Galapagos, Peru, Bolivia: No Sacred Cows–Dispatch 3

For us, it all nearly ended at the equator.  When I say “at” the equator, I mean The Equator in all its geographic and nautical senses, that line that cuts the earth in two, like a halved grapefruit.

But first, a bit about the Galapagos.  I’m going to limit myself here, in part because it’s hard to know where to begin.  And also because I’m afraid once I start, I won’t be able to stop.  I will admit, at the risk of provoking all sorts of rolling eyeballs and gasps about the sacreligiousness of such thoughts, that I didn’t expect much from the Galapagos. I wanted to come here, because I knew intellectually the Galapagos needed to be seen.  But I didn’t think it’d be my kind of place.

Here’s why.  I don’t go in much for plants, insects, LBJs–little brown jobs, a name given to that general class of birds that are so similar one to the other, such as sparrows, or, dare I say it, Darwin finches, that only an experienced birder could tell them apart, or want to.  And I’m not an experienced birder. I know that the smaller inhabitants of the earth have an essential place in the ecosystem.  But, honestly, they strike me as existing to provide lunch for the big ones that are my favorites.  I’ll take a lion over a lava lizard any day.   What I find appealing are things with fur,  things that lumber, run or flap away when I approach,  things that are large or in other ways impressive.

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Galapagos, Peru, Bolivia: No Sacred Cows–Dispatch 2

Hi All! We’re here in Lima.  So is Brunhilde.   But that’s as close as it gets for the time being.  Not that I’m worried.  I have plenty of time for that ahead.  Right now, despite bureaucratic headaches, we’re finding Lima to be our kind of place.  What could be bad about a city where the vultures have such spot-on aim that when I curled myself up in a hammock for a short nap they hit me with their best shot from 1,000 feet up.  Perhaps they were wondering whether that thing on the terrace could be their next snack?   Well, I showed them a thing or two.  “I’m not dead yet!” I shouted to the heavens (courtesy Monty Python), tumbling out of the hammock and onto the terrace floor from where i would have shaken my fist at the sky if it hadn’t been numb from me sleeping on it.

Our favorite ceviche bar in Lima

We like Lima because it’s very human -sized, with short blocks, short houses, short people.  Houses are colorful, sidewalks buckled by the roots of the many trees in our part of the city.  It’s warm and bearably humid; I can see the cracks on Bernard’s fingers healing as I type.  Traffic is swift and amusing.  Imagine this:  no one uses their car horn here…I can’t figure out why…  so we have no clue who’s going where.  Which doesn’t actually matter, because nobody pays attention to street signs, stop signs, or any other traffic indicator.   I can just feel my palms getting sweaty about this as I type.

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Galapagos, Peru, Bolivia: No Sacred Cows–Dispatch 1

Hello! The countdown to Peru has begun.  Already, Brunhilde is on the high seas, heading for Lima’s port, Callao, there to await us in solitary splendor (at least, I hope I reserved the luxury warehouse for her), while we tiptoe around the Galapagos for a week.  Actually, I’m considering trying out a new waterproof cover for my laptop while snorkeling.  Which do you think is more compelling:   Facebook?   Tropical fish? 

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India: The Arc of the Himalayas–Dispatch 6

I realize I have only just delivered Bulletin #5, but that’s because it was stuck in my laptop until I was able to find a WiFi connection, actually let’s  be honest…until I got back to where there was electricity!!…. through which to transmit it.  Between the time I wrote it and finally was able to send it, we visited northeast India and got to Calcutta.  So now it’s time to catch you up with those experiences.

Our time in the northeast was one of the much-anticipated forays of our trip, and it didn’t disappoint.  A short flight from Bagdogra/Shiliguri (south of Darjeeling) to Guwahati (capital of Assam), brought us to  James Perry, our guide for our venture into Nagaland.  James, a 40-ish Canadian born in Shillong (capital of the state of Maghalaya, just south of Assam), has been travelling into the far eastern edge of Nagaland for many years now, and was a wonderful companion for our trip, even if his driving skills had us cringing and wincing, and his old jeep left both of us with shortened spinal columns.

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India: The Arc of the Himalayas–Dispatch 5

What a difference one letter can make:  I was standing at one of the typical cookies, sweets, soda and juice stalls in a small village somewhere in the center of India.  As in all such villages we passed, white faces were seldom seen, so I attracted quite a bit of friendly attention. An oldish gentleman wandered over to me.  I could tell from his expression of concentration that he was digging out the few English words he knew, in order to speak to me.  As I always did when we walked around in villages, I turned to him with a smile and said hello.  At this, his face lit up and he asked “Where from?”  To which I replied, “America.”  Well, his smile broadened to enable me to count all the teeth remaining in his mouth, crinkling his face into a myriad of wrinkles, his eyes disappearing into slits of delight.  Oh, he was happy.  He rocked back on his heels, clasped his hands together, thought hard and then came out with one word of huge significance.  Looking at me with great joy, he slowly enunciated “Osama” and then chuckled with glee.  He was consumed with pleasure that he’d been able to say this to me. I, of course, was a little taken aback.  But I was only stunned for the briefest moment.  I waggled my head with shared pleasure and, smiling broadly, queried, “Obama??”  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” he replied and began to cackle joyfully.  “Obama!!”  We nodded happily at each other for a minute, repeating “Obama” and smiling warmly.  And then he wandered off.

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