Writers Strike!

 By now, most of us have heard about the Writer's Guild of America strike in Hollywood, all about the mind-freaking profits made by the streaming services like HBO, Netflix and Paramount and the dwindling pay of those who write the scripts. The streaming services have more deviltry in the works: hiring writers to write the initial scripts of a series, then using AI to write the rest.

This isn't a new problem, just a more public one. When I first started out as a writer, I was able to make a living with my travel books for Moon because I was able to negotiate an upfront payment against residuals. Also in the contract: the right to write future editions. After 2010, publishers figured they could save money by buying my words outright and hiring in-house staff to do the rewrites. No more contracts, no more residuals, no more long-term relationship. We refer to "the good old days" as pre-2010.

I've started a petition to present to the Writers Guild. Please sign it if you wish to support fair pay for fair work: https://chng.it/SFmdKyVZqb

Gold Country/Father Knows Best: Railtown 1897 State Historic Park

Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey

Conductor Brian gives us the goods (Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey)

My dad was a railroad man—he worked for the Southern Pacific for many years, and loved it. You can see that ardent love of the rails in all the volunteers who populate the Railtown 1897 State Historic Park in Jamestown, one of only two fully operational roundhouse complexes left in the country (the other is at East Broad Top Railroad in Broad Top City, PA—yes, it’s in my book, Moon Travel Handbooks: Pennsylvania). A roundhouse is the shop facility that maintains and repairs rail engines and cars; equipment that's being restored is on display. The roundhouse is open for tours year-round, but there’s far more here. Most of the repairmen and "rail personnel" are volunteers, many of them former rail employees like my dad.

Our engineer by his locomotive (Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey)

Hollywood saved this historic site from being scraped during the Great Depression. Starting in 1919, more than 200 movies and television programs were filmed using the former Sierra Railway's steam engines, buildings, and other equipment. This historic landmark hosts regular round trips on a three-mile long-track Saturday through Monday from April through October: steam trains pull passenger cars on Saturdays, and vintage diesel locomotives operate on Sundays, plus Wednesdays in July and August (tickets $10-15, under 5 free). Each passenger car has a “conductor” that tells of rail days gone by. There are multiple events held throughout the year, and volunteers dressed as passengers during the hey-day of rail travel wander through the park and answer questions. One of the most popular and fun events is the Polar Express Train Ride in December; families can enjoy hot chocolate and cookies with costumed characters from the animated film, Polar Express. When passengers reach the North Pole, Santa comes aboard and gives each ticketholder a silver sleigh bell, “the first gift of Christmas.”

Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey

 The singular smell of the roundhouse—grease, dirt, steel and smoke—though rooted in a long-distant past--brought back so many memories of my dad returning from work, bearing a whiff of engines and rails on his clothes. The people who dress up and give their time and energy to this bit of American history, engineers in their stripped caps and Victorian ladies with parasols alike, are equally dedicated to the gritty romance of trains. This is a special place.

Railtown 1897 State Historic Park, 
10501 Reservoir Road, Jamestown, CA 95327

www.railtown1897.org


Map to the location

Gold Country: Eve had it Right: Indigeny Reserve in Sonora

Oh, the perfume of ripening apples! In an Orion magazine article*, writer Gary Paul Naban describes a trip to the Eden-like birthplace of Malus sieversii in Kazakhstan, where researchers catalogued more than fifty-six wild forms of apples. Fortunately, fifty-one varieties of these fragrant beauties can be found in Sonora, California, considerably closer to home, and in forms just about anyone can appreciate year-round: hard cider, brandy and vodka.

The bottling plant (photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey)

The Watson family purchased the original 80-acre orchard in 2005 to keep the land from development, and expanded since then to 160 acres. Some of the trees date back to the early 1900s; it's the oldest stand of apple trees in Tuolumne County. After going through a three-year process for organic certification, they determined that nearly half the apples were not suitable for eating--hence the hard cider and other products (though there are plenty of sweet and juicy Honeycrisps during harvest time in early autumn).

The orchards, renamed the Indigeny Reserve in 2007, now offer a beautiful park-like setting for picnickers and a tasting room that’s open every day after 10AM. The reserve couldn’t be more attractive, from the entry road winding through a shady forest under a covered bridge to the tasting rooms, and a cidery and distilling plant built from locally harvested and re-purposed oak and cedar.

Speaking of distilleries, that isn't a giant flute on the left--it's the distilling unit, chugging away.

The grounds are gorgeous even in the rain

The view from the bridge

I can’t fail to mention the “extra-crisp” cider, which is my new favorite thing—made from Granny Smith apples, fermented with champagne yeast and served in aluminum bottles, this stuff is killer! There’s also a blackberry-flavored extra-crisp, and a cider made from all varieties of apples in the orchards. And brandy. And vodka. And a two-and-a-half-mile hiking trail to work it off. Even Adam couldn’t ask for anything more.

Lifting a cool one...(Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey)

(Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey)

Indigeny Reserve, 14679 Summers Lane, Sonora, CA

https://indigenyreserve.com/

Indigeny Reserve on Google Maps

*https://orionmagazine.org/article/the-fatherland-of-apples/

 All photos by Joanne Orion Miller unless otherwise noted. www.joanneorionmiller.com

MY TRAVEL PLANS FOR 2016

  

I have been in many places, but I've never been in Kahoots. Apparently, you can't go alone. You have to be in Kahoots with someone.

I've also never been in Cognito. I hear no one recognizes you there.

I have, however, been in Sane. They don't have an airport;

you have to be driven there. I have made several trips there,

thanks to my children, friends, family and work.

I would like to go to Conclusions, but you have to jump, and I'm not too much on physical activity anymore.

I have also been in Doubt. That is a sad place to go, and I try not to visit there too often.

I've been in Flexible, but only when it was very important to

stand firm.

Sometimes I'm in Capable, and I go there more often as I'm

getting older.

One of my favourite places to be is in Suspense! It really gets

the adrenaline flowing and pumps up the old heart!  At my age need all the stimuli I can get! 

I may have been in Continent, but I don't remember what country I was in. It's an age thing. They tell me it is very wet and damp there.

(Many thanks to Jerry L. for passing this on...)

Mindblown Art in Menlo Park

teamLab, a Japanese digital art collective is currently exhibiting at Pace Gallery in Menlo Park, CA. This show stretches the limits of digital art combined with physical constructs and music. One of the first pieces is a six-foot-square suspended "cube" made of strings of lights, programmed to appear to have a magenta-colored fire blazing inside it--and that's just the beginning. Favorite pieces included the ballroom-sized dark room with butterflies and  blowing flowers that cover the walls, floor, and visitors--it even smelled like flowers! Another wall of art "bloomed" when a visitor stood next to it. But don't stop at the exhibits--included in the price of admission ($20 for adults) is entry to the "kidzone", which has billboard-sized play areas, including a wall of symbols that, when touched, turn into near-life sized rainbow-hued elephants, coyotes, mountains and other objects which then amble across the board. Don't miss this show! Still photos can't come close to capturing the sheer beauty of these works; to see a 3-minute video review featuring a few of the pieces, go to: vimeo.com/156793566

Guest Post: Sharyn in India

Red Fort, Delhi - Joanne Orion Miller 2013

Traveling solo is more common than one would suspect. My dear friend Sharyn Trevillyan has been doing it for years, and is something of an expert on getting around. After university she dreamed of seeing places that were very different from her native England; she wanted to experience cultures that remained unaltered for centuries, but would likely undergo radical change due to the increasing pace of the world.

Sharyn saved up money for travel for seven years; her first solo trip circumnavigated the globe in 1990; her first flight was to Delhi, with a return ticket from Sydney. Here are excerpts from her diary, including a glimpse of India of 25 years ago:

“Until today I’d only seen pictures of India and knew little of this country of a billion people. I knew no one. As I exited the plane in New Delhi at five in the morning, I was met with a sea of faces; the taxi drivers engulfed me like a wave. They jostled for position but none wanted to take me to the hotel I booked. Some claimed it had closed, and offered me their cousin's hotel instead. This was the first of many games I would need to play as a lone female traveler. I picked the frailest man and told him he would get my fare if he took me to my chosen hotel. As he led me through the throng, he wore a look of pride. Victory for both of us! An hour later, after stowing my bags in the hotel, I walked through Connaught Square; an elephant with a painted face passed me, his handler atop his back. This is why I travel.

That night I slept as only one can after fifteen hours on a plane, leapfrogging over several time zones. The cacophony of sounds outside the window stirred me from my jetlagged slumber. It was the middle of the day and the people of New Delhi were ardently going about their business. In a nation where a majority of people are considered by western classifications to be underemployed, they seemed awfully busy.

Delhi street scene - Joanne Orion Miller 2013

Two weeks later, I spent time at the River Ganges, a sacred place for Hindus. It is their tradition to burn their dead and scatter the ashes in these holy waters. As most people are too poor to buy enough wood to burn an entire body, many are dropped into the water with little more than scorch marks. I was appalled, but then I heard the story of how widows were once expected to throw themselves on the pyre with their deceased husbands. Given the widow would have no means of support, this was a practical maneuver rather than a display of undying love. I was grateful that this tradition is changing and I’m spared the smell of live flesh.

I thought of how different my life is and the opportunities I have in comparison to those in India.  Most are not in charge of their future and are compelled by society’s rule to marry whom their parent deems appropriate governed by the strict cast system.

A week later I sat with my glass of chai tea in a Darjeeling cafe. The street outside appears unchanged since the last century; women in beautiful saris clutch baskets with their tiny boneless hands, dogs roam mindlessly. I had associated India with the peace and tranquility of yoga and meditation, yet when I arrived I was overwhelmed by the noise, bustle and sheer volume of people.

At first I thought the country needed a good sweep but India has cured me of my superior attitude. Now I can embrace it for what it is, not what I want it to be.

I stare at the tall glass--a beautiful tumbler with silver wrapped around it to form a handle. Something so delicate may seem at odds with the dusty surroundings and the lack of what I consider to be the basic necessities of life, but now I know better. The Indians take time for their ceremonies, for family, for tradition; tea drinking is one of the most important pastimes: It brings people together--the entire family can participate--and encourages conversation. It was right that something so beautiful, yet so fragile, would be here.

I took a sip of the milky liquid and felt the spices on my tongue, soothing yet with a hint of fire. That summed up my time in India.

Delhi market - Joanne Orion Miller 2013

1Woman1World..2 Years!

Sunset from my driveway, February 2013

I've traveled around the world, and loved (nearly) every minute of it--and I'm happy to be home. I'm lucky enough to live in a fantastic place, the San Francisco Bay Area. I've lived here most of my life (thanks to my folks choosing this area to settle in when I was small), and have enjoyed a lot of local attractions. In addition, as a member of Bay Area Travel Writers (a professional group), I'm often invited to destinations and events that are off the radar of many locals and visitors--so I'm going to continue to review and share as many of these great activities and places with you in the coming year as I can--and who knows, I might throw in an exotic destination too, since I'm a gypsy at heart.

SOUTHERN SPAIN - I BECOME "EL AFORTUNADO"

Ministry of Agriculture, Madrid

Spain is to Mexico as a thoroughbred racehorse is to a donkey—that’s not a mathematical question, but a description. Spain is elegant and refined, its people dignified, reserved, polite and helpful. Though the country is experiencing many of the financial woes that seem to multiply in warm climates in Europe, you don’t see it in the city or the country. No panhandlers at the airport or train station, plenty of modern facilities, and fantastic highways. Of course, you’ll pass more than a few bridges to nowhere and roads that simply end without a destination, thanks to the economic melt-down; compared to Naples—there’s no comparison. The desperation doesn’t seem to be there.

That said, I had a GREAT time, hanging with my friends and meeting the Brit ex-pat community (or at least part of it) in the Alpujarra. “Alpujarra”, I’m told, means “the defiant ones”, as it was the last stand of the moors before they were driven out of Spain, and a hotbed of resistance during the Spanish civil war. I couldn’t help but think of the film Sexy Beast, about ex-cons retiring to southern Spain. None of MY acquaintances, of course.

Museum advertisement, Madrid

Read on, and find out why I’m “el afortunado”—the lucky one.

Check out the video: https://vimeo.com/70760985

Day Three: I Get to Pretend I Know What I’m Doing

Dome of the Lotus Temple

The next day, I met Greg who was also going on the Intrepid tour; we rented a taxi for four hours from India Travel Organizers and went to Delhi hat (spelled Dili Hat on the map), a government facility of artists and craftwork from around the state. The cabbie, after being thoroughly instructed in Hindi (a truly lyrical language) by Raja Burza, took us everywhere we wanted to go. Dili hat was a disappointment--same hard sell cloaked in charm; but hey, I bought two things (charm works, on me at least). The salesman, a slick and handsome English speaker, called himself Harry Potter; his job was to get tourists in the door. Neither of the items chosen fit, and Harry promised their tailor would fit the garments. Greg and I waited 30 minutes (while enduring a spiel from an artist who claimed his work would not be found anywhere else—it was everywhere, actually) and they handed us two bags. I foolishly didn’t try the garments on until I got back to the hotel and discovered only one had been fixed. What to do? Perhaps I could deal with the ill-fitting garment the last day of the tour when I returned to Delhi, a prospect that didn’t fill me with joy. My lesson two, the art of argumentation, was still in a nascent state.

The Lotus Temple

Our excursion also included the Lotus Temple, a gorgeous Sikh structure south of town—the building reminiscent of Sydney Harbor’s opera house. Of course, the lot outside was filled with hawkers plucking at our sleeves. Saying “no” 20 times a minute (sometimes to the same person) is tiring at best. At worst, it’s enough to make you shriek--but no one would hear over the constant noise from the streets. Oddly, the noise and press of people didn’t faze me—I’m an ex-New Yorker after all. However, the omnipresent pollution eventually took its toll on all of us.

The gang at the Sun (Monkey) Temple,  Jaipur

That night, the Intrepid group met for the first time and I acquired a roommate: Ann, a former pipeline worker from Alaska. We also met our guide, Chime (pronounced “Chimmy”) Dolkar, a tough and tiny Nepalese woman with a brusque manner. We all went out to dinner: Greg (Australia); Claudette (Canada); Pamela (London by way of Texas); a family, Mom Sue and grown-up daughter Virginia and son Matthew (all originally from Australia, though Virginia lives in Qatar at the moment); Josef (Australia by way of the Philippines); and Axel (Frankfurt, Germany). An interesting and varied group who were to become good friends over the next few days; we women supported each other through a tough introduction to a completely different culture, and the men became our companions and protectors. It didn’t take long for us girls to figure out we were a lot less hassled if we had a male companion, especially if we walked behind him. I’m not kidding.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Day Two: Understanding the Culture—Not

Gandhi Leading his People

The next day, I hired a driver from the hotel for four hours for 650Rp. I asked for a map, and luckily, he took me to a place that became a touchstone for me:  India Travel Organizers (ITO), also in the Channa Market area. Raja Burza, handsome devil, spoke perfect British English, and lined me up with a map. ITO, with offices around India, also organizes trips: Burza ji (that’s MR. Burza to the uninitiated. “ji” also means “yes”, which can get a little confusing) did mention that on ITO trips, you get what you pay for, unlike the 2-star hotels (one of which was downright creepy) passed off as 3-star by Intrepid. True? I don’t know--I have no comparison.

The Kahn Market

After, my hotel-cabbie insisted on taking me to a shopping place I didn’t want to go even though I told him no. He insisted the place I wanted--the Kahn market--wasn’t open yet. Lesson two: arguing is the national sport of India, and if I REALLY didn’t want to go, I would have adopted a harsh and commanding voice, which was totally foreign to me and most Westerners. After being rude to the woman owner of this other place who practically dragged me from one building to another (“no, thank you.” “No, really”. “I really don’t want anything, thank you.” “I have to go now.” “I’m going now”. “No, I’m REALLY not interested.”)--I was learning--I finally got to the Kahn market. There, I found a cool little shop (Vishnu) where I picked up some tops for 350Rp each (about $7). Again, I got lucky—the omnipresent horde of street hucksters I would come to know and dread were missing from the Kahn market, so I was feeling pretty cool. 

Lodhi Garden Restaurant

Lodhi Gardens

The cabbie took me to what was to become one of my favorite places in Delhi for lunch: the Lodhi Garden restaurant, in front of the actual Lodhi Garden with Its beautiful ancient buildings. Back to the hotel for a nap, and it was time for dinner. It was then I discovered the most difficult part of the trip: walking the blocks beyond the hotel to find a restaurant, I was besieged by bicycle rickshaw drivers (“Madam, madam, I can take you to the Metro”); little kids (“Lady, I show you around”), and salesmen on the main shopping street (“Come in and look. No charge for looking. You don’t have to buy anything, just look.”). If I hesitated for more than a few seconds at any restaurant front, insistent people who wanted my business surrounded me. Of note: the raging poverty, cardboard shack homes, physically disabled and malformed beggars I was warned about were seldom visible anywhere I went here in Delhi and in India; something good has really happened here. Raja Burza told me there were social programs for people in dire straits, and school, including uniforms and books are free to all children. However, some families prefer to (successfully) work the soft heart and inability to say “no” of Westerners, and take the kids out of school to beg or sell trinkets—“miserable for the future of India” he said. Overwhelmed, I hurried back to the hotel and ate a wrap I bought at the airport. 

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Last Day/Puerto Ayora

We awoke to beautiful dawn light illuminating the little town of Puerto Ayora, on the south end of Is. Santa Cruz. We said our farewells to the crew, and after a short panga ride to the dock, made our way through town to the Darwin Research Center. The center is concerned with keeping the varied species of land tortoises and iguanas from extinction; that's already happened on five of the archipelago's islands. You may have read about "Lonesome George", the last of his kind on one of the northern islands. Though he was brought to the Center and presented with a number of attractive female tortoises, he simply wasn't interested (the locals joke that he was gay. Or maybe it wasn't a joke). He died in 2012. One of the problems of attempting to interbreed animals from different islands is sterility in the offspring; even if the breeding "takes" with live young, the animals often die when they reach mating age, or they are unable to successfully reproduce. Though the islands don't seem that far apart physically, apparently the specialization that Charles Darwin noted has lasting effects.

A two-year old

The Darwin Center is a pleasant park that provides walkways threading through the grounds; we passed tortoises that were only a few inches in length to massive oldsters (they can live to be around 100 years). El Diablo, in spite of his unimpressive appearance, is the Center's champion. He mates with every female presented to him, usually successfully. What a guy!

El Diablo is very tired

We waited in town for a bus that took us through the lush, green highlands to the north part of the island; from there, a short ferry ride brought us back to Baltra and the airport. I met up once again with my Israeli friend, who stayed in Puerto Ayora the week--she had an adventure too, a mini-romance. It's a charming little town, and I could see coming directly here from Quito in the future. I suppose we both found what we were looking for.

Santa Cruz uplands

The flight back was uneventful, except for the risky choice of eating the salad served on the flight--by the time we touched down, I knew I had made a mistake. Fortunately, my armada of drugs including lomotil, tetracycline, pepto bismol tabs, and pro-biotics made for a short stint of bathroom sprints. What's traveling in South America without a little turista?

Once at the airport, I was unable to check into my next-day flights, so I took one of the airport cabs (these are marked on the side with a picture of an airplane) to my destination, the Galapagos Natural Life Hostel, which graciously gave me a free night for booking with Galapagos Last Minute. I expected it to be...a hostel. And it was. I didn't stay in the house proper, but in back, in one of the concrete block buildings that are single dwellings. Cold shower and TP-free toilet aside, it was a good overnight. I got to watch "Jennifer's Body", an old humor/horror/teenage angst DVD in English--what's not to like?

Painted on a Puerto Ayora wall...

At 4AM, my iPhone blasted out "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" as it had every morning (though usually it was at 6AM). I wandered out only to find no taxi waiting. Whoops. Again, I got lucky--the man who had booked my trip was staying at the hostel that night, visiting his mother; he woke up, turned the lights on, and called a taxi for me. Muchas Gracias again, Rodrigo! The cab driver had a religious program on the radio, and I listened to the silky voiced announcer expounding on "La luz marveloso" all the way to the airport. The "Migration" line was huge, and I was glad I gave it two hours. After one more luggage check, I took a seat in the waiting room; I was sweating it: only one flight a day from Quito to Houston, but I made it! In Houston, the thing I feared all along happened: I got bumped, and had to wait five hours for a plane to SFO. As is usual with anxiety, when the thing you fear most happens, you are relieved. I was pretty exhausted when we got into San Francisco (I had been either in an airport or some sort of moving vehicle for nearly 17 hours at that point), but the first of my adventures was a great success, and I felt elated. I even over-tipped the cab driver (I must have been tired).

Next: INDIA!

Punta Egas/Is. Santiago

Yes, I am fabulous.

 Today we hiked among the beautiful tidepools at Punta Egas on Is. Santiago. Plenty of Galapagos doves, finches, hawks, marine iguanas and sea lions, plus a colony of fur seals--many fewer in number than the omnipresent sea lions (the Galapagans call sea lions "sea dogs" and the fur seals "sea wolves"). The vegetation is more lush, at least for the Galapagos. A family that mined salt once lived on the bluff overlooking the sea, and the shell of their home remains; the crews from three tourist ships met in the field behind the house for a game of futball while we attempted to snorkel in the murky waters. 

One female sea lion came ashore to pose and preen for us, and when she tired of her game, fell asleep where she lay on the warm black sand beach.

After a short cruise north to Buccaneer's Cove (not much to see there), we motored to Playa Espumilla--aptly named, as the beach was as foamy as an over-soaped washing machine. The break was so shallow and close to the beach we had to jump in up to our necks and swim ashore through the breakers. Fabrizio said a panga overturned here before, so now they don't try to land on the beach itself. Playa Espumilla was stunning: at least a mile long with white-beige sand. It was dotted with a scattering of bright orange ghost crabs, who would scurry rapidly en masse into their little beach holes whenever we approached. These are the crabs Sponge Bob Squarepants--star of stage and screen--made famous, and can they move! We walked up the beach and saw a sad sight--a number of turtle egg nests that had been destroyed by the waves and sun. The eggs were exposed and dead--life is not easy here.

 

Several of us tried to swim in the surf to cool off--fighting that break was an effort, and at least one of our party got swamped. Getting back in the pangas took some timing. I got my first sunburn today, falling asleep on the sun deck after fighting the waves. Fabrizio tried to body-surf, and like the rest of us, ended up with a pants-full of black sand. I don't envy the crewmember who has to clean up the showers tomorrow.

Some days the crew is very attentive to my dairy allergy, other days, not so much. Today was one of those, when they could just about conceal their annoyance. I don't know whether the cook didn't have enough warning before he had to shop for the trip, or, in spite of the boat owner's efforts to inquire about food allergies and preferences, they really don't care. All that aside, the cook was a genius at salads and vegetables, and I feel the crew really made an effort to make us comfortable. Special thanks to Carlos, the panga expert, for getting us out of a potentially bad situation at Bahia Urbina. It's customary to leave tips for the crew and guide--they deserve it.

Tonight is my last night--tomorrow we go to the Darwin Research Station and breeding center outside Punta Ayora (the big city hereabouts) before boarding a bus to Baltra for the plane.

Shipwreck!..Well, almost.

A bit of excitement this morning as we brought the panga to the shore of the lava fields at Bahia Urbina on Is. Isabela: the boat was nearly swamped by a big sneaker wave. We were upended from the rear of the boat, and I wasn't sure we could turn the boat in time to face the rest of the incoming swells. If we didn't, all eight of us would have been dumped into the bay to face heavy breakers and shallow rocks. We just made it, and flew, face up over four more incoming giant swells. When we we're able to turn the boat and head for shore, we scrambled up a wet lava face, then took a precarious mile-long walk over an extensive lava field. 

The field, covered with pa hoe'hoe (ropy) lava mixed with the broken, treacherous a'a lava was the product of three huge surrounding volcanoes. I had to pay a lot of attention to where I was walking. We passed a couple of brackish ponds with turtles and rays, and ended up at a pond to visit three feeding flamingos. I passed on the morning snorkel--another rough and murky sea. The sundeck, with its cool breezes and beautiful views is the place for me. The group that went out came back in about 30 minutes--conditions were as bad as predicted.

palos santos trees over Darwin Lake

 After lunch, we motored to another spot on Isabela--Punta Tagus. After viewing graffiti from the 1800s and a scramble up a rock face that smelled of eons of bird poop, we climbed 100 steps and hiked up the hill to an overlook of Darwin Lake--as salty and lifeless as the Dead Sea. There's a lot more vegetation here, though, because this part of the island was covered in ash rather than lava after the most recent eruption. The palos santos trees, dormant until the rains, bloom in tiny yellowish flowers, and bleed a red sap that smells like a sweet incense, hence the name "holy tree". Normally in bloom this time of year, the trees remain dormant due to lack of rain--global warming is having a major effect here. 

The calm before the storm

On the way back down, as we descended the stairs, a large bull seal blocked the path to the panga; he was defending his female and pup that were lounging about on the shore. Fabrizio clapped his hands, and the bull charged. Our guide wisely backed up. By the third try, the bull must have felt he got his point across, and the little family took to the water.

Fabrizio told us that of the 32,000 inhabitants on the Galapagos islands, 10,000 are illegal, that is, people who are not born on the islands, part-time residents who make money from tourism and spend it on the mainland. Tourism has been a mixed blessing, bringing jobs, higher prices, too many people, too many cars. Water is a perennial problem, as there are no water sources other than rain, and almost everything is brought in from the Ecuadorian coast. Big foreign corporations control a lot of what goes down here politically, and they're also responsible for the big cruise ships that frequent the islands, but take the money to Ecuador or beyond instead of enriching the local economy.

Several of us recorded the ship's instruments as they went to zero tonight, indicating our arrival at the equator (again--we passed it in the middle of the night on the way in).  See the video at vimeo.com/joanneorionmiller

Punta Moreno, Is. Isabela

Hard to believe, but I've already lost sense of what day it is. I find myself content to watch the sea out of the window of my cabin. We had a busy day today. First, we motored all night--a 14-hour trip--to Punta Moreno on Is. Isabela, the largest island in the archipelago and our southernmost point, where we hiked into a pa hoe'hoe lava field that looked like melted licorice frosting on an enormous cake of sand. Every surface was covered by marine iguanas; it took profound attention to not step on one. They're big as chihuahuas, with a disdainful expression fortified by their frequent need to snort out a stream of salt from their nostrils--a by-product of living on a diet of ocean algae. These iguanas have developed special glands that filter the salt, and they nod their heads to bring the salty stream to the nostrils. Other iguanas--and frequently, our legs and feet--got a shot of the crusty white. The females are smaller and darker, but just as pugnacious-looking, in a feminine way of course. We walked a distance on the sand and encountered more sea lions and their puppy-like babies, including one that was alone. 

Death is a constant here--occasional decomposing carcasses feed the struggling multitude. Skeletons of a seal and whale were equally picked clean. We went out on the pangas (motor launches) later to snorkel. The water in the cove we chose was murky, with poor visibility--the Galapagos, relatively speaking, are young volcanic islands, and there is plenty of ash in the water, stirred up by a choppy current in the western archipelago. I fear I'm fated to never get close to a tortuga. Others spot penguins, rays and plenty of turtles, while I drift among the tropical fish--pretty, but not exciting.

 After lunch, we motored to Punta Espinosa on Fernandina island, the westernmost of the large islands. We walked through a forest of sorts--dry, brush-like trees, some with bright yellow flowers, and a pretty, poisonous tree that could have stood in the Garden of Eden, the manzanillo. The temperature away from the shore soared, and sweat dampened a lot more than my upper lip as we marched along the dusty trail. In the forest, the twittering of Darwin finches could be heard among the trees. 

We spotted several tortoises, one so close to the trail we almost had to step over him. 

We also encountered a few land iguanas--so different from their marine cousins. One in particular was bright yellow; his diet consisted of yellow flowers from the trees.

Some passengers went for a snorkel from the beach later, and I dipped into the water, which was as murky as this morning, a little rough, and full of seaweed. I came back in, took off my gear, and contented myself with a swim close to shore. Returning snorkelers told tales of rays and turtles, and I was annoyed with myself for not going out further. I swallowed too much water when I first went out and struggle with memories of nearly drowning as a teenager every time I set foot in the ocean. Several of the young people (and one of the intrepid oldsters) swam to the boat from shore--600 yards.

Tonight, a peaceful (or as our guide Fabrizio Maldonado would say in his charming accent, "pissful") night.  Fabrizio, born to a couple of elementary school teachers here in the Galapagos, is fervent about ecological protection of the islands, and incredibly knowledgeable, which makes up for the occasional absence of "first class" hosting skills by the crew. I think any lapses are due more to inexperience than intention; each crew is hired anew for each tour, though most of our seven-member crew (plus Fabrizio) worked together before. We motored all last night over rough sea to get here, and now we're bedded down in a cove until morning.

A shield volcano on Isabela

Picture this: on front of us, the shield volcanoes of Isabella island form deep gray mounds against a near-black sky. What keeps the heavens from their habitual darkness is a brilliant white moon, set high above the island. On the sun deck, the wind is blowing steadily from the south; like everything here on the equator, it's a mix of hot and cold. The moon is so bright, it lights a wide swath of water rather than a narrow beam. If you stare down at the light on the water, and let your eyes go slightly out of focus, patterns form: a kaleidoscope made from bits of black paper and silver leaves. Orion, my namesake is overhead, but there are bright stars here that only are seen by eyes in the southern hemisphere. The breeze brings the scent of the land--dry vegetation and rotting earth, and the clean smell of the sea.
 

Galapagos Arrival

Thank COPU (that's Central Operating Principle of the Universe, for those in the know) for the kindness of strangers. First, I got the same cab driver as on the way in--a nice fellow, and above all, a helluva driver who got me to the airport on time in spite of morning traffic and lumbering buses that had all the speed of brontosauri at an herbal lunch counter. Then the fun really began...
 

Baltra airport

Ecuador has an elaborate system for just about everything, including getting foreigners from Quito to Baltra in the Galapagos, coupled with a near-total lack of information in English and among the airport personnel. I wandered around and around the small national airport, asking this person and that, getting different answers--often because of the language barrier and my nearly absent espanol. I ended up in the quite long TAME airline queue. Fortunately, a young man came to the line at the same time, and he spoke excellent English, thanks to six months in Chicago (I think every American that travels beyond US borders has thought, "why does everyone else in the world speak at least two languages except us?"). He went up to the front of the line with my info sheet and got the lowdown. I was to go to an unmarked door inside the terminal nearby. They then directed me to go outside. I immediately went to the wrong door, and was directed to another outside door. Finally, that was the right one! After that, back to inside door number 1, paid my $10, and was sent back to the TAME airline line, where my gallant young friend had held a place for me. Then he was delayed at the gate for some reason, a cell phone to his ear and a worried look on his face. I hope it turned out all right for him.

A sign at the Baltra airport

In the terminal, the flight was late, and TAME personnel kept disappearing. I ended up talking to an Israeli doctor, a woman who was also traveling alone, and together we managed to figure out which gate the flight was leaving from. She came enroute from Spain, couldn't land in Quito because of the torrential rains last night (the weather in Quito can manifest all four seasons in a day). Her flight ended up going to Quayaquil on the coast, enduring a six-hour layover, then flying into Quito; here she was, wandering around the same waiting room as me. The joys of travel; it's a way to test yourself, that's for sure.

Interesting note about the money: Ecuador uses American dollars as their currency; for change, they give you Sacajawea dollars, which I haven't seen in the US in years. They're highly valued here. Fun fact: Ecuador is named for the equator, which evenly divides the country and the city of Quito. 

The intense blue tint is from the blue shades on the dock

Reps from the yate Fragata picked us up at the airport in Baltra--I thought Baltra was a town, but it's a military installation. All together, we are three young couples, three older couples, a young single girl, and yours truly--an international assortment, from Holland, Switzerland, Canada, French Canada, and America. A jolting bus ride from the military installation brought us to the boat. Before we boarded, we got a taste of what the Galapagos is famous for--a sleeping marine iguana kept guard outside the boat launch and a sassy sea lion posed magnificently for pictures on a bench.

When I say the descriptive "first class", what comes to mind? Chilled cocktails on the foredeck? An abundance of hot water any time the urge strikes to shower? This is not Fragata, a slightly careworn boat whose last refitting was a decade past. Not that the crew doesn't try--they definitely make up for the faded brightwork. Yacht life isn't quite what I expected--for one thing, the simple act of taking a pee is not at all simple. No paper can enter the sewage that is flushed into the open sea in the Galapagos--that means, wipe (or more realistically, dab) and dispose of the paper in a container next to the toilet. Poop? We won't even go there. I'm sure I wasn't the only person who did a little toilet diving the first day…

The boat took us to Sombrero Chino, a small island south of Is. Santiago, where we went for our first snorkel--the water sparkled with schools of silvery anchovies, and the reefs were populated with all manner of colorful fish: pastel pink and yellow parrotfish, yellow-tailed wrasses, a cobalt blue sea star and much more (the Galapagos video is ready! Check it out:  vimeo.com/joanneorionmiller). It was an excellent dive followed by a short walk among a few sea lions with adorable pups. The sun disappeared into a neon sunset. A few of us gathered on the Fragata's sun deck to watch the last of the golden light darken to shades of gray-blue.