arrived at our base camp and saw no sign of Juan Carlos (our guacho-landlord) anywhere. From the look of his boarded-up house, it appeared that he had left for awhile or had been gone for awhile. That blew the leaving the puppy idea. No way was I leaving a 2-month old puppy alone, crying, hungry for food and love. I would be haunted by his crying for at least the next year. So, eager to get started on my task and become a food-organizer guru, I walked to the brick in the chicken pen where we always keep the key to the house. I was taken aback when I discovered the key was not in the brick. I looked again, and again… and again. I couldn’t believe it - Shit! The thought of all that time shopping, strategically packing the car and driving only to turn around and head back to Bariloche with the car still filled with food made me feel a bit desperate. So desperate that I started digging around in the chicken-shit dirt, startling the hen with her chicks, hoping that the key had been buried. I looked everywhere for the key, tried to break into the house, looked under the brick again, looked through random collections of trinkets outside Juan Carlos’s house (What the hell does he need a broken plastic Christmas ornament for?) and finally gave up hope of being able to get into the house. I had to think of a different solution.

The attic!

There was a storage space above the house where I could put just enough stuff to leave room for the remaining food (still in Bariloche) that hadn’t fit in the Nissan. I drove the car right next to the house so that the toilet-papered roof rack was aligned with the attic entrance (not really big enough to be a door). Thanks to my climbing experience, I was able to balance between the narrow opening to the attic and the roof rack of the car, passing package after package of toilet paper from roof rack to attic. I alternated between roof rack and attic, tossing boxes, rearranging them, then throwing more boxes from car to roof rack, roof rack to attic. I was hot, sweaty, very dirty and very dehydrated when the inevitable happened – my foot slipped. Luckily I had a hand on the rim of the attic entrance and hung on to the dusty surface with sweaty hands (dust + sweat = mud; mud = very slippery). I had about 2 seconds to get at least one foot on something. My Croc-clad foot found an edge on the door handle which held just long enough to stretch and lower my other leg out to a chair. And 6 seconds after slipping I was astonished to find both feet on the dusty ground, unharmed. I took a break and drank about 1.5 liters of water as I assessed the situation. I had emptied more than half of the truck in my dehydrated delusional state. That was enough. The sun was low in the sky and there was no sign of Juan Carlos – he wasn’t going to show tonight. With only my happily sleeping puppy friend to chat to, I made a plan. We would leave Juan Carlos a note about the key, arrange a few more items in the attic and head for home, making a necessary stop at the river for a quick dip. Puppy seemed to agree.

The Limay River was a big river. Big and cold. It was the river that flowed out of Lake Nahuel Huapi – the lake that bordered Bariloche. I had never swam in the river – the big, bubbling circles on the surface suggested deceptive undercurrents that could offere a surprise for a lone swimmer and I was in no mood for another adventure (well, maybe just a small one? I was an experienced swimmer after all.) On the way home, I spotted a road turning off into some willow trees along the river. I pulled off to the side and followed the road down (Oh, the joys of having a 4WD vehicle!) It opened up to a lovely clearing on the banks of a peaceful, deep swimming hole. No sign of deceptive currents. Puppy was excited by the many chicken bones and smells of strange, intriguing foods around the campfire ring. I changed into my swim suit (one thing I learned in Venezuela – never leave the house without a swim suit!) and dove into the cold waters. Nothing like a quick dip in frigid waters to refresh the mind, body and spirit.

We hopped back into the car and puppy decided my lap was the only suitable place to nestle himself and I decided having him in my lap was less distracting than he screaming. So we drove like that into an expanse of soft oranges and yellows, the river floating by on our left, the mountains on our right and the moon rising behind us. I was content. The feeling of contentment is a bit strange for me – I am usually trying to improve my situation or look for something better, something more adventurous, more exciting, more “me”. But driving through the expansive landscape of eastern Patagonia, refreshed from a swim in a big, wild river, awed by the colors of sky and land and warmed by an adorable puppy nestled in my lap, I felt very content. And this feeling of contentment after a should-have-been frustrating day of food shopping, near misses, lost keys and puppy-sitting? Where would I rather be? What would I rather be doing? Nothing, really. A puppy, a sunset, a river, mountains – is that all I need?

From the base of Chica

2007-01-16T08:02:00.000-08:00

Condor Census

2007-01-16T07:55:00.000-08:00

It was hot. And dry. I was sweating, but you wouldn’t have known because either the sweat evaporated in the hot sun or was soaked up but the dust that blew onto every exposed piece of skin. It was impossible to keep myself separate from the surrounding dust – it became an integral part of my skin. Even with thick socks and hiking boots, the dust would creep between my toes, under toenails and cake my cracked heels. I applied sunscreen about every 20 minutes but still felt confident that no amount of white lotion, no matter what SPF could compete with the intense rays of sun. Common sense told us to stop walking and sit in the shade, yet we continued trekking in full sun. Sometimes conversation kept our minds off the heat, sometimes we trudged on eagerly looking up every couple of minutes for a glimpse of the light green of the willow – a sign that water was close. Fortunately the valley through which we walked was spectacular. Bits of volcanic rock rose above the brown slopes, forming faces of monkeys, witches, ancient gods or goddesses.

There were three of us in this enchanted valley: myself and two of the volunteers on the expedition, Emily and Rich. The only other visible animal life was the horses that seem omnipresent in the steppe landscape. It is unclear to me whether they are wild, feral or domesticated. But there are horses everywhere – never corralled and rarely accompanied by any hint of human presence. So it was just us three, the horses, the rocks and their mystical formations, the sun, the big blue sky and the expansiveness of the steppe. When we arrived in the valley that houses “Roca Chica” we immediately took off for the river where we were told there was a swimming hole. We wandered down a small path that led us through prickly and spiny bushes, peeking through willow tree branches in search of the famed swimming hole. After contemplating bathing in a small knee-deep pond and finally deciding to continue on, we found ourselves on a piece of volcanic rock overlooking a large pool with a waterfall pouring into it. We stripped down and jumped in, loving how the shockingly cold water took our breath away.

As the day wore on the sun and the rocks seemed to play tricks on us - the rock formations seemed to subtly change as the sun moved: the monkey rock turned its head slightly to the east and the witch rock seemed to lift a hand ever so subtly. We sat looking at one rock in particular – Roca Chica, “Small Rock”. It wasn’t so small. In fact, it was quite an impressive mound of volcanic rock, left exposed after years of erosion. We watched that rock ever so closely, scanning with our binoculars for any signs of Andean condors (Vultur gryphus) that might be resting on one of its many ledges. The most popular ledges were very visible due to the white droppings covering them. Unfortunately, the few condors that passed over Chica decided to continue on to a new location for whatever reason, but we continued scrutinizing the rock, searching for anything that might be a condor. I have never before observed the changes of light on rock as intimately as I did that night or the next morning. Sometimes the light allowed us to see the intricacy of the textured rocks and other times they appeared completely two-dimensional. And these changes seemed to occur within minutes of each other. I would look away for a couple of minutes, turn around again and see a different rock, lit up in a distinct new way.

We found a lovely little spot to camp for the night and settled in, creating our bedrooms, kitchen and making a home for the night. Except for the hour we spent making a simple dinner of rice and veggies, our time was dedicated to watching “Roca Chica” and wondering at the tricks the light was playing on our eyes. About a half hour before the sun disappeared, the whole valley seemed to light up with millions of different colors. There was a patch of white crumbly rock in the distance that seemed to have a ribbon of blue that made a wave through the rock. And the hills that had appeared to be a dull brown earlier in the day were suddenly filled with shades of reds, oranges, browns, greens and yellows. The valley floor was aglow with the yellow flowers of the dominant bush. The band of light green willows that lined the weaving river was suddenly fluorescent and the sky turned a deep, dark blue. Rays of sunlight crept through angulated rock protrusions and cast eerie shadows onto the other side of the valley. We were awe-stuck and enchanted by the display of beauty.

Sunrise the next morning offered a similar display, but we watched with more anticipation, perhaps a bit impatient for the sun’s warmth to take the early morning chill out of our bones. We carefully studied the patches of light and made guesses as to where the sun would rise. As soon as the light hit the top of Chica, a draft of cold seemed to wash over the valley, as if the light on the rock was displacing any warmth left in the valley. Without any sort of rational explanation, patches of light appeared on our side of the valley and it seemed impossible to figure out when the patches would move toward us. The patches of light danced along the pine trees and shrubs until one of the patches of light finally touched our rock. The chill disappeared and we had about a half hour of perfect temperature before we were again reminded of the intensity of the sun’s rays in the open, dry steppe.

After hiking to the base of Chica and collecting condor pellets and feathers, we reluctantly turned our backs on the valley that housing Chica and headed back towards the road. We didn’t see many condors, and none of them shared the valley with us for the night, but the display of beauty was more than enough reward.

2007-01-15T07:54:00.000-08:00

Pretty waterfall near the Refugio. True to the name of this website, I wandered somewhat aimlessly until I found this spot and was mesmerized by the churning water, so I stayed for awhile.

El Cajon del Azul

2007-01-15T07:40:00.000-08:00

Here is the part of the river for which the "Refugio" was named. In Argentina, when something is "cajonado" it is tighlty squeezed. And the water, as you can see is quite blue, or "azul". This picture was taken from the bridge that spans the meter-wide gap between one side of the river and the other.

Work begins IN FULL

2007-01-04T07:26:00.000-08:00

I will be very busy for the month of January but hopefully will have time to write somewhere in there.

Expedition begins tomorrow and 29 volunteers arrive to do field work and trekking in Patagonia.

yeehaaw

New Year 2006-07

2007-01-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

This year, I went off on my own and it did me a whole lot of good. I loved every minute of it. I went to a quaint little refugio called "El Cajon del Azul". This is a very special place. I realized it had been a very long time since I had allowed myself to simply enjoy myself. Enjoy the company I keep when no one else is around. I frolicked, I wandered, I danced alone, I laughed at myself when a cow spooked me. I looked up at trees and down at moss and took a dip in freezing glacial waters. It was wonderful. But, naturally, there were people to meet as well and I was lucky enough to find myself amongst some very nice Argentine folks - families, groups of friends, people traveling alone in their country. Everyone was welcoming but respectful of my desire to be alone and it couldn't have been a better trip for me. The only word to describe the last three days is JOYFUL.

The Refugio is really a home. A home tucked between steep, rocky mountains, surrounded by apple and cherry trees carpeted with gently rolling grassy lawns. Paradise. It lies about 12 km from any decent road – all materials and supplies that cannot be gathered from the surroundings are brought in on horseback). Atilio, the man who lives there and built the place 26 years ago shares his home with hikers, travelers and random wanderers of all shapes, sizes and colors. He is welcoming, giving and friendly. Along with the cherry and apple trees, he has his own garden, filled with yummy greens, onions, carrots, tomatoes and other goodies. He has a flock of sheep, horses and a woodshop just outside the house. He is a small man, with in with incredible strength. Every task he performs, whether it be cracking a home-grown walnut or roasting a pig over a fire, he performs with full mind and body dedication, as if nothing else in the world existed.

He chose a perfect location to build his home. It is situated right next to an impressive site where the light blue glacial waters gush through a narrow (1-2 foot), deep (60 foot) rocky canyon. When I walked up to this location, it appeared as if I could simply hop across to the other side – and I probably could have. But I looked down to where I would end up if I somehow tripped, slipped or stumbled and I suddenly felt unsure about standing on so close to the edge. It was a long way down, through contours of granite rock, the undulations of one side complimenting the other side’s nooks and crannies. Never were the rock walls more than 2 feet from each other. And way down at the bottom of this narrow shoot were frothy, disturbed, light blue waters that seemed frustrated at their current cramped situation.

I spent the weekend exploring the lovely surrounding area. I never once had a plan. I laid down in the sun and thought of nothing, I wrote in my journal, I drank a lot of mate with other travelers, I took hikes, I ate good food and drank home-brewed beer. I climbed trees, watched water flowing over rocks for hours, I made new friends, cooked dinner at midnight over a huge bonfire and looked up at a star-filled, moonlit sky. And the whole time I felt completely free. And very comfortable, safe and secure.

As I wandered through the river valley, I felt my surroundings were very familiar but at the same time very unfamiliar. It reminded me of my summer in southern Utah and backpacks in the Sierras where there was no distinction between me and my surroundings. There was no self-consciousness. Just bliss for the beauty. And gratefulness. Gratefulness because despite all the ugly things that are happening in the world right now, despite all the death and destruction, war and terrorism, hunger and hopelessness, beauty persists. And I was blessed enough to be surrounded by it all weekend.

Happy New Year!

2007-01-03T16:04:00.000-08:00

Happy Steph after a climb!

2007-01-03T15:39:00.000-08:00

Meagan and Jordan looking down down down.

2007-01-03T15:36:00.000-08:00

Steph on rappel

2007-01-03T15:29:00.000-08:00

ooooh, mountains!

2007-01-03T15:24:00.000-08:00

Refugio Frey, where we spent Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

2007-01-02T17:42:00.001-08:00

The first Christmas away from home was spent in New Zealand in 2000, during the summertime, with a sheep-farmin’ family. It was an interesting Christmas. The 10 year old boy got a rifle for a Christmas present. They spent the rest of the day hunting for rabbits or wild boar. I didn’t participate, but instead locked myself in my room with a book and my journal and desperately missed the familiarity of family.

Christmas 2006 was the second Christmas away from home and I have to say, it was quite enjoyable. Close to the town where the company I work for is based is a stream of sharp, rocky peaks dotted with snow. And they are surprisingly easy to access. The “refugio” in Argentina is an excellent invention. It is a hut built in secluded (well, once secluded) spectacular places with 360 degree views of surrounding mountains. People hike up a grueling trail to these spectacular places and are met with friendly faces, mate (Argentine tea) and a nice, warm hut where you can stay the night. No need to lug up sleeping mats or tents or even food! It makes backpacking (and nature, outdoors, adventure) more accessible for those who don’t have the physical ability to lug all that stuff around or the financial situation to buy it.

So on Christmas (which is celebrated on the 24^th at night) it was me, an American couple from New Mexico, a Dutch couple, a woman from Belgium, a German guy, a British gal and a couple of young mountain men from Colorado. We ate trout, drank wine and celebrated with a huge game of hearts. The refugio (Refugio Frey) is situated perfectly on a saddle between a lake and a beautiful green, glaciated valley. Surrounding the hut are lovely granite rocks that scream “Climb me!!” And so we did. J.B. (known here in Spanish-speaking lands as “Jota” and I climbed those rocks! And it was a gooood time. So much fun that the first night we came down from the rocks at 11:30pm and had everyone completely worried out of their minds. Great. Just what I wanted, to reconfirm the fact that Americans have no clue what they are doing. The next day we managed to get down from the rock at a decent hour (even though it took us a good 2 hours to reach the rock!). But she was worth it. I say “she” because the rock was called “La Vieja” – “the old lady”. When looked at from a certain angle, you could see the profile of what could be called an old lady. Anyways, the climb was exposed and completely run out which turns the whole experience into much more of an adventure than it would be otherwise.

I’ll not write too much about Christmas and just say that it was beautiful and wonderful to feel so at home in my own skin, tromping through moutains, scrambling on rocks and pondering the existence of certain high alpine “sponge” plants. Love it!

Merry Christmas!!

2007-01-02T17:18:00.000-08:00

Another pretty overlook. "Bahia Lopez" Only 30 km from my house!!

2007-01-02T17:10:00.000-08:00

Ooooh, so pretty. This is the last vista I had before heading off in the back of the jeep with the nice couple who took pity on me.

2007-01-02T16:57:00.000-08:00

The Swiss chalet... in Argentina

Discovery of a nearby paradise

2007-01-02T16:50:00.000-08:00

Happiness is riding on the back of an old Jeep over forested hills, looking out at the big, round sun setting over lakes and distant mountains through clouds of dust. Tonight I had one of these happy moments. I left my house at around 3:30pm this afternoon to go for a "bike ride". I didn´t have any plans. I glanced briefly at a map of the area before leaving my house and planned to follow the lake shore and see what attracted me as I went. As I rode along, my plan gently evolved and I subconsciously decided to ride to be Llao Llao. I had heard about the famous golf course out there and it seemed like a pretty place to visit. I rode and rode, over hills and down hills, always with gorgeous glimpses of the lake. Besides being honked off the road repeatedly, it was a very pleasant ride. I rode for about 25 kilometers before rounding a corner and suddenly feeling as if I´d been transported to Switzerland. There, elegantly perched on the top of a perfectly manicured grassy hill and magnificently framed by a granite mountain dotted with snow, was the most ridiculous rendition of a Swiss chalet I had ever seen. It was quite an impressive site, I´ll admit that much. But it did seem to be a bit much. I stopped for some sugary goodness - a quince crossaint, and I spoke with a very concerned lady about the possibility of taking the Llao Llao circuit back to Bariloche. At this point it was 6:30pm and she seemed to think 3 more hours of daylight wasn´t enough time to get me and my mountain bike back to Bariloche. The circuit was only 10 more miles than I had just done, which seemed like nothing at the time. Little did I know, the extra 10 miles consisted of at least 4 different mountain passes. But I was far from caring once I entered what I discovered to be a gorgeous slice of paradise. Who knew that Llao Llao was also a protected natural area? Not I. What luck! There is something that immediately binds me to places I have lived the moment I discover accessible slices of Earth’s paradise closeby. I feel safe and allow myself to relax. My soul sighs in relief, saying - "Ok, Steph, we are going to be just fine here. This is your sacred space, this is your haven, this is where you get re-charged." And it’s even better when I can get to this place without a car! So today was reassuring. Only 30 kilometers away from my house and I was gliding over hill, through patches of sunlight that reached through spectacular old-growth high beech forest. I was on my own again, in wander-mode where there is no plan, no expectations for how the day will go, no one else to distract me away from what my intuition tells me each moment. These days are always the best. I am finally free.

I had been biking through a cathedral of a forest, so bombarded by beauty that my soul was absolutely singing. I could not believe my luck at having discovered this amazing treasure so close to where I happened to land on this planet most recently. I was joyous, completely joyous, from my mass of tangled hair to my dirty toenails. Unfortunately, the sun was disappearing quickly and my rational self was getting a bit nervous about biking along a major highway in the dark with no lights, not to mention that my physical self was hurting a bit as well. My irrational self was hushing this rational self, saying, “Steph, you always work it out. You´ll get a bus or a taxi or maybe just stay at a Hosteria or something if you need to.” So, obviously the rational self lost the battles and I stopped wherever I pleased, not thinking about the sun’s lower angle in the sky, taking pictures, following paths that lead to breathtaking overlooks of hidden lakes and marvelling at the incredible beauty all around me. I felt blessed, giddy with the sun on my skin and indestructible; nothing could take my joy away. At around 8pm, as I was trudging up the 101th incline of the evening and feeling further from Bariloche than was healthy, I passed a Hosteria and the rational self won over – “Just check it out. Maybe it is a nice place and they have a cheap room for the night.” I won´t mention that the real temptation was the home brewery and restaurant next door. After going back and forth, I decided to stop in and see what the place was like. A very nice woman named Norma, showed me into the place and showed me a magnificent room (much out of my league) with a view through the high beech forest of yet another hidden, peaceful lake. I told her my situation and that I was unable to pay what she asked and to my surprise, she offered to take me back to where I could catch a bus to Bariloche. This was very kind of her, but she forgot that the bike would have to get back as well. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I can’t take you and the bike.” So I was on my way again . . .

The roads never seemed to stop going up. It was getting later, but I was still beaming with all the beauty I had seen. I rounded the corner of yet another incline and it seemed as if I’d died and gone to heaven. Lying in front of me was an expanse of such beauty that I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t hallucinated. The sun was just an inch away from slipping away behind distant mountains. The few scattered clouds were lit up like Christmas lights – reds, oranges, yellows. And, as if out of jealously, the glass surface of the lakes mirrored the sky’s display. In the distance were jagged peaks brushed with snow. I wasn’t the only one enjoying nature’s show – there were a handful of cars scattered about – families taking pictures, lovers kissing, a man selling polished wood art. There was one car I spied that would fit me and my bike perfectly. A very old orange jeep, no much more than an engine, a steering wheel, a stick shift and some semblance of a frame. I watched as a young couple walked over to the car and prepared to leave. This was my chance! I ran over and asked them if I could get a ride. “Sure! Hop in! We aren’t headed all the way back, but we’ll drive you most of the way.” Awesome. Snap snap. I fired off a couple of the vista, threw my bike in the back and jumped in behind it. Off we flew.

And that is happiness: bouncing along in the back of an old Jeep over forested hills, looking out at the big, round sun setting over lakes and distant mountains through clouds of dust.

2006-12-26T06:49:00.000-08:00

The edge of the cliff where the condorera is located.

2006-12-26T06:37:00.000-08:00

Team GVI in action. Here I am, hiding from the furious winds, looking out on the condorera and searching for a possible camp spot, safe from the winds.

2006-12-26T06:25:00.000-08:00

This is the opening to the valley where the condorera is located.

The Patagonia steppe and the Andean condor

2006-12-26T06:17:00.000-08:00

The eastern-most part of Patagonia is characterized by sun, dry air, open landscape, a huge sky, fickle weather and wind. Mainly wind. There is a lot of it. Don’t bother bringing a hairbrush. Every trip out to the steppe region of Patagonia I return with the beginnings of big, thick dreadlocks. The landscape is dry and open and from above, appears desolate. Every once in awhile a river snakes through the dry landscape and you get the feeling that maybe there is some life that survives in the endless expanse of brown shrubs. However, at any point, if you bother to step outside of the car and brave the wind, you’ll find that the steppe region of Patagonia is teeming with life. The expanses of brown-nothingness, known to most people as wastelands are where one can find some of the most intriguing critters and plants. And the reward of finding something actually pulsing with life is so much greater when unexpected.

The only animals that can elegantly take advantage of the severe winds are the raptors that are constantly coasting along, searching for a bite to eat. I often eye them with a bit of jealousy as I try to keep my lips moist, my hair tied back and the dust out of every orifice of my body. The real kings of this desolate landscape are the condors. They are perfectly adapted to the open, windswept landscape and with a wing span of 3 m and a standing height of 1.3 m, they dominate over all other raptors.

I had my first condor sighting a week ago. We had driven out on a dirt road for about two and half hours searching for a new “condorera” – the term given to condor refuges. Sergio, a condor biologist, wanted to show us a little-known condorera, hidden back in a canyon, completely isolated from houses, towns, phones and radios. Good for the condors but tricky for volunteers to be working out there. After what seemed like ages in the back of a very noisy Land Rover over bumpy, washboard roads, we arrived at the mouth of a canyon. As soon as you stepped out of the car, you were immediately hit in the face with a furious wind. It whipped your hair into your face, knocked the cracker you were eating out of your hand, made normal conversation almost impossible and gave you the feeling that everything was a bit more epic and extreme than it really was. He showed us a potential “campsite” which was a sloped area covered with tussock grass only slightly protected from the gusting winds. The water source was a stagnant puddle and it was only early summer – What would it be like at the end of summer? Hmmm. Not a great campsite, but the wildlife! We walked maybe 5 minutes down the canyon and ran into a family of choique – South America’s attempt at an ostrich. Big daddy choique was out with a horde of maybe 20 youngsters, all of whom were quite confused by our presence in their protected canyon. Then, we rounded the corner and saw what seemed to be the perfect cross between a rabbit and marmot - a chinchilla! Big rabbit-like ears and a marmot-like tail, perched perfectly on a rock ledge, looking down at us curiously before scurrying off to a seemingly important task.

Finally we arrived at the actual condorera, located in the same canyon, just down-stream a couple of kilometers, where the canyon became a bit more open and expansive. From only a couple feet away from the canyon, you wouldn’t have a clue that it was there – it looks like the expansive steppe just continues on forever. We followed Sergio and suddenly we were at the edge of a 200 m cliff, looking down on grazing deer, grassy swales and gently trickling creek. We looked longingly at the peace and quiet of the canyon bottom while the wind thrashed us with its aggressive gusts. Just across the canyon was the condorera – nothing but a cliff, the only difference being the white splotches of condor droppings. For some reason the great soaring beasts had chosen this spot as their safe haven.

As we were searching for campsites down in the canyon, a condor came soaring over our heads and across the canyon. He sailed up and down on the gusts of wind, looking for a place to land safely. I had chills all over my body. Because of the near extinction of the condor in the US and the complete extinction of the Andean condor in Venezuela, it was has been a dream of mine to see one. When you see them, they seem so untouchable, so powerful – a symbol of strength. But their survival as a species is so delicate. That human activity has the power to destroy such a powerful creature baffles me. But there it was, peacefully soaring at eye level just across the canyon, not paying any attention to our lesser species across the way. Spectacular!

My first asado

2006-12-15T07:40:00.000-08:00

Here is Juan Carlos, the owner of the house/hut called La Lipela that we rent for the volunteer base camp. Here he is putting the lamb over the fire to smoke for a couple of hours.

Arrival in Bariloche, Argentina

2006-12-15T07:12:00.000-08:00

I’ve arrived. It’s the start of another adventure, another exploration, another experience to take me away from everything familiar and comfortable. Just to shake things up a bit, make me thing, challenge me.

I can’t say it wasn’t hard to leave a loving gathering of family the day after my mom’s 60^th birthday party. It was. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by family that I rarely have the opportunity to see, especially my 86 year old grandmother, who at the same age as me now (26) gave birth to my amazing mother. We celebrated how wonderful she was in style and everyone had very nice things to say. So I left this lovely gathering and headed off on an airplane the next morning. This time further south, further away. Argentina.

Argentina is nothing similar to my previous experiences in Latin and South America. It feels like Europe, looks like Europe and functions like it to some extent. At least, that’s what people tell me. I still haven’t had the opportunity to visit Europe as of yet! But in my imagination, Argentina is a South American version of a European country.

After three different flights, I arrived in San Carlos de Bariloche. From above, it looks desolate – no forest, no lakes, no rivers, just slightly sloping and bare, brown lands. At least that is what it looked like from above. From below, I’ve decided it’s the Southern hemisphere’s Idaho. Dry, mountainous, dusty, clear skies, crisp, fresh air. The town is ringed with white-capped mountains and nestled next to the banks of a large lake. Warm during the summer days and cool at night like a desert.

Thinking back to when I arrived in Margarita two and a half years ago, the difference between the two places is striking. Polar opposites: tropical vs. temperate; beach vs. mountains; hot and humid vs. crisp and dry. I took a walk around the neighborhood where I am staying and saw dogs, as I did in Boca del Rio, but the dogs were big, fat, hairy and friendly, not thin, scrawny, diseased and scared. There were houses all over the neighborhood, but there were big, well-designed, attractive and landscaped; not small, dilapidated cement brick boxes placed on a treeless street. There are people out in the street, but instead of staring at me like an alien, they glance at me briefly say a friendly hello and go about their business.

The landscape around Bariloche is fascinating, but even though the mountains are crisp, clear and spectacular, I find it is difficult to get a feel for the essence of the place due the huge amount of introduced species surrounding the town. There are monoculture stands of pine trees introduced from North America and spiny, scratchy shrubs scattered throughout the areas that most likely aren’t native. And the lake is surrounded by 4-foot high bushes covered with yellow flowers, which are beautiful but are from Scotland. Slowly, I’ll have to start hashing out which plants are from which part of the world and which ones are from here!

More soon….

2006-12-01T11:32:00.000-08:00

The beach rat: Coto. Another success story. Adopted from a garbage pile in the streets of Boca del Rio, he was destined to be the Cotorrero, guardian of the Cotorra, an endemic island parrot. That destiny didn't work out, so Chucho brought him to the beach to live at his family's rancheria. When Chucho's dad had to leave fishing behind (see story below), the family down the beach decided to adopt him and re-named him Negro (Black). Here he is getting to know his newest brother. Notice the dreadlocks in his tail and leg hair :)

2006-12-01T09:38:00.000-08:00

Luna luna lunita. I found her outside the fabric store in Boca del Rio and decided to take her home to accompany the other dog I had adopted. She was sickly for most of her young life and friends would sneak her antibiotics to get rid of various infections she had as a pup. I had to leave her when I left Venezuela and Chucho told me he would take her to his family's home. I had seen the way they took care of their animals and loved them and was hopeful that Luna would be happy. Sure enough, she has to be the only dog in the whole Macanao peninsula who gets to sleep on the bed, sit on laps and eat arepas and fish out of her owners' hands. What a relief!

2006-12-01T09:36:00.000-08:00

Sunrise at La Restinga beach.

The situation in Venezuela

2006-11-30T16:29:00.000-08:00

Let me share 2 stories. Two stories of friends in Venezuela.

The first is about Chuito, the father of my good friend, Chucho. He is a fisherman who lives in the small town of San Francisco de Macanao, the only town on the Macanao peninsula of Margarita Island that is setback from the ocean, nestled in the mountains. The family has a small rancheria down the road at a beach called El Tunal. Under the thatched roof of the rancheria, the family has two boats, La Vichita and Cleidis del Mar, but no engines. He applied for a government loan from the Chavez government about 3 years ago and has been promised the money to buy a boat engine so that he can fish and provide for his family of 7 children, 3 grandchildren. When I met him, he was fishing with a neighbor and friend of his on a boat he did not own and was barely able to meet the needs of his 10 dependents. Unfortunately, his friend passed away recently in a car accident – hit by a drunk driver. Chuito not only lost a friend, but his livlihood - he can no longer fish without access to a boat. To make ends meet, Chuito's wife works as well – two different jobs in town. They have a small house of 4 bedrooms for all 12 of them and a small piece of land that allows them to grow some squash, peppers and have chickens and pigs. Somehow they get by. Two boat engines cost around 5 million bolivares (about $2,200) and they have been waiting for the money to come through for over 4 years now. They continue to be hopeful but Chuito is growing older and it is difficult for him to find work. When I saw him most recently, he was employed by the sand mining company, guarding the huge machine that uproots native trees that are in such a delicate balance with the harsh, dry climate of the dry forest ecosystem. He works from sundown to sun up and sleeps in a hammock outside, alone, every night. He dreams of being able to get back out on the water and fish again. It pains him every time he has to pay money for fish that he used to sell. And yet he remains hopeful that the government will come through with the money. Everytime I speak with him, he says, “It shouldn’t be too long now.” They have no telephone, so to inquire about the status of the loan, he must make a trip to the capitol city after a night of guarding the machine in the mountains. On public transportation from San Francisco it takes about 2 hours (an hour of which is simply waiting for the bus to arrive) to get the office where he inquires about the status of the loan. And every time they tell him that there are too many loans, that his time is coming and it shouldn’t be more than a couple of months before the money finally arrives. In the house, they always have the Chavez TV station playing and Chuito talks about how important it is to redistribute the wealth of the country, to share knowledge, resources and opportunities equitably among all citizens. And he believes this is what Chavez is doing. And so he waits patiently for his loan so that he can do what he has always loved to do: fish. Meanwhile, in Caracas's wealthier neighborhoods, far from the salty waters of El Tunal where Chuito patiently awates the money for his boat engines, luxury homes and apartment blocks shoot up as a small elite, the "boli-burguesia", or Bolivarian bourgeoisie, make their fortune from high international oil prices.

The second story is about Emilio Perez, entrepreneur, map-maker, trekking guide. Emilio was raised in a poor mining town of Venezuela whose economy suffered the same fate as many mining towns. One of many children born to a struggling working class family, he recognized that there was no future for him in the town of his birth. Fortunately for Emilio, he had cousins in the US and was able to illegally travel to the States for a couple of years as a young man. He worked wherever he could and lucky for him, had a talent for English. He was also introduced to the internet in the States and he was able to learn about the world and research opportunities for success. Luckily, he landed a job as the manager of Latino workers, liaison between the general manager who spoke no Spanish and the Latino workers who spoke no English. He worked in a fireworks factory for awhile, then a circus, odd jobs in Boston. He saved his money and eventually returned to his country. He loves his country. He loves the spectacular natural beauty of his country. He managed to make a connection to someone who needed guides for Roraima and he started taking tourists up to the top of famous flat-topped mountains in Venezuela. While working with these groups, he became fascinated with maps and decided to try and make detailed maps, using satellite images to capture the contures of the tops of tepuis. Using the internet and through international networking, he was able to obtain the technical equipment he needed to start making his maps. He now has about 4 different maps of different tepuis and a physical and political map of Venezuela. All are in both English and Spanish. He sells them all over the country, to Venezuelans and tourists alike, but still struggles to make everything work out financially. He takes opportunities to guide now and then, he works on international documentaries that want to film in Venezuela, he does other odd jobs when they come to him. Throughout his whole life he has actively searched for opportunities that were not readily available to a person from his background. He has never waited for the government to solve his problems and feels extremely threatened by the current Chavez government and the direction that it is taking his country. He watches the independent TV channels that banter back and forth about the corruption within the current government. He understands that Chavez will never save him, but he may very well take away the wealth he has worked hard to achieve.

Extreme Hitchhiking

2006-11-13T14:02:00.000-08:00

I was getting desperate for a plane flight back to mainland from Margarita Island so that I could catch my place back to the states. Saturday was full, Sunday was full and Monday would be too late. I was going to take the ferry as I had on other occasions but this trip usually cost me a full day and with so few days in Venezuela, I was not too eager to spend one traveling from Margarita to the Caracas. On Thursday morning I woke up and was going to go to Porlamar (the big city on the island) to try and find a way to fly to Caracas. Consuelo stopped me in the morning and said, “Chama! Don’t by your ticket yet… I have a friend who works at the airport who might be able to get us a free flight.” I thought, you’re kidding, right? You can’t possibly hitch a ride on an airplane, could you? But then again anything is possible in Venezuela! I didn’t quite believe it was possible, so I went to Porlamar in hopes of finding a flight… My friend, Alan, called a friend of his who works in tourism and he found a flight for more than twice as much as it should be, but I told Alan to go ahead a reserve it anyway. Before going to buy the ticket in person (which you must do to ensure you actually get on the plane), I gave Consuelo and Jose Manuel a call to see what their plans were and Consuelo said that her friend had found them a flight to Maracay which is only about an hour and half by bus from my final destination in the Caracas area. I still didn’t quite believe her, but I told her to sign me up anyway. Good thing I got my name on that list, because I spoke with Alan right after that and he said that my reservation had been taken. I was still unclear as to how one hitches a ride on an airplane (the image I had in my head was of me standing on the runway with all my bags, my thumb up, waiting for a plane to stop grab my hand and pull me up into the cabin) but I decided to go with the flow. All this planning took place on Thursday. I didn’t worry about it for the rest of the day and instead dragged Francis and Alan to the beach, where we ate 4 plate of oysters, drank beers and had a large lunch of grilled fish, arepas and platanos. YUM!!

At 7am Friday morning, after spending the night in “La Chica,” the field site for Provita (the environmental organization with which I worked for a year), Jose Manuel, Consuelo and I take off on a bus to the airport to catch a flight that supposedly leaves at 9am. We arrive at the airport at 8am. It turns out that the plane we will ride on is not a private airline, but the “Fuerza Venezolana Aerea:” the airplane of the Venezuelan military! When we got to the airport, the airplane had just arrived from Maracay, a military center of Venezuela, and a ribbon of red was pouring out the airplane; a loud ribbon of red. Chavistas. They were chanting, singing, they had speakers playing “pro-Chavez remixes” of popular meringue and salsa songs, they had Venezuelan flags waving and smiles. They flowed like water into all crevices of the airport, spreading their pro-Chavez message and bright red colors. Large trucks and jeeps equipped with huge speakers came to pick them up and the demonstration began. I have to say, Venezuelans know how to make politics fun. The music was enticing, the people were having a grand old time and the beer was flowing, as is customary on Margarita.

While we waited for the word from Consuelo’s friend, Tuco, I was busy observing and filming the demonstration. The Chavistas took off for another area to demonstrate (the elections are coming up on December 4) and Tuco appeared and told us to head over to the international terminal to wait for the place to take off. This was at 9:30am. Tuco told us that a man named William would come and look for us to check us into the flight and that we would leave at 10am. We waited and waited and Consuelo started to get very nervous, so of course, she just walked up and asked to speak with William. He appeared in full military uniform and red Chavez hat. Consuelo, the ultimate schmoozer, spoke with him and he came over and wrote down our names and our identification numbers and disappeared. We waited for another hour. 11:30am. (I kind of guessed that the plane would not leave at 9am!!) Finally, people in military uniform started to appear in the waiting area and we guessed that they must be on the plane. There were families of the miliary, a basketball team with a Cuban coach (Fidel and Hugo have an agreement where Venezuela exchanges oil for Cuban professionals and athletes), young military men, older executives in the government, Consuelo, Jose Manuel and the only “estadounidense”, ME.

Everyone gathered around the entrance to the plane and another man in military uniform called out names. At the very end of a list of about 100 names were ours and we passed through the first entrance into another waiting room. Finally at noon, we walked out to the airplane, put our bags under the plane ourselves and boarded the huge jet of the Venezuelan military. The seats were large with plenty of legroom, but Consuelo nor I had a seat belt. A nice lady walked by to get our names and check us off the list, they closed the door and without any mention of emergency plans or security, they closed the door and we were in the air. The plane ride was only about 45 minutes and we arrived in the military base of Maracay safely. A bus took us out of the base and we got a taxi to Jose Manuel’s mom’s house around 2pm where we were greeted by a huge traditional Venezuelan lunch: shredded beef, plantains, rice and black beans. YUUUUM.

Who would have thought that I could hitch a ride on the Venezuelan military airplane??!!

Arrival

2006-11-02T13:44:00.000-08:00

After waiting for so long to return and visit Margarita, it was surprisingly easy to walk out my front door in Brookline, board a train to the airport and hop on a plane that took me to Caracas through Houston. It made me wonder, “Why have I waited so long to go back??” Probably a complicated answer. I arrived in the Caracas airport and after making my way through immigration, I felt immediately comfortable. I found a good black market exchange rate with a nice gentleman in the airport and marched my way down to the National terminal, Bolivars in hand. I probably have spent more time in this airport than I have in any single airport in the states. I stopped at Juliet´s for my favorite pastry, drank myself a strong espresso “cafecito” and waited to board my plane to Margarita.

I was greeted at the airport in Margarita by Jose Manuel and Consuelo who whisked me off to probably my least favorite place on Margarita, the huge, ugly Centro Commercial, SIGO… Consuelo and I bought all the food for 800 people for the festival while Jose Manuel went to run an errand… well, the errand ended up taking him a good 6 hours… so Consuelo and I have some quality time to catch up while sitting on a bench outside of shopping center hell. Not the ideal way to spend the first day in Margarita, but somehow fitting.

This country is spectacular! Why did I come only for two weeks???!!! I want to go everywhere!

More pictures and stories to come.

Consuelo, eres famosa!!

2006-11-01T11:48:00.000-08:00

Consuelito! Por fin, eres famosa, como deberias ser!
Te quiero mucho!

Going back to Macanao

2006-11-01T10:21:00.000-08:00

See you all sooooon . . .

La Cotorra Margaritena

2006-11-01T09:58:00.000-08:00

Young islanders dressed up in the colors of the yellow-shouldered parrot for a performance in the 2004 festival.

Puppet show

2006-11-01T09:55:00.000-08:00

The festival in 2004 featured a puppet show, depicting the situation of the endangered species of the Macanao peninsula.

Back to bloggin'!

2006-11-01T09:11:00.000-08:00

Decided to revive my public journal. Its been 14 months since I returned from South America (exactly the amount of time I spent down there, coincidentally) and I am going back. This time for just 2 weeks.

Every year since 1989 the Macanao Peninsula of Margarita has celebrated the Festival de la Cotorra Margaritena - a cultural festival originally initiated to raise awareness about the endangered and endemic yellow-shouldered parrot. Every year the festival is held in a different town on the peninsula and this year it is in Boca del Rio, the town where I lived when I was down there. To be honest, the festival is just an excuse to spend 10 days on the beach with my friends.

I should return to the Boston area on the 14th of November if I don't somehow get washed away by the tropical waters of Margarita...

See pictures below of the Festival in 2004 to get an idea of what kind of event this is.

Home sweet home

2005-09-04T01:12:00.000-07:00

Home sweet home. Arrived in the states on Wednesday evening after various journeys and adventures in South America. Basically since the beginning of May, I have been on the road, storing the majority of my stuff at a friend’s place in Caracas and moving around, hunkering down where proved convenient. I call it my “experience addiction” - the desire to take in as much as possible, leaving little time to process or follow-through on what I actually experienced. Like all good addictions, this one ends when the money dries up and so I find myself back in the room where I spent a large part of my childhood and adolescence, which itself is an interesting experience.

The following is a brief overview and in the days/weeks/months that follow, hopefully I will have some pictures for visual effects.

In the middle of May, just when the nature trail was really picking up steam with tourism and among the schools, I took off for a vacation with Jeremy. We managed to hit up Margarita, Caracas, Henry Pittier National Park, Los Llanos and Amazonas. Highlights include the serenade in the middle of the “heartland” of Venezuela from the back of a moving tractor, the morning birdwatching at Henry Pittier, the 7 year old Piaroa girl and her obsession with tarantulas, the fisherman and his long canoe on the Orinoco and the spectacular views down the river of tepuis (flat-topped mtns).

I returned to Caracas and was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to housesit and “office-sit” for some friends who were in the states. Therefore, I desperately tried to scrounge together reports, papers and results that I had compiled throughout the year. At the end of May, I had the pleasure of hosting Ms. Sarah Jane White and Ms. Bad-ass Benji for a couple of weeks. We took off for Margarita and I put them to work in the public schools of the peninsula. The kids were pretty excited to see not one gringa, not 2 but 3!! walk into their school and ask them questions about parrots. Felt a bit guilty forcing volunteer work on my vacationing friends, but we justified it by saying that they were bettering their Spanish . . . and the beach is so close. . . ..

The lovely Alanalanalana left to return to her favorite year of medical school and SJ and I hung out in Margarita/Caracas while I whipped together a talk for the Conservation Biology Meeting in Brazil. With computer in tow and papers and notes haphazardly tucked in my bag, I flew off to the University of Brasilia, Brazil to present the results from our educational program on Margarita. The conference was excellent and got a lot of ideas moving around in my head. My talk was a typical first-timers disappointment with almost no one *really* interested present in the audience, no interesting questions and disasters with the actual powerpoint (like the wrong version showing up, the newer one was absent). Bueno.

I met up with one of the most inspirational organizations after the conference and had the fortune of traveling around to their project sites scattered around Brazil and learning about the work that they are doing, finding solutions that help people, nature and the goals of the organization. It is good to be reminded that really good, well-done work can come from a vision that emerges from the heart. Take that, cynics! Check them out at: www.ipe.org.br.

Returning to Caracas, I found I barely had time to take a breath before Ibby arrived for one of her life dream trips to the tabooed island floating a mere 50 miles from the shore of Florida. But first, to break her into the carnal quality of the tropics we head to Cata on the northern coast of Venezuela where we find ourselves in a hidden paradise of cocoa farms, coffee plantations, virgin forest and untouched rivers trimmed by banks of healing mud, perfect for a scrub-down. After the brief stint in paradise we take off for a whirlwind of adventures in the surrealism that IS cuba. The contradictions we shocking: the sense of freedom in a country completely restricted, the sense of safety as every move you make is being watched, the richness of the arts, the nightlife and the music that floats the old, narrow streets, yet the poverty that IS life for all citizens, the simplicity of an ox-drawn plow in the field yet the complexity of a island caught in a time so different from our modern age of machines. Truly a fascinating experience.

Before I had time to digest all of the images, experiences and contradictions of cuba, I find myself taking another trip to the airport to meet my dad and uncle Tom who arrived with backpacks in tow, ready for an adventure to climb to the top of Mt. Roraima in the south of Venezuela. Roraima is a flat-topped mountain (tepui) located on the border of Guyana and Brazil. Treks begin from Venezuela and follow a spectacular route through the savannah and up a ramp along the steep rock face of Roraima. Even though it was a challenge for both (at 57 and 64, the oldest trekkers for 2005!!), they pulled it off with style and without major injuries. The visit to Canaima was a nice rest after the mountain trek, complete with waterfall massages, baths in blood-red waters and an exciting boat ride up to the tallest waterfall in the world, Angel Falls.

Landing. Coming home. Taking in the normalness of the states is the most difficult to accept. I miss the surrealism that is Latin America. The hot, greasy empanadas in the morning and the crowd of people eating and chatting, sipping their pabelon con limón as they head off to work. I miss the music that is heard everywhere, the sound of Spanish and the general “no importa” attitude to adverse conditions.

At the same time, in light of the torment Katrina has caused, I am overwhelmed with gratefulness for all that I have. This lovely home where I CAN digest and prepare for the next adventure, my loving parents, the convenience of everything and the general sense of security. And this is more than the majority of New Orleans residents can say.

2005-03-02T16:03:00.000-08:00

The Provita house in Boca de Río where we have our office, 2 bedrooms, the kitchen, the community center and our "virgen del valle" - the virgin of the valley, the guardian of the island.

2005-02-28T16:20:00.000-08:00

I am certified!!! WooHooo!!! Scuba is fun!

2005-02-28T16:19:00.000-08:00

Hiking in El Ávila, with my Caracas pals. Its good to have some gringa friends :)

2005-02-28T16:17:00.000-08:00

Mis panitas gringolas en Caracas, meaning, my gringa pals. Rebecca and Barbara (they call her La China even though she is from Korea).

2005-02-28T16:16:00.000-08:00

The entrance into the lovely IVIC (Instituto Venezolano de Investigaciones Científicas). Not bad, huh?

2005-02-28T16:14:00.000-08:00

The spectacular view from just above the ecology building in IVIC (Instituto Venezolano de Investigaciones Científicas), Caracas. When I am not on my Caribbean Island, I am here in cloud forest paradise.

2005-02-28T16:10:00.000-08:00

On a hike in the "Pozas de San Juan" with Melissa and her dad. This was the first time that I have swam in fresh water on Margarita!!!

2005-02-28T16:09:00.000-08:00

Hiking in Margarita can be very rewarding. It seems as if there are no trails but once you start up out of a town, you find trails criss-crossing every which way. Here Melissa and I were lucky enough to come across a spectacular view through the valley of San Juan of La Restinga and Macanao (my deserted side of the island).

2005-02-28T16:07:00.000-08:00

This is one of my very favorite parts of Margarita beach life. The OYSTERS!!! Yes, every beach you go to, you can find some nice, sometimes cute young man to feed you fresh raw oysters.

2005-02-28T16:04:00.000-08:00

I think I can safely say that this tree is my favorite spot on the island. Come visit and see it for yourself!!

2005-02-28T16:02:00.000-08:00

Yes, I do a variety of different things down here. Here I am hammering away on the bridge we built.

2005-02-28T16:01:00.000-08:00

Happy kids around the state tree, the Guayacán.

2005-02-28T16:00:00.000-08:00

The spiral. . .

2005-02-28T15:59:00.000-08:00

Yin Yang . . . yes, we get a bit of Asian influence over here, too.

2005-02-28T15:57:00.000-08:00

The moon . . .

2005-02-28T15:55:00.000-08:00

Activities on the sendero ecológico. I love my work!!

2005-02-28T15:54:00.000-08:00

A recent project that Pablo has taken to is designing rock art along the trail. This is the sun, to go along with the moon and star.

2005-02-28T15:52:00.000-08:00

The stairs on the sendero ecológico . . . a little rustic but, hey they got personality. And when you are working on a budget of $0, not bad.

2005-02-28T15:50:00.000-08:00

Kids on the sendero ecológico

2005-02-28T15:49:00.000-08:00

Pablo Antonio. Our field assistant who claims he doesn't like kids but always enjoys taking them out on hikes through the sendero ecológico

2005-02-28T15:48:00.000-08:00

The bridge that we built, using all donated wood and our own rudimentary engineering skills. Not too bad, huh?

2005-02-28T15:46:00.000-08:00

Stop number 6 on the nature trail, known here as the "sendero ecológico" or ecological pathway. It is my little pet project and my way of bringing outdoor education to Margarita.

2005-02-28T15:43:00.000-08:00

The local fabric store. This is just one of 4 or 5 rooms filled with disorderly fabrics shipped from Italy. In order to find what you want, you have to take your shoes off and dive in. It requires a lot of patience but you can find great deals on really nice fabrics.

2005-02-28T15:41:00.000-08:00

The hamburgers on this island are insane. They are stuffed with every imaginable filling, sauce, meat. Usually they come with not only a hunk of meat, but a fried egg, bacon and little french fries.

2005-02-28T15:39:00.000-08:00

Trash is still a huge problem here on the island and here is a perfect example of how people deal with it.

2005-02-28T15:37:00.000-08:00

This is the fog collector. It is a small one used to test the amount of fog a place receives. If it receives sufficient amount of fog, then she puts up a huge one that collects lots of water and this water travels down to a local village in need of drinking water. Read more about it on www.fogquest.com

2005-02-28T15:33:00.000-08:00

This is a friend of mine, Melissa, who is working here for 3 months, installing "fog collectors" in various locations in the mountains of Margarita. Her job isn't half-bad, huh? She hikes around the mountains looking for open areas with fog that have towns close by and then puts of a fog collector there.

2005-02-28T15:29:00.000-08:00

Here is the sunset from town. There is a huge lagoon that separates the town into 2 parts making it difficult to get from one side to another. But it does make for a pretty sunset. In the distance you can see some boys practicing their skill at throwing the sardine net. They will probably only collect trash as the trash from the street usually ends up collecting in the water.

2005-02-28T15:27:00.000-08:00

Yes, this really was the color of the sky. From this beach, Punta Arena, I have seen the best sunsets of my life time and time again.

2005-02-28T15:26:00.000-08:00

LA CORSA!! This was our only source of transportation for the field, for shopping, for buying supplies, for everything and everbody. . . now we have a big jeep and I don't know how we managed with this little baby.

2005-02-28T15:23:00.000-08:00

A favorite spot to watch the pelicans fly by. Thirty minutes by bike - perfect!

2005-02-28T15:22:00.000-08:00

A frequently visited breakfast empanada stand. These fried goodies are usually stuffed with cheese, meat or fish and are only found in the morning.

2005-02-28T15:21:00.000-08:00

Boats are not only found on the water. . . in fact, many more boats are seen in garages than cars.

2005-02-28T15:19:00.000-08:00

This view is a 5 minute walk from my new house. . . and sunsets like this are not uncommon on Margarita.

2005-02-28T15:18:00.000-08:00

A typical scene from the town's main road. Boca del Río is really a sleeping fishing village.

2005-02-28T15:17:00.000-08:00

A road leading to Las Tetas de María Guevara, a native islander who protected her people from the Spanish conquistadors as best she could. This is where she lies, but only her breasts remain. This is a National Monument.

2005-02-28T15:15:00.000-08:00

The main road in Boca del Río. On the right you can see the vegetable truck that makes its way through town every morning, yelling through a scratching loud speaker the products for the day.

2005-02-28T15:14:00.000-08:00

This is where the guilt comes from. I ride through this barrio on my way to and from the Provita house.

2005-02-28T15:13:00.000-08:00

A favorite treat. . . bread and chocolate.

2005-02-28T15:12:00.000-08:00

The kitchen . . .

2005-02-28T15:11:00.001-08:00

More of the new house . . .

2005-02-28T15:11:00.000-08:00

The living room in my huge "I do not deserve it" house. But I am not complaining. It is probably the only time in my life that I will be able to rent a house this nice for a loooong time. And, by the way, it is five minutes from the beach, a couple minutes walk from a great view of the mountains and it is a "gated" community. I live in the Beverly Hills of Boca del Río!!!

2005-02-28T15:08:00.000-08:00

A typical interaction between Coto (bigger, darker, male) and Luna (little and fiesty).

2005-02-28T15:06:00.000-08:00

In my favorite dress with two of my favorite, newly adopted friends here on the island; Coto and Luna, sitting on the patio in front of my huge family home that I recently started renting.

2005-02-28T15:04:00.000-08:00

Working in the Provita garden on a Sunday morning. On this particular morning I was trying to salvage our compost that was infested with maggots. Yummy!

2005-02-28T15:02:00.000-08:00

The Provita house where we have our garden, our office, 2 bedrooms, one of which I spent 7 of my months here sleeping in, the kitchen and the community center. The painted rock supported by our huge mango tree is a virgen del valle (or virgin of the valley) and she is the protector of the island.

2005-02-14T19:48:00.000-08:00

Birdwatching and horseback riding in Los Llanos.

2005-02-14T19:44:00.000-08:00

A boat trip in Los Llanos

2005-02-14T19:42:00.000-08:00

Some friends on the natural bridge in Macanao

2005-02-14T19:41:00.000-08:00

Under the natural bridge in Macanao

2005-01-12T09:57:00.001-08:00

A happy Provita puppy

2005-01-12T09:57:00.000-08:00

Coto, el perrito

2005-01-11T18:22:00.000-08:00

The sunrise over the town of San Francisco, the only town nestled up in the mountains.

2005-01-11T18:19:00.000-08:00

On top of the highest mountain in the Macanao peninsula of Margarita Island with la sueca, Jenny.

Cotorerro

2005-01-11T11:33:00.000-08:00

It is a sunny, breezy day in Margaritaville. I just got up from a nap and my companions are outside building a fog collector to provide water for mountain towns here in Margarita. I found blogger from a friend here and spontaneously decided that I would start a site . . . so here it goes.
We have adopted a dog from the dirty streets of my little town here, Boca de Río. The little guy was digging through the garbage just around the corner from us and we spontaneously decided to entice him to follow us home. He was filled with ticks, almost 20 in each ear, more in between the paws. He most likely has worms and other parasites and his fur is patchy from the skin disease. But we love him and and are determined to make him the Cotorerro (the guarder of the Cotorra) and bring him out to the field with us when the parrot´s breeding season starts.