Epiphanies in Ecuador and the Galapagos

I confess. Galapagos was never high on my list. I'd always preferred destinations that required work, believing that authenticity couldn't be found through fine dining and room service. That adventure traveling was the highest calling, which entailed slipping out of your skin and our western bubble and exposing yourself to every vulnerability. A cushy westernized travel was an unnecessary layer separating one from a true experience. Furthermore, traveling in packs, in this case with six other family and friends, and then fifteen others on a luxury class boat was akin to being helicoptered to the summit of Everest, or having Bedouin nomads bused to your dinner table. Yea call me a travel snob, an adventure elitist, a bourgeois of the rough and dirty quest, a lone wolf in a sea of shrink wrapped tour buses.I admit it. But the Galapagos was a dream of a lifetime for my seventy-four year old mother in law Hil, and traveling with her daughters and her sin-in-laws was deserved payback for giving birth to them. So I set a personal goal to simply keep my mouth confined to bad translations of Spanish and quietly blend in on the boat. It's early afternoon when I arrive in Mariscal Sucre airport. I'm in the taxi within a minute. The pre-paid $6 fare gets me just about anywhere in Quito. That would be my biggest cab expense in Ecuador. Why aren't things this easy in Costco country? If first impressions are lasting, then Quito scores. Sure there are the unmistakeable diesel fumes and smog of Latin America, the kamikaze drivers, the jugglers and tangerine and candy vendors in the middle of the street who pounce on idling cars, the grit and worn paint of all the cube shaped concrete buildings, the leathered faces of many locals. But then my cab passes a tint glassed MUNDO MAC store. There isn't even a MAC store back home. We whizz by a high-end supermarket, camera stores, tall buildings, chic boutiques, boss looking cars, modern buses, and Chinese restaurants. My God I think I'm in heaven having just completed a development gig in Central America, I'd anticipated 15 more days of rice and beans and huevos revueltos. There are no panhandlers, no mangy, rib protruding dogs, no stenches beyond the exhaust. Maybe the police have gentrified the Mariscal district where I'm staying. The Hotel Santa Barbara has hot water. Internet is free. The staff speak good English, security is tight but not over the top. And it's spotless and laden with character that would put any B and B back home to shame. I have nine hours to kill before my wife and the rest of the group arrive. Traveling with her are, Chantel my 23yr old niece; Hil and her 63 yr old friend Ev; and Trish's sister, Terry and her husband Jeff. Caribbean resorts and monster cruise ships notwithstanding, this the first travel in a developing country for the latter four. I drop my bag and decide I need more than anything else---a real cup of coffee. Not some bogus Nescafe job that is often served and consumed by locals in coffee producing countries. The receptionist tells me Este Cafe near Plaza Foch, is a can't miss. She says it's a 20 minute walk, which could mean an hour Latino time, but I chance it. Half a block out the door I see it-- a greasy chopstick hole with hand scrawled specials on a window. Shrimp fried rice--$3. The shrimps are the size of Snickers bars and I down the plate before the tea arrives. I try and chat up the help who are Chinese. They are glued to the Simpsons-en espanol and couldn't be more indifferent to me, even with my Chinese roots. Glad to know Chinese restaurants aren't all that different the world over. I wander towards Cafe Este. Remembering all the blog advisories about Quito's petty crime, I repeatedly look over my shoulder and clutch my daypack. But except for the broken sidewalks and mysterious bolts sticking out of the pavement, the streets are clean, the people friendly, the stores modern and hip. And my God, there are street signs. I don't let my guard down but I realize I need to chill as even though I'm a walking ATM to the locals, I'm a bigger target if I don't melt in as best as I can. So I go with the flow and find coffee heaven at Cafe Este and watch the world go by. The heart of Mariscal is tourist central. Outfitters, trendy cafes, English bookstores, bars, pizza joints. It may not be oozing with lamas and panama hats, but there isn't a Burger King or Starbucks in sight either. The locals are hip and worldly and would fit into any Benetton ad. I grimace at the thought that I could be in Miami and wonder how far and wide I will have to travel to escape the toxicity of the consumer illusion. I return to the airport by 11pm to pick up Trish and the others. I join the masses of eager locals crowding the arrivals area as if Madonna or Ronaldo were coming. To me, Trish is much more. Anytime I don't see her for more than a day, laying eyes on her is like seeing her for that magical first time all over again. My group is among the last to step through. Trish comes through and after 15 days, we gingerly touch each other's face to ensure it isn't a dream, then embrace eagerly and tightly.

Our guide Mauricio arrives in a fedora, is a slightly built and easy going. Joining him is our driver Osvaldo (a university math prof). We do the standard local tourist stuff---the Teleferico cable car and lookout; El Panecillo the giant, aluminum virgin overlooking the city; the old town a UNESCO joint; Mitad del Mundo the equatorial exhibit and line. The old town is impressive. Narrow cobblestone streets, well preserved colonial architecture, enough old churches to satisfy even the most fervent Catholic historian, plazas and squares that invite you to linger and people watch for days, shops and street vendors hawking trinkets as well as high end local stuff. I keep an eye on Hil and Ev, figuring if I were a pickpocketer, or an unscrupulous vendor, they'd provide dinner. After a rough gastrointestinal bout in Central America, I remind everyone to not eat anything uncooked or unpeeled. Hil's videocam is permanently on. She has recorded the vibrancy of the old town, but also every meal, the waiter, the sidewalks, the traffic, the sights, the washrooms, half of Quito. Dusk arrives quickly and the streets and sidewalks of Mariscal are teeming with life, beautiful locals, blessed travellers, hungry stomachs, and thirsty throats. We go for the authentic meal at Mama Clorinda as recommended by our guide Mauricio. Jeff orders the guinea pig, which comes deepfried and is more or less like a dry, meatless chicken carcass. Everything else is meat and potatoes heaven, with a hearty dose of corn. Because of this, I've never been a huge fan of cuisine in Latin America but am impressed with the freshness of everything, especially the seafood.

July 19-21 Mindo Our van twists and turns along mountain roads as we head north then descend to the cloud forest at 1600metres. Along the way, I marvel at the endless near misses and death defying passes and lane changes among motor vehicles. Our driver who has the serenity of a monk behind the wheel, sports Johnny Cash side burns and looks as if he shared a cell with him eons ago. The road anarchy barely registers with him as he hums along to Spanish covers of Celine Dion on the radio. He is from Quito. He pulls into a dirt track near the village of Mindo and deposits us at our lodge, Reserve Pachijal. We tip him but he stares off. ''Tranquila y muy hermosa.'' Quiet and beautiful. The undulating terrain of the cloudforest lacks the humidity and bugs of the flat as a pancake Amazon basin. But the more temperate climate thaws one's inhibitions. Our eight room Lodge lacks the spit and polish of our Quito hotel but easily makes up for it in the pace, the air, the vibe, and the colors which all work to intoxicate us into a serenity normally only found in a bottle. Low lying clouds float among the tree tops. Greens of all shapes and sizes surround the landscape, interrupted by botanical treasures such as trumpet flowers, bromeliads, orchids. Necks strain at the sight and sounds of innumerable birds--yellow warblers, toucans, quetzals, golden flycatchers, grosbeaks. The intensity and drama of this forest with the rushing streams, steep ravines, thick mosses and thick vines are humbling. The senses are both overwhelmed and seduced at the same time. It is crac for our new age soul. I half expect Deepak Chopra in Wellingtons to round the corner and muse on the restorative powers of the forest. We sit for hours, but are drawn to the deeper, darker reaches. On one river hike, our machete wielding guides lead us to a white water stream cradled by slippery boulders and ankle deep mud. It is a hike that should have come with a warning: triathletes or insane only. We are one slip away from tumbling into gushing water and jagged rocks. Our usual guide has left us on a family emergency, leaving us with Juan who speaks little English but whose knowledge of the forest is incomparable. He and his assistant point to an overhang above the rushing creek. Their faces are stern, almost apologetic as if something terrible but unexpected is about to happen and casualties may be unavoidable. He suggests that an alternate route or doubling back would be four hours, mostly uphill. Hil slips and almost slides into a mud puddle. She is white as a ghost as she puts her videocam away. The mist and sweat have washed away much of her agelessness and I see fear. We vote to move on. Juan waves and gestures wildly but quietly with his arms. The best I understand is the red top Hil is wearing will attract unwanted attention, perhaps an attack. Hil throws on a windbreaker. Juan shoooshes us with his index finger. Hil is frozen and can't move. She fights back tears. I take her hand. But she declines and says defiantly: ''survived the London blitz, I can survive whatever creature this jungle has.'' Trish shoots me a look that says. ''You've pushed us too far and soon.'' l know I'll be dead meat if we get back in one piece. We silently scamper over the slick rocks and come within a few meters of the overhang. I see a crimson outline but Juan feverishly waves us on. We scurry away from the stream. Joy and relief paint our faces as though we've survived a near fatal experience. We let out a collective sigh and a group smile. It may not have been a marathon or Kilimanjaro, but I'm sure the feeling is not all that different. Juan pulls out his a book and points to a bird, then the overhang we left behind. I read, ''Cock in the Rock, extremely shy, 25 cm in height, lives off fruits, insects, rodents and nests on the side of cliffs.'' ''Muy fuerte.'' Juan says. Very lucky. Very lucky Ecuador has guides who take stewardship this seriously. Or very lucky we survived the ''Cock in the Rock'', or very lucky we saw this difficult to see bird, or very lucky I won't have to incur the wrath of both wife and the mother-in? Juan then picks off long red pointed leaves and creates a laurel for Hil who dons it with pride. She pulls a Mary Tyler Moore, spins around and exclaims she's Queen of the Cloudforest. After what she just did, no one would disagree.

July 21-23 High Andes We have three more nights before our creme de la creme, the Galapagos. I'd cajoled the group to give the Quilotoa Loop a look, a rarely visited backpacker haunt. The high Andes would be the furthest thing from a sanitized push button tour and it would reek of authenticity. Hil has been mumbling something about staying behind in Quito, that the higher altitude would be an issue. But it hasn't been yet though we'd been well over 3400metres. So I know it's her umbilical cord to creature comforts leading the grumbling. I bribe her with a cheese factory. I tell her there is one in Chuglichan where they make the finest cheese in the Andes, that the French embassy gets it flown in daily. There is in fact a cheese factory there. As for the French embassy's cheese deliveries, well...who knows, it could happen? Our van climbs back towards Quito at 2850 metres. With every kamikaze driver who nearly misses us, I add a dollar to our driver Johnny Cash's tip and silently thank him for pulling a Driving Miss Daisy. Why anyone would rent on this road is beyond me. By the time Johnny Cash clears the mountain death zones, he's up to $27. At Quito we hook up with Mauricio and our first driver, Osvaldo again. They take us south along the Pan-American, smartly marketed as the Avenue of the Volcanoes. I lament we've ill timed our trip and will miss all the major rural market days. Or so I thought. We pull into Latacunga, gateway to the gritty Quilotoa Loop, for lunch. We stumble onto a market. Mauricio our guide doesn't think much of it. Before I even exit the van, I am grinning. There are no gringos, no digicams but our own, no trinkets and handicrafts, just a sea of Ecuadoreans, most of whom are indigenous. They aren't in their flashy Sunday best or eye-catching embroidered blouse. They're in Panamas, stained aprons, non-descript ponchos and everyday sweats and pants. They, mostly women occupy tables of cow heads turned inside out, sacks of purple potatoes, baskets of green oranges, pyramids of tree tomatoes, carts of medicine for your ovaries and whatever else ails you. They sit for lunches of fried pork, rice and popcorn. They haggle, they flash toothless grins, they sell, and the odd one begs. One woman has a baby wrapped in a blanket around her back and sells baby chicks for a dollar, which she plops into a small paper bag upon purchase. This may not be on any tourist map, but I'm sold. We load up on tangerines, ground tomatoes and bananas, knowing these will be in short supply in our higher altitude destination. Our van climbs steadily along narrow and worsening roads. I expect the Andes to be barren and desolate. Instead the steep slopes are painted with grassy plains that sing with the wind. Potato fields so perfectly lined only a higher power could have manicured them. Lone farmers till their plots by hand. This is not Kansas and this is not a land for the weak. Three million indigenous live in Ecuador, most are dirt poor. At 3200meters our digs, Mama Hilde in the indigenous village of Chugchilan, are basic but clean. Hil says nothing. This and the market are a long way from the Aloha deck on her usual cruise ships. But a good sign emerges. Her videocam hasn't stopped, even when shooed away and spit at from locals who for some strange reason don't want it stuck in their face. Our only full day is devoted to descending into Laguna Quilotoa, a monster crater lake atop a volcano that is 3km wide and 400m deep. It is the windiest place on the planet, but the view is otherworldly. The emerald coloured waters are framed by a towering rim with snow capped volcanoes in the foreground. Surely this was considered as a backdrop for a Lord of the Rings scene. The descent is swift but for the drop dead photo opps. At the base, enterprising locals offer donkeys for the hike up. Chantel, Jeff and I opt for the hero hike back. They soon regret it, as altitude and soft North American living all but force them to crawl back. We return to the village and Hil scopes the other two inns for a Campari and soda. Neither inn has it (surprise, surprise) nor the homeliness and family atmosphere of Mama Hilde. All the guests crowd around three tables in a communal share of down home meals in big dishes. Hil finds this utterly charming and delightfully quaint. I make a mental note to drag her to Chinatown when we return and show her a serious community feed. She then meets Mama Hilde and shows her family pictures and shot after shot of her dog, Winnie-after Winston Churchill. Through elaborate hand gestures and my occasional interpretation, the two mamas manage a conversation about the futility of men and marriage. Mama Hilde's husband was a prick and she and her family have had a very difficult life. But she is content. She has family, friends and community. What more can she want, she asks rhetorically. Hil nods knowingly. I slinker off for a Pilsener, knowing Hil has transcended the cultural divide. There is no mention of any cheese factory.

July 24-July 31 Quito to the Galapagos Our Adventure Life rep and driver shovel us to the airport and get us onto our flight with polite and casual professionalism, and military precision. They give the impression that they can't be fazed. As our plane breaks through the clouds, the Islands come into view. Suddenly, I lose my smug travel smarts. Okay, 146,000 people go a year - but it hits me how the Galapagos is a fabled destination, laden with Darwin, birth of earth stuff, and far out animals as innocent as toddlers. We land at Puerto Moreno and are greeted by Johnny, our naturalist. He sports shoulder length, wavy hair that he can't keep his hands off, a lean but fit frame and the smoothest skin. If there is a Galapagos GQ, he'd be front and centre blowing pouty kisses. When he's not on the phone, he dispenses enough wealth of knowledge and information to satisfy the most cynical geologist and naturalist. Our group of seven meets the other nine passengers, all American except for an Aussie couple. I feel somewhat disengaged socially as the shock of close communal living and eating for days hasn't worn off. Johnny takes us to our home for the next 7 nights - the Millenium, an 85foot catamaran. Clearly the only thing that will be rough will be the water. The vessel is immaculate, the rooms comfortable and surprisingly spacious. Jeff would later say the food and service is better than the monster cruise boats. On the dock, we see our first sea lion, hamming it up for photographers. I resist the urge to snap forty pictures, knowing we will see many more, in a more natural environment. We return to shore and are bused to a land tortoise interpretation centre and farm where we see numbered land tortoises the size of bagels. There are more mature tortoises just off the footpaths, but Johnny is somewhat dismissive, and says many bigger ones will follow in upcoming days. That first night, the Millenium cranks up its engines at 2am and we sway and weave at 11 knots/hr all the way to Espanola Island. Most of our group is in various stages and degrees of discombobulation from fatigue due to sleep deprivation and the motion. Hil looks ashen and is unable to eat and skips the first shore landing. We land on a beautiful, soft sandy beach with scores of sea lions, and even more tourists. This is the first of many National Geographic moments that would unfold over the next week. Sea lion pups fresh from their mother's womb, lie motionless, their placentas still drip of blood. Groups of them spoon one another in perfect alignment. Some children have built elaborate sand castles only to have several monster male lions waddle over and crush the structures, then beach themselves on it, as if to say to the children, ''Your castle is in my home, piss off.'' And all the other tourists eventually do. Johnny for all his love of self, is impeccable at creating secluded moments. The beach empties but for us and several colonies of sea lions. We snorkel, we lie around, we cavort and we are alone. It feels like we are a million miles and years away from the rat race and it is absolutely splendid. During lunch on the Millenium, several of the crew race into the dining area: ballenos, they exclaim--humpbacks a mile off the stern. When the crew still reacts with awe to wildlife, it tells you how special this place is. Who says you have to be young to be a kid? Who says age tempers the adrenal glands? Everyone on board lines the stern side, grinning as if they just learned Santa Claus was real and had adult gifts. We motor to Punta Suarez and hit the booby trail. The sea lions now have to share the stage with hundreds of marine iguanas basking in the sun on rocks, blue footed boobies wobbling about their nests, giant albatross putting on an air show when not courting their lifelong partner to be - all within inches of us. It is a rich and diverse island whose scenery alone would merit visitation. We wonder if the trip had already climaxed, as we can't imagine a better day. Chantel snorkels for the first time and though we see no sea lions in the water, she spies a manta ray and is totally hooked. We hit the tiny island of Santa Fe and here Terry falls in love. We snorkel much to the delight of the sea lions who play chicken with us. They love to nibble our knees, then swim straight at us, swerving at the last second. If they could drive, they'd do well on the mountain roads. This daredevil swimming both exhilarates and unnerves us, but Terry eats it up and she is the last out of the water, shedding her snorkel gear to reveal tears of happiness. More manta rays, barracudas, reef sharks and too many schools of tropical fish to remember share the underwater accolades. Our ship motors up to Floreana Island. It is Jeff's birthday and the chef has baked a cake. But the waters are unforgivingly rocky for us city folk and everyone in our group of seven, except Jeff who sails, feels it. Only Ev and I are able to witness Jeff blowing out his birthday candles; then we scurry off to down some Dramamine and bed. The Dramamine lays me out for an hour, then I wake up famished for cake. I stagger to the lounge. All the passengers are in their cabins and some of the crew are huddled around a Playstation2 game. The land tortoises of San Cristobal's interpretation Centre, and on Santa Cruz, are similar to the land and marine iguanas in that they are as docile and tame as dairy cattle, but a whole lot more prehistoric. The tortoises lumber along at 300 metres an hour, that is when they aren't eating, sleeping, or mating, their primary activities. Supposedly they can live to two hundred years, and their well-lined, cracked skin shows every moment. The iguanas are thankfully herbivores and smaller than us. Every monster movie I saw growing up likely was animated and created based on these hideous but ultra relaxed looking reptiles. One of my favorite creatures is the male frigatebird. It's black but puffs a red neck and chest into an enormous balloon to attract females. When it's hungry it poaches from other birds and are superb fliers. They mate in colonies but are generally monogamous. Trish says I like them so much because their nests remind me of the red light district in Amsterdam. I had read on the blogs that the cruises tend to fall into a rhythm. The names of the islands and beaches blur together, sea lions and their unmistakable stench haunt every beach, lizards dot the footpaths, we alternate wet or dry landings, we snorkel, hike, find photo ops galore, and receive information overload. While this is undeniable, one should not mistake this as predictability and mundane. It's a treasure trove of Mother Nature's richness, massaging the senses until one is intoxicated with it. The beaches, rocks and tidal pools aren't all peaches and cream. We see bodies of sea lions that have been decomposing for weeks. Skeletal remains of pelicans, sea lions and iguanas lie inches away from the living. Birds feast off carcasses and swoop in on inattentive crabs. Here life is never far from death, nor does it shy away from it. I am tempted to pocket a piece of sea lion bone, perhaps a vertebrae, or the hip bone of a pelican. After all, they will eventually become part of the beach anyway. But Johnny warns us that our gear will be thoroughly searched and a sizeable fine will result. We snorkel six of our eight days. By the end of the trip I have an encyclopedic knowledge of many of the tropical fish--parrot fish, angle fish, damsel fish, tiger fish and so on. I've snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef, which has more impressive fish, but this overall experience is intensely richer. It boggles me how whether we're in the water or on land, we invite ourselves onto another species hood. We are unannounced and uninvited guests. We are so good at taking over and asserting our dominion. But the wildlife and the Mama Hilde's of Ecuador may have it right. They are far more chilled than we. They appear far more at ease with life, even though their struggle to survive is more perilous than ours. On Bartoleme Island Johnny says it's a 6am wet landing, and a difficult hike, 360 steps straight up to the lookout. That scares off a third of the boat. We are the first zodiac out and have the trail to ourselves for about half an hour. But it's a ridiculously jaunty walk, boardwalk with handrails and lunar-like landscapes all the way up. Johnny does it all in bare feet. I swear he has just shaved his legs. The summit provides the signature photo op of the Islands. Ironically it is not of any wildlife but of Pinnacle Rock and the breathtaking volcanic landscape and coastline. But for me it's more than that. This is our final full day and night. Our climb symbolizes our journey and the view says more than any antediluvian animals, and there have been so many, that life as we know it, started somewhat like what we just witnessed in the past week. It is an astonishing epiphany, and deeply humbling. After the hike we breakfast then check out the Galapagos penguin before snorkeling around their favorite rocks. Chantel spots a sea turtle and Trish a manta ray. On North Seymour IsIand I see a gentleman showing off his IPhone. He had to see if his GPS and web browsing worked out here. Did he forget he was on the Galapagos? I don't think he was similarly humbled. So many times in the past week the Islands has felt like a privilege. Not because we have the bucks to shell out for it, but because we experience a snippet of life largely untainted, and still innocent. The chances of us eventually messing it up are probable. Though credit must be given to Ecuador for recognizing and diligently attempting to safeguard it. I understand now why those who have been here and those who would like to come speak of it as those it was in a category onto itself, something about life's mysteries revealed, about a separate creation. The end of our cruise hangs in the air heavier than any humidity could. I hate goodbyes. It's always, ''see you later''. In this case it is to the Islands, the experience, and the privilege. We also make some new mates. It's always a bonus to meet travelers with open minds and panoramic views and invitations to visit them in their habitat. We say our goodbyes to a superb crew and Johnny, who looks at us with big glassy eyes that make you wonder if he was once a sea lion himself. We have eaten more and better than on any other travel, we have been pampered to the point of embarrassment. We do the requisite address exchange with the other travelers after we return to Quito. Adventure Life reps chauffer us to Casa Aliso, easily the cushiest luxury boutique hotel ever for Trish and I. If I didn't leave the hotel for the next two days I would've been happy as a sea lion terrorizing lilly white snorkelers. But we'd made arrangements to see Otavalo.

Aug 1 Two hours north of Quito, Otavalo is reputed to be the largest craft and artisan market in South America. We arrive during the week when it is scaled down and far less chaotic with no tour buses. Still, there are row upon row of vendors hawking crafts, ponchos, hats, scarves, swords, hand-woven textiles, trinkets, and so on. The vendors all have their rich indigenous attire, finely embroidered blouses, wool ponchos and felt fedoras. It's all vibrant and colorful, but for me it all blends in and becomes repetitive, and I feel very much like a tourist. I ask a local where is the local market. He shoots me a puzzled look then tells me I'm in it, but I explain I want to know where she shops, and where locals eat. She looks at me as if to say, why bother, then points, and along with Jeff and Chantel we walk on. The others are black belt shoppers and remain behind. The local market is much like Latacunga's local markets with streets of vendors and a large warehouse selling all manner of produce, with live and butchered animals hanging on open tables. It is completely devoid of tourists but us and drips with atmosphere and authenticity. There is not a knick-knack in sight, no one attempts to prod and cajole us into buying anything. There are no high-end sellers or buyers, but there are panhandlers and far more grit and edge, which surprises me, as I'd read Otavaleans had done well economically. Then I remember the average Ecuadorean makes only a few dollars a day. We sit and have a coke and watch Octavian's lunch on fried pork and popcorn. We marvel at the quality and selection of fresh food, from tree tomatoes to purple potatoes, sacks of legumes, tamales to giant brown sugar wheels and bundles of farmed long stemmed roses. My eyes become transfixed with a women wrapped in cloaks and a headdress. She looks as aged and wrinkled as a land tortoise, shuffles from vendor to vendor with a tin pot, begging for scraps. Her face is stunningly poignant, packed with a lifetime of toil and sweat. Each creased line on her face could be a roadmap of her country--deep crevasses, undulating rivers and worn mountain slopes. She could be Hil but for fate's design. She is largely ignored by the vendors. I drop a dollar in exchange for a photo. She barely acknowledges me. I watch her walk away and feel that I've captured my one signature shot of Ecuador. I have found the grit and edge that I demand in a travel. As we head back to the van, some locals talk to me in Japanese. I reply in Spanish that I'm not Japanese, that my parents are from China. They look puzzled, then smile and ask if I'm American. It dawns on me that their preconceived notions of me are as accurate as me believing this one picture is the essence of Ecuador. It would be akin to them believing that Canadians are igloos and hockey and not much more and that they, like me, can only understand the soul of a place by getting off the beaten track in the most grueling and punishing manner. I have to admit to myself this was a very comfortable and enjoyable travel; that I didn't have to rough it to find fulfillment and adventure. I loved the islands and the markets more than anything, but the ship, the hotels, the guides were all first rate and I saw and learned much, not only about the country, but about traveling. The Galapagos does live up to its billing as a once in a lifetime trip. No place else has the allure, the history, such wildlife and such an incredible setting. I am pleased that the push button tour through Adventure Life turned out the way it did. In the past I may have seen a managed travel as disingenuous. But you in the end it really isn't about how you got there, but getting there.

Aug 2 Our outbound flight is delayed. But we are in no rush to return to reality. Hil says she hopes the airline has overbooked, and that she can be bumped for another day, or week or longer. ''I won't be able to travel again'', she remarks. Then she asks no one in particular, ''Where do you go after you've just had the best adventure of your life?''