I'm sitting on a beach of white sand. If I stand and begin to walk down the beach, in two and a half hours I will once again find myself at this spot.
This thought astounds me - but it's too hot to test it out. I dare not leave the square patch of shade the thatched umbrella above my head casts on the sand. I reposition myself throughout the day to remain under its protection. Below Fiji's sun, my skin has turned a shade of brown I now longer recognize as my own, and in an effort to both avoid the disgustingly painful looking skin blisters the white tourist seem to develop in hours and respect the local culture, I - like native Fijians - now swim fully clothed.
Mana island in one of the larger islands of Fiji's Mamanuca Island Group and a 90 minute boat ride from Nadi. It supports a village, a resort, two backpacker hostels, a church, and the set of the first Survivor. I went to see it Tuesday, my first full day, and found it eerie and irresponsible.
The tribal council "temple" stands abandoned and someone has decapitated one of the polystyrene statues that guard the entrance. A noose hangs from the base of her neck. The building, which is obviously fake, looks spectacular on my camera and made me remember with sadness the deception inherent in every television program.
The beach, however, is beautiful and has no need for alteration to look untouched and isolated, something to be "survived". From brochures in my hostel, I've learned that one can also visit the island where Tom Hanks filmed Castaway and the one on which the Robinson Crusoe stayed.
I arrived on Monday, December 22nd, and will stay until the 27th, tomorrow. Yesterday, Christmas Day, I stepped onto the beach in front of the hostel and saw a fish so huge I mistook it for the large pig the villagers had bathed with flip flops at high tide Christmas Eve anchored to shore with a rope tied round its tail. I should have known better about the pig - its dying squeals woke me and everyone else in the dormitory just after sunrise that morning. We all lay there quiet, praying simultaneously that it would stop, but for the pig's sake that it wouldn't. It did, and I fell mournfully back to sleep in the dead quiet.
We ate the fish for Christmas dinner. Suli stood behind the table and carved, serving us light or dark meat to preference and then drenching our selection with coconut milk curry. It was delicious. Christmas seemed doubly long, however, as Fiji is four hours behind, but a day ahead of the time in Washington. Crazy right? I called by family at 7am the day after Christmas and they had just finished opening their presents Christmas morning.
The day before Christmas, I snorkeled for the second time in my life. The first time had been the day before with Adam from Alaska oddly enough just off the hostel's shore.
The Fiji islands are encircled by coral reefs that break the Pacific waves and allow the water that reaches the sand to stretch seemingly unbroken toward the horizon and perfectly mirror the sky in the absence of wind.
Adam and I swam to the edge of Mana's innermost reef and spent hours gazing face down at the world below. I was in search of live coral - rare - which I eventually spotted, purple and beautiful. At one point Adam dove and returned holding a starfish that he handed me with pride. I took it with both hands and we bobbed differing on whether it was blue or purple. I say brilliant purple, but the truth as usually lies somewhere in the middle. I let it go and we watched it drift back down to the sea floor where it landed belly up. Adam dove to right it, for which I was glad - after our debate over its color identity, I felt it only right to leave the starfish as unconfused as possible.
My second snorkel outing was a boat trip to sandbank island the following morning. Our guide, Sam, spearfished without success apart from the conch that spit and hissed angrily at him when he finally managed to get it ashore.
Not much live coral there either, and while snorkeling I thought worriedly about how hot the water felt until some new devastatingly beautiful fish passed under me: small schools of brilliant blue, forearm-length puffer fish, stripped parrot fish, and dozens more I can't adequately describe.
Today is Friday, my last full day. It's hot. Throughout the village, families lie dozing together on woven mats full from yesterday's feasting. The tourist lie equally full on towels and sarongs along the beach. By the head of my beach towel lie Complications: A Surgeon's Notes on an Imperfect Science and The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts both of which I would highly recommend to the strong-stomached, but for varying reasons. I have no plans but to peruse their pages for the remainder of the day.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Bula!
Bula - Hello! - from Fiji! I made it. After a total of 21 flight ours, two layovers, and more complimentary beverages than I can count, I landed in Nadi, Fiji at 6:07 am the morning of December 17th.
I then proceeded to spend two days sleeping and lounging by the hostel pool. But from the little time that my eyes have spent open, I have observed a beautiful brown-skinned people who smile friendily at you when you pass, men who wear skirts to work and play rugby afterwards, and flowers that grow everywhere - yellow, purple, red, and white - before the green hills slide into the sea. I like it here very much.
I then proceeded to spend two days sleeping and lounging by the hostel pool. But from the little time that my eyes have spent open, I have observed a beautiful brown-skinned people who smile friendily at you when you pass, men who wear skirts to work and play rugby afterwards, and flowers that grow everywhere - yellow, purple, red, and white - before the green hills slide into the sea. I like it here very much.
Buenos Aires
I spent four days in Buenos Aires, and though the city of 13 million buzzes incessantly with human activity, my time there was rather tranquil. I stayed in the apartment of Daniel and Danielle, Brazilians here from Rio while Danielle pursues a masters degree in Education at the University of Buenos Aires. I slept in their spare room and for four days tagged along with them in the easy flow of domestic life. On Friday we attended a Servas gathering, Saturday we visited the Chinese quarter, and Sunday we spent at a birthday party. Though I did touristy things - visited Evita's grave in Cementerio de la Recoleta, saw the mothers march in Plaza de Mayo, shopped in San Telmo's Antiques Fair Sunday morning - my fondest memories of Buenos Aires are the hours we spent around their kitchen table having tea and toast or listening to Daniel play Samba on his guitar.
I left Monday morning, and was rather sad that our time together had ended - it was in their company that I tried Mate for the first time, ate Dulce de leche in all its various forms, and had Havanna's famous alfajores Saturday evening before getting on the subway and heading for home. Though Danielle worried that they will have forever confused my perception of Argentina as a place where people speak Portuguese and play, dance, and sing Samba - Brazilian attributes, not Argentinian - I believe I will be able to remember their distinctions. I will, however, forever think of them - the Brazilian couple who made my stay so sweet - when I think of Argentina.
I left Monday morning, and was rather sad that our time together had ended - it was in their company that I tried Mate for the first time, ate Dulce de leche in all its various forms, and had Havanna's famous alfajores Saturday evening before getting on the subway and heading for home. Though Danielle worried that they will have forever confused my perception of Argentina as a place where people speak Portuguese and play, dance, and sing Samba - Brazilian attributes, not Argentinian - I believe I will be able to remember their distinctions. I will, however, forever think of them - the Brazilian couple who made my stay so sweet - when I think of Argentina.
Climate Change
It's the conversations I remember most. For all my talk of the value of human interaction, this observation still half surprises me. I thought when I sat down to write of climate change images of our natural environment would spring to mind - the supremacy of the Amazon, the harshness of the Pantanal, Glacier Moreno glistening in the summer sun. But it's people I see, in living rooms around the world speaking in their varying accents of our common problem.
The first is Odin, as it should be. Odin with his curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, my last day at Huehuecoyotl. He pulled me into his kitchen, sat me down, and drew me a diagram. It went like this: Under the heading Global Climate Change, a column read Do We Take Action? Yes, No, and a row read Is it Happening? Yes, No. Where Yes and Yes met Odin wrote, Economic Depression as money is rerouted to build a “green” economy. He also wrote this where Yes - We Take Action, and No - It Isn't Happening met. Where No - We Don't Take Action, and Yes - It Is Happening came together Odin scribbled Economic Depression as a result of Ecological Redistribution, Political Disaster, and World Health Crisis... THE END. And finally, where No meets No he put, All's Good.
Dramatically straightforward, I'll admit but he's got a point. Seeing as how the All's Good option is pretty much out, no matter our choice we're headed for an economic hit. We may as well act now, he said. Then he dashed off to finish the electrolysis prototype he would unveil later that evening. It was amazingly simple - air, electricity, water, and some baking soda- and poof, hydrogen gas. These are the kinds of tools we need, Odin said his eyes shining, things to fit specific needs. Rainy season Mexico isn't short on water or the hydroelectricity it produces - why not then make our own gas as well? I can see him so clearly. Just think of the possibilities!
Then there's Sofia Montes of Guatemala. We sat at the dinner table, after a 10pm meal of fried plantains, pureed black beans, and scrambled eggs talking about her work. She's an Environmental Consultant for local businesses.When a business wants to open up, she evaluates their environmental impact and drafts a report of suggestions as to how these impacts might be reduced. She says her line of work is rare in a country who's Ministry of the Environment is charged with the task of enforcing Guatemala's single restriction on solid waste - there are no laws governing air emissions, which explains the cloud of black that chicken buses leave behind. Sofia spoke with disappointment of the US's lack of involvement in international climate legislation. We are a small country, she said, we will sign the legislation that's put to us, but we know that unless the US acts, we will pay the price.
She explained that Guatemala's population lives mainly on the Pacific coast or in the country's mountainous interior. The homes on the hills - like their own, which juts out of a forested rocky slope with the support of exterior pillars - will face serious damage from the increased rainfall stronger Caribbean storms bring, while those on the coast will suffer from the rising sea. Unlike Americans, Guatemalans are not accustomed to moving - nor do they have the means to. She did, however, appreciate Mr. Gore's film.
Of all the "living rooms" Rancho Mastatal's was prettiest, though the conversations were a bit deceptive in terms of obtaining a Costa Rican opinion on climate change, as the founders are Americans. So too were the ones held around the table at the Osa Sea Turtle Conservation Project. Of the seven plus of us, only one was actually from Costa Rica, and as he spoke no English and everybody else did, he didn't say much. Poor Lepo. The science, however, was pretty straightforward: Turtles need beach to lay their eggs on - as sea levels rise they will have fewer places to go; Temperature plays a large role in the life of a hatchling - it determines its gender, length of incubation, and time of emergence. A global change of temperature means trouble for sea turtles, not to mention its effect on ocean currents; And - not exactly related to climate change, but something interesting to know - nesting sea turtles face away from the brightest horizon when laying their eggs. This is supposed to be the sea, but on more developed beaches turtles can become so disoriented by the electric lights that they lay their nests facing the wrong direction. That's not good.
It was in Brazil that I met my first climate change skeptic. Luiz, though a trained engineer, now works in wood. Selling wood -beautiful wood, unlike any I've ever seen before. It comes from the Amazon. Brazilians possess a different view of the Amazon than the rest of the world. Simply put, it's theirs. The vast expanse of forest - the one that takes nine days to cross via boat - is their forest. Theirs to cut down, throw garbage in, pollute... Its not the Amazon - the jungle of a thousand childhood imaginings full of exotic birds and gigantic spiders. It's the woods in their backyard. Brazil has the right to do what it wants with it. He's right. But so are we. Uhhhh... why is this so hard?
Alex would agree with me. Alex was my favorite guide while on my Ecological Expedition in the Pantanal. When asked about climate change, Alex pointed to the sky. The end of November, and still no rain. We used to be able to predict their coming, not anymore. In the background,a news story reported the death of 46 people in the southern part of Brazil, due to flash flooding. Now, we hear of things like this, Alex said.
My last notable climate conversation happened rather unexpectedly. I was sitting of the shore of Lago Argentino watching flamingos when a Frenchman came tromping out of the underbrush. What happened next is a very amusing story, but sufficient to say with in ten minutes the flamingos had gone and we were left discussing the fate of the world. Interestingly enough he sees the economic depression the world now faces as America's chance to retool itself and begin building an automobile industry that isn't centered around consuming 25% of the world's oil. The comment reminded me of Odin's graph and I couldn't help smiling at him and saying, Well, we may as well act now. It's going to hurt economically no matter what.
The first is Odin, as it should be. Odin with his curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, my last day at Huehuecoyotl. He pulled me into his kitchen, sat me down, and drew me a diagram. It went like this: Under the heading Global Climate Change, a column read Do We Take Action? Yes, No, and a row read Is it Happening? Yes, No. Where Yes and Yes met Odin wrote, Economic Depression as money is rerouted to build a “green” economy. He also wrote this where Yes - We Take Action, and No - It Isn't Happening met. Where No - We Don't Take Action, and Yes - It Is Happening came together Odin scribbled Economic Depression as a result of Ecological Redistribution, Political Disaster, and World Health Crisis... THE END. And finally, where No meets No he put, All's Good.
Dramatically straightforward, I'll admit but he's got a point. Seeing as how the All's Good option is pretty much out, no matter our choice we're headed for an economic hit. We may as well act now, he said. Then he dashed off to finish the electrolysis prototype he would unveil later that evening. It was amazingly simple - air, electricity, water, and some baking soda- and poof, hydrogen gas. These are the kinds of tools we need, Odin said his eyes shining, things to fit specific needs. Rainy season Mexico isn't short on water or the hydroelectricity it produces - why not then make our own gas as well? I can see him so clearly. Just think of the possibilities!
Then there's Sofia Montes of Guatemala. We sat at the dinner table, after a 10pm meal of fried plantains, pureed black beans, and scrambled eggs talking about her work. She's an Environmental Consultant for local businesses.When a business wants to open up, she evaluates their environmental impact and drafts a report of suggestions as to how these impacts might be reduced. She says her line of work is rare in a country who's Ministry of the Environment is charged with the task of enforcing Guatemala's single restriction on solid waste - there are no laws governing air emissions, which explains the cloud of black that chicken buses leave behind. Sofia spoke with disappointment of the US's lack of involvement in international climate legislation. We are a small country, she said, we will sign the legislation that's put to us, but we know that unless the US acts, we will pay the price.
She explained that Guatemala's population lives mainly on the Pacific coast or in the country's mountainous interior. The homes on the hills - like their own, which juts out of a forested rocky slope with the support of exterior pillars - will face serious damage from the increased rainfall stronger Caribbean storms bring, while those on the coast will suffer from the rising sea. Unlike Americans, Guatemalans are not accustomed to moving - nor do they have the means to. She did, however, appreciate Mr. Gore's film.
Of all the "living rooms" Rancho Mastatal's was prettiest, though the conversations were a bit deceptive in terms of obtaining a Costa Rican opinion on climate change, as the founders are Americans. So too were the ones held around the table at the Osa Sea Turtle Conservation Project. Of the seven plus of us, only one was actually from Costa Rica, and as he spoke no English and everybody else did, he didn't say much. Poor Lepo. The science, however, was pretty straightforward: Turtles need beach to lay their eggs on - as sea levels rise they will have fewer places to go; Temperature plays a large role in the life of a hatchling - it determines its gender, length of incubation, and time of emergence. A global change of temperature means trouble for sea turtles, not to mention its effect on ocean currents; And - not exactly related to climate change, but something interesting to know - nesting sea turtles face away from the brightest horizon when laying their eggs. This is supposed to be the sea, but on more developed beaches turtles can become so disoriented by the electric lights that they lay their nests facing the wrong direction. That's not good.
It was in Brazil that I met my first climate change skeptic. Luiz, though a trained engineer, now works in wood. Selling wood -beautiful wood, unlike any I've ever seen before. It comes from the Amazon. Brazilians possess a different view of the Amazon than the rest of the world. Simply put, it's theirs. The vast expanse of forest - the one that takes nine days to cross via boat - is their forest. Theirs to cut down, throw garbage in, pollute... Its not the Amazon - the jungle of a thousand childhood imaginings full of exotic birds and gigantic spiders. It's the woods in their backyard. Brazil has the right to do what it wants with it. He's right. But so are we. Uhhhh... why is this so hard?
Alex would agree with me. Alex was my favorite guide while on my Ecological Expedition in the Pantanal. When asked about climate change, Alex pointed to the sky. The end of November, and still no rain. We used to be able to predict their coming, not anymore. In the background,a news story reported the death of 46 people in the southern part of Brazil, due to flash flooding. Now, we hear of things like this, Alex said.
My last notable climate conversation happened rather unexpectedly. I was sitting of the shore of Lago Argentino watching flamingos when a Frenchman came tromping out of the underbrush. What happened next is a very amusing story, but sufficient to say with in ten minutes the flamingos had gone and we were left discussing the fate of the world. Interestingly enough he sees the economic depression the world now faces as America's chance to retool itself and begin building an automobile industry that isn't centered around consuming 25% of the world's oil. The comment reminded me of Odin's graph and I couldn't help smiling at him and saying, Well, we may as well act now. It's going to hurt economically no matter what.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Glacier Perito Moreno
Two days ago now, I went to see Glacier Perito Moreno the most spectacular - and, admittedly, the most easily accessible - glacier of Argentina's Parque Nacional los Glaciers.
Getting Here: The bus trip from Bariloche was, well... long. South of Argentina's shimmering forested lake district the landscape gives way to Patagonia, which sheltered by the Andes and their rain-shadow to the east stretches out flat, dry, and unbelievably wind-whipped. Though I did occasionally spy a family of Guanaco llamas or a pair of rheas (a type of "Old World ostrich" to quote my guidebook), I spent the majority of the trip gazing maddeningly at what seemed to be the same farm house in the distance.
The afternoon of day two, in an attempt to fix the bus lavatory door, the driver accidentally yanked the handle clean off. Thus, for the remainder of the day we stopped every few hours - as that was the interval at which we encountered vegetation large enough to do ones business behind - for bathroom breaks. "Damas a la izquierda, hombres a la derecha," the driver would say standing arms outstretched in the middle of the road. We forgave him though, when just before sunset he slammed on the breaks, which wasn't that jarring considering that buses can only travel 20 km/hr on the unpaved road that is RT 40, leaped from the bus, and caught an armadillo by the tail. He further redeemed himself by stopping at regular intervals to let us take proper photos of the sunset. I didn't realized how much I missed the display of color and light the sun puts on - around the equator it is always in such a hurry.
I arrived here, a town called El Calafate that serves as the gateway to the parks southern sector, on the morning of Sunday, December 7th - day 3, bus wise. Though surrounded by snow capped mountains, El Calaftae sits on Patagonian sand, meaning that from anywhere in town - save the tree lined center - you can see and walk in a straight path to anywhere else. It does, however, sit on the edge of mineral rich Lago Argentino where flamingos stand one-legged in the baby blue water.
To get to Glacier Perito Moreno one must take a bus from El Calafates station one and a half hours toward the mountains. And there it is - sliding out from its mountainous birthplace, a sheet of ice that rises over 50 meters above the water in jagged teeth a thousand shades of blue. It crackles and speaks under the heat of the summer sun, and once let a piece of ice the size of a condominium come crashing down off its front face into the lake.
In environmental studies classes, they lecture of melting glaciers and sea level rise. Ive always found that difficult to fathom - the sea is a big place. But so is this, this one glacier in Argentina, not Greenland or Antarctica or anywhere "important" like that.
Speaking of climate change, I feel its time for me to do some sharing. This afternoon, I fly to Buenos Aires, and from there, on the 15th of December, to Fiji, meaning that one major portion of my journey is about to conclude. In my next blog, I shall attempt to put to words some of my "findings" on the subject, though I must warn you they are far from conclusions.
Getting Here: The bus trip from Bariloche was, well... long. South of Argentina's shimmering forested lake district the landscape gives way to Patagonia, which sheltered by the Andes and their rain-shadow to the east stretches out flat, dry, and unbelievably wind-whipped. Though I did occasionally spy a family of Guanaco llamas or a pair of rheas (a type of "Old World ostrich" to quote my guidebook), I spent the majority of the trip gazing maddeningly at what seemed to be the same farm house in the distance.
The afternoon of day two, in an attempt to fix the bus lavatory door, the driver accidentally yanked the handle clean off. Thus, for the remainder of the day we stopped every few hours - as that was the interval at which we encountered vegetation large enough to do ones business behind - for bathroom breaks. "Damas a la izquierda, hombres a la derecha," the driver would say standing arms outstretched in the middle of the road. We forgave him though, when just before sunset he slammed on the breaks, which wasn't that jarring considering that buses can only travel 20 km/hr on the unpaved road that is RT 40, leaped from the bus, and caught an armadillo by the tail. He further redeemed himself by stopping at regular intervals to let us take proper photos of the sunset. I didn't realized how much I missed the display of color and light the sun puts on - around the equator it is always in such a hurry.
I arrived here, a town called El Calafate that serves as the gateway to the parks southern sector, on the morning of Sunday, December 7th - day 3, bus wise. Though surrounded by snow capped mountains, El Calaftae sits on Patagonian sand, meaning that from anywhere in town - save the tree lined center - you can see and walk in a straight path to anywhere else. It does, however, sit on the edge of mineral rich Lago Argentino where flamingos stand one-legged in the baby blue water.
To get to Glacier Perito Moreno one must take a bus from El Calafates station one and a half hours toward the mountains. And there it is - sliding out from its mountainous birthplace, a sheet of ice that rises over 50 meters above the water in jagged teeth a thousand shades of blue. It crackles and speaks under the heat of the summer sun, and once let a piece of ice the size of a condominium come crashing down off its front face into the lake.
In environmental studies classes, they lecture of melting glaciers and sea level rise. Ive always found that difficult to fathom - the sea is a big place. But so is this, this one glacier in Argentina, not Greenland or Antarctica or anywhere "important" like that.
Speaking of climate change, I feel its time for me to do some sharing. This afternoon, I fly to Buenos Aires, and from there, on the 15th of December, to Fiji, meaning that one major portion of my journey is about to conclude. In my next blog, I shall attempt to put to words some of my "findings" on the subject, though I must warn you they are far from conclusions.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Bariloche
I have a new favorite word - pancho. I plan to say it whenever possible for the remainder of my time in Argentina for thus far its speaking has resulted in me eating a freshly barbecued sausage slit down the middle and served in a warm bun with salsa picante, all for four pesos or slightly more than one US dollar.
I'm in Bariloche, the principal city of Argentina's Lake District, a region I have named the Pacific Northwests alter ego as it possesses the same kind of natural beauty, racial make up, and friendly laid back feel, but who's people speak Spanish rather than English, drink mate through silver straws rather than Starbucks, and who gather to watch futbol, not football.
The city itself is gorgeous and stretches for over 20 kilometers along a turquoise lake, which though it looks it is not too cold to swim in. Along its central shopping street over a dozen stores sell the chocolates the city is famous for (after limited research, my favorite is the pistachio cream) and in its Parque Central tourists pose for pictures with message carrying St. Bernards. Outside of town, log cabins and alpine architecture line the coniferous waterfront.
I arrived Monday, and Tuesday took the ski lift to the top of Cerro Campanario to get a better look, but after only one drawing left feeling slightly homesick and confused - the drawing rather closely resembled one done near Mt. St. Helens, but in it the trees have new pine cones and the peaks have little snow through the date reads December. Don't pity me - I drown my cares in chocolate ice cream and headed for the beach.
I leave tomorrow morning, bright and early for El Calafates Parque los Glaciers - where the water is too cold to swim. The venture takes two days, and promises an unforgettable better look at the Northwests alter ego, though less chocolate and no beach time. Adios!
I'm in Bariloche, the principal city of Argentina's Lake District, a region I have named the Pacific Northwests alter ego as it possesses the same kind of natural beauty, racial make up, and friendly laid back feel, but who's people speak Spanish rather than English, drink mate through silver straws rather than Starbucks, and who gather to watch futbol, not football.
The city itself is gorgeous and stretches for over 20 kilometers along a turquoise lake, which though it looks it is not too cold to swim in. Along its central shopping street over a dozen stores sell the chocolates the city is famous for (after limited research, my favorite is the pistachio cream) and in its Parque Central tourists pose for pictures with message carrying St. Bernards. Outside of town, log cabins and alpine architecture line the coniferous waterfront.
I arrived Monday, and Tuesday took the ski lift to the top of Cerro Campanario to get a better look, but after only one drawing left feeling slightly homesick and confused - the drawing rather closely resembled one done near Mt. St. Helens, but in it the trees have new pine cones and the peaks have little snow through the date reads December. Don't pity me - I drown my cares in chocolate ice cream and headed for the beach.
I leave tomorrow morning, bright and early for El Calafates Parque los Glaciers - where the water is too cold to swim. The venture takes two days, and promises an unforgettable better look at the Northwests alter ego, though less chocolate and no beach time. Adios!
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