Tales of a Female Nomad

by Rita Golden Gelman

  It’s been nearly three years since my first tentative steps into Mexico City, and people in the U.S. are asking me if I’m ready yet to end my wandering and resume my life. Some of them are sure that I’m still reacting to the divorce, running from reality, avoiding some abstract “real world.”

  “Perhaps,” suggests one friend, “therapy would be better than getting on another plane.”

  They are all intelligent people who care about me, and I feel obligated to consider their comments. But no matter how often I ask myself if I’m running away from something, I always get the same answer. No, I’m not running away. On the contrary. I’ve discovered a new way to live.

  My life is endlessly fascinating, filled with learning, adventure, interesting people, new and enlightening experiences. I laugh, sing, and dance more than I ever have. I am becoming the person inside me.

  My life also offers opportunities to give as well. Wherever I am in the world, I read to children, visit classrooms, teach English, and bring food and laughter into homes.

  And on top of all that, I’m existing on less than $10,000 a year, including airfares.

  I’m embracing life, not running away from it. Why would I want to stop?

  Jan is particularly happy to hear about my next destination. I have a contract to write a kids’ book about the animals in the Galápagos Islands. I’ll be writing it in the Charles Darwin Research Station Library on the island of Santa Cruz. Before I leave the States, Jan books her flight for a three-week visit.

  I’ve come a long way since my first Galápagos trip eight years ago, the trip when I realized I wanted more than fine dinners and good theater in my life. I can’t wait to revisit the islands, connect with the animals, swim in the warm, tropical waters.

  While I am still in the U.S., I buy a portable computer, a tiny printer, and a ton of sunblock #15. Two weeks before I leave, I remember one of the subjects frequently discussed in the “backpacker network”: the tyranny of customs people. They levy arbitrary taxes and fees at will, and they have been known to “hold” and “disappear” electronic gadgets.

  My computer and printer are sure to be attractive to the guys behind the glass, so I decide to visit the press officer at the Ecuadorian Embassy in Washington, D.C. People like books about their countries. I’m hoping someone in the embassy will give me a letter that will move me through customs with no hassles.

  The press officer at the embassy is intrigued that I’m writing a children’s book about the Galápagos. I tell him my concern about bringing a computer into Ecuador, and he promises to have someone meet me at customs in Guayaquil. Then he offers me a free flight from Guayaquil to the Galápagos on a military plane. I accept.

  He adds, as I walk out the door, “I will also make arrangements to have you met by one of our workers when you arrive in the Galápagos. He will take you to a government house where you can live as long as you like. I’m sorry but you will have to share the house with two government employees.”

  Wow! I never even asked.

  I step off the plane in Guayaquil, my backpack a hump on my back, my gray computer-case and its eleven-pound contents weighing down my right shoulder, and my smaller printer case a lesser weight on my left shoulder. The first thing I see is someone in uniform waving my cardboard name. We speak a few words of introduction; he takes my computer and asks me to follow him. This guy is serious. No small talk here. I am high government business, even though I am wearing jeans.

  We march past lines of people waiting to be interviewed by officials in glass booths. I feel the same smugness I felt many years ago when I first drove my new four-wheel-drive Jeep in a snowstorm, whizzing past all the cars that were stuck on the side of the road.

  Even before the crew is off my plane, I am sitting in a room, holding a ticket for the free military flight, which, it turns out, goes to the military airport on the island of San Cristóbal. This is not the island where I thought I was going. On my other visit to the Galápagos, I flew into Baltra, which has an airstrip that the Americans built during World War II. In Baltra, there are boats and buses to take the passengers to the island of Santa Cruz. I just assumed that’s where I’d be taken this time too. It’s where tourists are delivered. It’s where the Charles Darwin Research Station is. It’s where I have to be. It never occurred to me to ask where the military plane landed.

  As I sit there, I wonder if I should I say something. Nah. It’ll be an adventure. The Ecuadorian government has come through brilliantly so far. When things are working, it’s usually best not to break the rhythm with too many questions. It does occur to me, however, that I have no contact name, no address, and no paper proof that any arrangements have been made for me. All I have to go on is trust.

  Interestingly, relying on trust and informality usually serves me better than when I ask for papers, stamps, and bureaucratic letters. I’m more comfortable operating on a personal level, asking about family, telling a little about my life, and often bringing one of my kids’ books as a token gift. Moving things into a business mode changes everything. If I’d been formal with the press officer at the embassy, the offers of a plane trip and a house might never have happened. I like the handshake-and-smile school of doing business. I’m not going to say anything about flying to the wrong island. I’ll just fly and see.

  As usual, things work out. When the plane lands, there is another greeter with another Rita sign. Turns out that Felipe is one of the two men who lives in the house where I will be living. He’s my height, swarthy, with a full mustache and smiling eyes. His voice is deep and sexy. He’s probably close to forty. If I’d seen him on the street, I would have thought he was a farm worker. Actually, he’s a scientist with a Ph.D. in biology.

  He takes me to a little office just up from the dock, and we sip bottled water while we wait for the ferry. It’s oppressively hot, with a little relief from the ceiling fan spinning over our heads. From time to time someone comes in and I am introduced. An hour after I arrive, Felipe and I climb onto the public ferry, a big motorboat, with about eight other people. When I nearly drop my computer into the water, there is a chorus of alarm.

  “Déjeme ayudarle,” Felipe says, smiling and reaching for the gray carrying case. Let me help you.

  About half an hour later, we arrive in the town of Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz. Felipe carries my computer and printer and we walk through a plaza filled with souvenir shops, places to eat, small hotels, and boat repair and supply places. The plaza is busy with tourists shopping and eating and with locals hanging around. We pass through the plaza and walk up a dirt road past small houses, little stores, and lots of kids.

  Our house is a white stucco cabin just off the main road about half a mile from the plaza. There’s a kitchen, a bathroom, and three small bedrooms . . . all opening into a central room. There’s also an enclosed porch in the front. The place smells of disinfectant and it’s sparkling clean. There are sheets on my bed, dishes and pots in the cabinets, and plenty of ash-trays, but there’s not a picture on a wall or a knick-knack on a table. There are no frills to these government accommodations.

  The next day Felipe takes me to the beach along a path of sharp, black lava rocks. The Galápagos Islands are volcanic, having been spewed up from the ocean bottom. They became islands when the underwater mountains reached the air, millions of years ago, sputtering and hissing into being. Over millions of more years, dozens of craggy little islands and fourteen big ones established their presence in the vast ocean, six hundred miles away from the mainland and any form of terrestrial life. The birds arrived by air; the land animals on hunks of earth that broke off from the mainland and somehow bumped into the tiny masses in the vast Pacific.

  As we walk along the path to the beach, Felipe gives me a lesson in how to negotiate lava. Every footstep has to be carefully placed; if you’re moving, you have to look down all the time. From time to time he takes my hand and helps me over a rough spot.

  We spend several hours on the b
each. He asks as many questions as he answers, and we share our history, our interests, our families. Felipe refuses to speak English; he says he can’t. But I know that someone with his education must have read books in English. Like many well-educated Hispanic men, he doesn’t want to make mistakes, so he won’t talk. We’ll have to get along in my flawed Spanish. I have no problem mutilating his language.

  That night we go out to dinner to a local hangout where I get a thick hamburger with avocado and sprouts.

  The next day I begin researching. The Charles Darwin Research Station is about a mile or so from our house. Felipe carries my computer to the library before he goes off to work. And when I get home, he’s cooked dinner and the table is set for two. Carlos, our housemate, is out.

  I wonder, as I sit across from Felipe eating a wonderful stew made of plátanos, beef, and peanuts, if he is still on assignment: “Pick her up at the boat, take her to the house, and keep her happy.” If so, he’s doing a great job.

  After I’ve been there for more than a week, all I can be certain of is that this ordinary-looking man, who reminds me of an Ecuadorian peasant, has sparked in me the pitter-patter sensations of a teenage crush. And then one night, when Felipe and I are sitting on the couch, my legs curled up under me, my knees slightly touching his legs, he asks, “Puedo abrazarte?” May I embrace you?

  No one has ever asked before. Suddenly I feel shy and I don’t know how to answer. Somehow, “Si” feels uncomfortable and too short. “Por favor,” please, feels needy. “Por supuesto,” of course, sounds too eager. I am wordless.

  Understandably, Felipe finds the silence awkward and he’s too much of a gentleman to reach over without permission, which is of course what I want. He thinks I don’t understand the Spanish, and he asks again.

  Fortunately, it’s one of those situations where language isn’t necessary. Felipe turns out to be the best government gift of all, a thoughtful friend and an extraordinary lover.

  My research is going well. The books in the library answer all my questions, and there are dozens of scientists (marine biologists, geologists, ecologists, zoologists, etc.) here from all over the world who are willing to sit with me and explain whatever I don’t understand. I like being a part of this community of people who love what they’re doing and where they’re doing it.

  Jan is on her way. Her timing is perfect. A day after she arrives, both Felipe and Carlos (my other housemate) are going on vacation. I do not have secrets from Jan; we are very close. Even before she arrives, I tell her about Felipe. But the fact that he will not be here will definitely make things more relaxed. When the guys return, Jan and I will be off on a two-week tour of the islands.

  Touring the uninhabited (by people) islands is the essence of a Galápagos visit. The magic experience of these islands is observing the animals at close range: sitting on the ground just a couple of feet away from blue-footed boobies dancing their mating dance; swimming with sea lions when they brush you with their whiskers and swim around you as though you were a maypole; watching the big male marine iguanas jump into the water and swim for their algae food, looking like prehistoric aquatic dinosaurs; standing near the edge of a cliff while an albatross waits for the perfect wind to launch himself into the air.

  The only way to see the animals in their environment is to visit them on their islands, islands where people are permitted only if they are touring on an Ecuadorian-registered boat with a government-certified guide. Islands where people are permitted only during the day. Islands that have paths where humans are permitted to walk. The Galápagos are well protected.

  I make plans for Jan and me to take a two-week luxury tour, one that usually costs two hundred dollars per person per day. We are filling in the empty bunks and paying fifty dollars a day. I’m excited. I know Jan is going to love it.

  Then, four days before she arrives, our luxury boat breaks down and the cruise is cancelled. So much for making reservations in advance.

  It’s time to test the pick-up-tour method. A pick-up tour is what the more adventurous and longer term travelers do. Instead of booking a boat in advance through a travel agent, they just book airfare to the islands. No one meets them. Instead, they settle into one of the mediocre hotels and wander the plaza looking for others like them who want to put together a group for a tour. I’m going to wait for Jan’s arrival so we can find our pick-up group together.

  I have to admit that being able to say to my kids “Come visit me in the Galápagos” makes me feel great (Mitch can’t get away). I like being able to introduce Jan to new worlds while enriching our relationship.

  The day after her arrival, Jan and I go off to the square. We talk to everyone we see. By afternoon, we’ve found our passengers: two women from Sweden, an Englishman, an Israeli couple, an American couple just finished with their Peace Corp duty in Peru, and the two of us. It’s a good group. I’m the only one over thirty.

  Together, the nine of us talk to various captains who are hanging around the dock. Finally, we book a seaworthy but slightly battered fishing boat that’s been turned into a cruise boat. Then I talk to a friend who is an official guide and she agrees to come with us. We leave the next day. The cost per person is twenty-five dollars a day.

  The first day out, Jan dives off the boat and loses both of her contact lenses. The whole point of being in the Galápagos, of course, is to observe the animals, and Jan can barely see. Her glasses are back in Santa Cruz.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been called upon to sacrifice for my daughter; she’s been independent since the age of eighteen, and stubborn about accepting help from adults since the age of fourteen. But this is serious. There’s only one thing a mother can do.

  It’s not quite like giving her a kidney, but it’s the best I can do in the circumstances. I have two lenses in my eyes and an extra one in my bag. I gallantly give her the extra lens . . . and the one in my right eye. Voilà! She can see again, albeit imperfectly since our prescriptions are not the same. I am only a little bit dizzy with one lens. And the blur disappears for both of us after two days. Somehow we are both able to adjust to our manufactured disabilities.

  I have had two luxury trips before this one, both on the Tigris, a sleek sailing yacht. All the passengers on those trips were Americans who could afford $150 a day. And while the tours were great, on each tour there were at least two out of the six people who were unpleasant to be with. Some of my most vivid memories are of people not talking to people, others nonstop complaining, and one couple squabbling for two weeks.

  This time we’re on a beat-up converted fishing boat; there are no romantic sails fluttering in the wind, and no hints of luxury. The group is mostly European; all except me are young; and not one of them could have afforded $150 a day. But the dynamics are sensational. We sing songs in four different languages and play charades in sign language, desperately trying to come up with universal clichés and proverbs. No one complains about anything or criticizes a fellow passenger.

  Our food is mostly fish caught by the crew while we are visiting the islands, and cooked to perfection, simple and moist. One day, the crew goes off and shoots a wild goat for our dinner. Twice, at night, they dive and catch lobsters. And we snack more than once on sea urchins, fresh from the bottom of the sea. Papaya, potatoes, plátanos, pasta, and other assorted non-p dishes are turned into great dinners.

  Maybe it’s being with Jan, maybe it’s the contagious exuberance of the young passengers, but this trip is pure joy. There is a part of me that can’t help but compare it to the hotel vs. backpacker syndrome. Do people who are spending more money have more brakes on their ability to have fun, are they more self-conscious, more demanding, more judgmental?

  I’m the only one on the trip who is disappointed when the captain tells us that he is not planning to take us to Tower Island. I’m also the only one who knows what we’re missing. Tower has all the birds of the other islands, plus. It’s the plus that I fell in love with: hundreds of nesting frigate
birds.

  A few hundred feet onto Tower Island from Darwin Bay is a flat area filled with trees and shrubs around four to eight feet high; and during the first six or so months of the year, there are spectacular great frigatebird colonies sitting on top of the vegetation. It’s the males who are spectacular, resting their heads on what look like bright red basketball-size balloons (technically called gular sacs).

  Normally these balloons are the size of a turkey’s wattle, but when the male frigates want to attract a female, they blow up their balloons. When a female frigate flies overhead, the males turn their heads and wings upward, shake seductively, and cackle into the sky. The chorus of frigates sounds like a theme song from a witches’ convention.

  Hearing the call, the female flies around, surveying her suiters, flapping to the chorus of the cackles. If she’s interested, she chooses one of the males and lands next to him. The rest of the birds stop cackling and go back to waiting. The “dating” pair do a short flirtation dance, waving their heads at each other, wiggling, the male shaking his balloon. Sometimes he puts his wing around her.

  I have watched this ritual dozens of times on two visits to Tower, and I have never seen a female who liked what she saw. Once I watched for two hours as females flew over and males cackled and wiggled and wooed. Every time the female flew down, she flirted a bit, observed her suitor’s technique, and then flew off in search of something better. As soon as she gave up, the cackle chorus began again.

  It was obvious, however, that some females had stayed long enough to make the fluffy, puffy white babies that were perched in the trees waiting for their parents to arrive with food, but I never did see a female who stayed.

  On both of my visits to the Galápagos, Tower was the highlight of my trip. If there were no iguanas, no sea lions, no boobies, no finches in the Galápagos, the extraordinary frigates of Tower would be worth the trip.

  I think about those frigates often. In addition to their comedic courtship, they are also spectacular fliers. I have seen frigates poking and pulling on a booby in midair until it drops the fish in its beak; then the frigate with its ten-foot wingspan and forked tail swoops down, and catches the food in midair. I often fantasize about coming back in my next life as a frigate, riding the wind, pestering boobies, getting cackled at by whole colonies of males shaking their red balloons at me.