"Where am i?"
"Miami"
I'm an unabashed fan of the TV series Burn Notice. Its frank and irreverent take on the spying profession is hilarious, but its setting in Miami is also something that is captivating.
Miami is a shock to the system, it is brashness, with pastel the order of the south. It is Napoleonic palaces in Neapolitan pastiches and skin is in more than ample supply. As a fan of Burn Notice, I had thought that the scene setting jump cuts of bikini clad women and shirtless men were artificial "glamour" for the show. Not so. From South Beach inland to Collins Avenue, or further, and along Lincoln Road, it is perfectly acceptable to be scantily dressed - even the norm.
Stephen Fry, in his series in America noted that Miami is full of the beautiful people, who, as a consequence of being beautiful at the same time look hideously ugly, and I see his point, if only in the abstract. Along Miami Beach, the essential bikini uniform somehow makes the unideal body shape look appealing. But of course this is America, and the extreme is the norm. Unideal is healthy in comparison to the obese, still obvious in this most body conscious of cities.
Almost destroyed by consecutive hurricanes during the 1920s, Miami Beach is a homage to the Art Deco period, almost suffocatingly so. There are strict building codes enforced on any building that maintains an Art Deco facade and, as such, much modern development has been constrained. In the Miami Vice days, this meant that Miami Beach was a ghetto, with few people able to afford the vast amounts needed to make the buildings habitable while maintaining this stringent code. More recently, however, the rich set have moved in, led by the New York snowbirds who flutter down during the winter to avoid the cold.
Consequently, Miami Beach is expensive. From Spring Break onwards, South Beach is the domain of the locals, and the occasional traveller, but there is no mistaking that this is a tourist town. Lincoln Avenue cafes and grills, will shower you with drinks and burgers, at tourist prices, and the three Starbucks for every city block will make sure that you have the caffeine induced energy to paint the town pastel pink.
But there is a lot of charm to Miami Beach, and her people. Polite to a fault and helpful to the last man, woman and child, this is a snapshot of modern America. Consumerism is king here and where there is a buck to be made, someone is making it. But they are nice about it, and will help you in any way they can - provided it can be written off as a business expense.
It is easy to spend a day on the beach, baking in the hot, yet surprisingly gentle, sun. It is even easier to escape the humidity in the cafes or designer stores on Lincoln Road. But it is far more worthwhile to brave both the sun and humidity in search of Miami Beach's deco past and it's all evident rich past.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Sunday, April 27, 2014
In the Company of Giants, Evidence of Geologic Tantruming
It is ancient in so many ways. Both geological and societal, Bolivia is the very essence of the age old.
I have to admit that the entry into Bolivia is the first time I have crossed a land border (officially anyway, the excursion into Algeria in 2008 shouldn't really count), and it lived up to my best Checkpoint Charlie or Doraol su eomneun dari expectations.
Getting off the bus in Peru and crossing the bridge at Desaguardero, I expected soft mists to roll of Lake Titicaca and a Bolivian Police Officer to meet us at the halfway point. Of course, the borders to both countries extend to the middle of the river draining from the lake, but nonetheless when you walk under the "Thank-you for Visiting Peru" sign, and see the "Bienvenido a Bolivia" sign hovering 50 metres away you can easily believe that you too are hovering between those bizarre shapes on a map we call nations.
Bolivian immigration is the first age-old experience in this land. A single building, staffed by a single immigration official doing her best to process the passports of hundreds of people. Standing in line for the two hours, we were told, is nothing unusual. Similarly, the "inducements" that were offered by local tour guides so that their tour groups could jump the queue is also nothing unusual.
Rejoining our bus, the landscape between the border and La Paz is simply stunning. Only the other side of, an admittedly big, lake, and yet we are far more than a world away from Puno and the farmland of Peru. This is all rolling hills, dark, hanging skies and low scrub. There is no denying that the muted colours of the Altiplano are just a sheet of glass away.
And yet, the scattered rubbish on the side of the road tells of something more, a development still in the development stage.
The air is thin in the world's highest (de facto) capital city. The yet-to-be-finished teleferique that hangs over the city speaks of a city in development, desperately trying to entice the tourist dollar, next to the new basketball stadium, desperately trying to entice the international investment dollar.
La Paz itself is little to talk about. Sitting in a valley and surrounded by the mountains and Volcanoes of the highest of Los Andes, such a magnificent natural backdrop is sadly dwarfed by the ordinariness of the urban environment below it. Suffering through decades of official corruption and incompetence has taken its toll on a once charming city, and the plain development shows, alongside the still obvious bullet-holes in official buildings, including the Presidential Palace.
Yet there are still signs of life. A new President appears to be making swift changes to the city, and country, and life is returning. But the old life, the colonial quarter and the witches market, is breathing once more and the people are showing new signs of pride.
However, Bolivia's jewel is not La Paz. Bolivia's jewel is an 11 hour bus ride away - at least five hours of which are on unpaved roads. Uyuni lies on the other side of the famous Salar and is the essence of a modern western frontier town. Walking the streets we expect tumbleweed to roll past us before a gunfight breaks out.
Alighting our Toyota Landcruisers at the train cemetery, we are reminded of the futility of what we - man - make, in the face of nature. Lines of rusting railway hulks are a little boys playground, and pointing off into the nothing distance indicate the vastness of the landscape us here and the next three days.
Onto the Salar itself, the Landcruisers blast their way eastward towards the islands of the Salar and the horizon so close, yet always completely unobtainable. Cactuu is king here, as the precious timber is used for everything the Andean Indians needed - shelter, crockery and water containers.
The next morning we head further south, onto the higher points of the Altiplano. Here we were continually driving at heights of 3,500 metres or more - up to 5,000 metres at one point - and we are no closer to the peaks that surround us.
Millions of years ago, microseconds in geological terms, the Nazca Plate began its eternal subduction against the South American Plate and the Andes were born. It is here, amidst the Andes, that the greatest of the Andean volcanoes rise, many still spewing smoke, steam or sulfuric gas. Negotiating our way up chasmic rolling valleys we are dwarfed by the peaks around us and the ancients that cast such shadows take what little breath is left in our lungs.
But towards the head of the valleys we are stunned again, as evidence of the immaturity of this land presents itself in volcanic rock - nothing bigger than a Mini - is scattered across the landscape. Evidence, simply, of the devastation caused in the last eruptions.
This land is stunning. There are no high peaks surrounded by deep valleys, nor vast freshwater lakes. This is simple country of peaks rolling into shallow valleys, scrub not forest and peculiar rabbit/possums not capybara. This is not Peru, nor is it La Paz. It is simply the spectacular, understated beauty of the high plain, and it is enchanting.
A quick note on taking the bus in South America.
1. Allow up to three hours for roadside breakdowns,
2. Go to the toilet before you leave,
3. When in doubt, take advantage of unplanned stops, for instance next to the airport...
I have to admit that the entry into Bolivia is the first time I have crossed a land border (officially anyway, the excursion into Algeria in 2008 shouldn't really count), and it lived up to my best Checkpoint Charlie or Doraol su eomneun dari expectations.
Getting off the bus in Peru and crossing the bridge at Desaguardero, I expected soft mists to roll of Lake Titicaca and a Bolivian Police Officer to meet us at the halfway point. Of course, the borders to both countries extend to the middle of the river draining from the lake, but nonetheless when you walk under the "Thank-you for Visiting Peru" sign, and see the "Bienvenido a Bolivia" sign hovering 50 metres away you can easily believe that you too are hovering between those bizarre shapes on a map we call nations.
Bolivian immigration is the first age-old experience in this land. A single building, staffed by a single immigration official doing her best to process the passports of hundreds of people. Standing in line for the two hours, we were told, is nothing unusual. Similarly, the "inducements" that were offered by local tour guides so that their tour groups could jump the queue is also nothing unusual.
Rejoining our bus, the landscape between the border and La Paz is simply stunning. Only the other side of, an admittedly big, lake, and yet we are far more than a world away from Puno and the farmland of Peru. This is all rolling hills, dark, hanging skies and low scrub. There is no denying that the muted colours of the Altiplano are just a sheet of glass away.
And yet, the scattered rubbish on the side of the road tells of something more, a development still in the development stage.
The air is thin in the world's highest (de facto) capital city. The yet-to-be-finished teleferique that hangs over the city speaks of a city in development, desperately trying to entice the tourist dollar, next to the new basketball stadium, desperately trying to entice the international investment dollar.
La Paz itself is little to talk about. Sitting in a valley and surrounded by the mountains and Volcanoes of the highest of Los Andes, such a magnificent natural backdrop is sadly dwarfed by the ordinariness of the urban environment below it. Suffering through decades of official corruption and incompetence has taken its toll on a once charming city, and the plain development shows, alongside the still obvious bullet-holes in official buildings, including the Presidential Palace.
Yet there are still signs of life. A new President appears to be making swift changes to the city, and country, and life is returning. But the old life, the colonial quarter and the witches market, is breathing once more and the people are showing new signs of pride.
However, Bolivia's jewel is not La Paz. Bolivia's jewel is an 11 hour bus ride away - at least five hours of which are on unpaved roads. Uyuni lies on the other side of the famous Salar and is the essence of a modern western frontier town. Walking the streets we expect tumbleweed to roll past us before a gunfight breaks out.
Alighting our Toyota Landcruisers at the train cemetery, we are reminded of the futility of what we - man - make, in the face of nature. Lines of rusting railway hulks are a little boys playground, and pointing off into the nothing distance indicate the vastness of the landscape us here and the next three days.
Onto the Salar itself, the Landcruisers blast their way eastward towards the islands of the Salar and the horizon so close, yet always completely unobtainable. Cactuu is king here, as the precious timber is used for everything the Andean Indians needed - shelter, crockery and water containers.
The next morning we head further south, onto the higher points of the Altiplano. Here we were continually driving at heights of 3,500 metres or more - up to 5,000 metres at one point - and we are no closer to the peaks that surround us.
Millions of years ago, microseconds in geological terms, the Nazca Plate began its eternal subduction against the South American Plate and the Andes were born. It is here, amidst the Andes, that the greatest of the Andean volcanoes rise, many still spewing smoke, steam or sulfuric gas. Negotiating our way up chasmic rolling valleys we are dwarfed by the peaks around us and the ancients that cast such shadows take what little breath is left in our lungs.
But towards the head of the valleys we are stunned again, as evidence of the immaturity of this land presents itself in volcanic rock - nothing bigger than a Mini - is scattered across the landscape. Evidence, simply, of the devastation caused in the last eruptions.
This land is stunning. There are no high peaks surrounded by deep valleys, nor vast freshwater lakes. This is simple country of peaks rolling into shallow valleys, scrub not forest and peculiar rabbit/possums not capybara. This is not Peru, nor is it La Paz. It is simply the spectacular, understated beauty of the high plain, and it is enchanting.
A quick note on taking the bus in South America.
1. Allow up to three hours for roadside breakdowns,
2. Go to the toilet before you leave,
3. When in doubt, take advantage of unplanned stops, for instance next to the airport...
Saturday, April 19, 2014
The Missing Adventures Part 3: An Altiplano Adventure
High on the Altiplano the air is thin, thinner almost than anything else. Life exists here, if not in abundance then in vibrance. Muted landscapes now give way to colourful locals and the coin has been flipped from the Amazon in completeness.
There is nothing remarkable about Puno, or any other Spanish settlement along the immense Lake Titicaca. But that is not why we are here.
Across the venerable lake lie communities that exude modern Peruvian-ness. The Uros who inhabit the fascinating floating islands, and the people of Llonchon with whom we will stay the night.
The Uros people are unique amongst the Peruvians, both modern and ancient. A part of the Incan empire, and Aymaran to the person, they long ago shook off the constrictive binds of a land-based settlement to build their own islands and float free on the lake, settling on human-made reed islands. Theirs is a fascinating life. On one hand they float free from the world around them, waking up quite literally in a different location every day. On the other hand, they are now sop bound to the tourist dollar that they cannot float far from Puno for fear that they will be out of reach from the impatient tourist. Here is a false lifestyle, that is straining to retain its authenticity.
Across the lake lies the community of Llonchon. Here, authenticity abounds, if only because the tourists have no time for their placid lifestyle. There is little to see in subsistence farming, the daily volleyball to build the skills of one enthusiastic teenager or the daily sheep-drive ritual. Where there are only two cars - and no tourist mini-buss - how can you properly appreciate the culture?
The answer is simple. Spend time with the locals. Try to bridge the gaping language barrier with your broken Spanish/Cechua. Help out with food, gathered from the family's farming plot that afternoon, and then play volleyball. Get up close with you new Mama, Maria, and laugh at just how different we can be. Not only will you find that sport is a universal language, but that laughter can heal the divide that difference creates. Provided that we are not too proud, and that we retain some semblance of humility, it is amazing what two human beings can accomplish.
There is nothing remarkable about Puno, or any other Spanish settlement along the immense Lake Titicaca. But that is not why we are here.
Across the venerable lake lie communities that exude modern Peruvian-ness. The Uros who inhabit the fascinating floating islands, and the people of Llonchon with whom we will stay the night.
The Uros people are unique amongst the Peruvians, both modern and ancient. A part of the Incan empire, and Aymaran to the person, they long ago shook off the constrictive binds of a land-based settlement to build their own islands and float free on the lake, settling on human-made reed islands. Theirs is a fascinating life. On one hand they float free from the world around them, waking up quite literally in a different location every day. On the other hand, they are now sop bound to the tourist dollar that they cannot float far from Puno for fear that they will be out of reach from the impatient tourist. Here is a false lifestyle, that is straining to retain its authenticity.
Across the lake lies the community of Llonchon. Here, authenticity abounds, if only because the tourists have no time for their placid lifestyle. There is little to see in subsistence farming, the daily volleyball to build the skills of one enthusiastic teenager or the daily sheep-drive ritual. Where there are only two cars - and no tourist mini-buss - how can you properly appreciate the culture?
The answer is simple. Spend time with the locals. Try to bridge the gaping language barrier with your broken Spanish/Cechua. Help out with food, gathered from the family's farming plot that afternoon, and then play volleyball. Get up close with you new Mama, Maria, and laugh at just how different we can be. Not only will you find that sport is a universal language, but that laughter can heal the divide that difference creates. Provided that we are not too proud, and that we retain some semblance of humility, it is amazing what two human beings can accomplish.
The Missing Adventures Part 2: An Andean Adventure
This is the reason for this section of the holiday.
This is where we rise, both literally and metaphorically, to the challenge before us.
This is the Inca Trail.
Camino Inka. 45 kilometres of sheer cliffs, impossible rises and their associated geographic falls. Four days, rising to 4200 metres above sea level - nearly twice the height of Mount Kosciusko - and culminating in a dawn overlooking Machu Picchu.
This is the walk that can be adequately summarised in two words or less.
Hard.
Very hard.
And yet those two words - or less, depending on how dramatic you want me to be - completely fail to convey just the atmosphere of the walk, the history, the culture and the geography of the Andes.
In existence from the time of the height of the Incan Empire, until approximately 200 years before Spanish conquest when Machu Picchu was abandoned, the Inca Trail was the the main route into the fabled mountain-top town - rumoured to be either a religious site, royal holiday resort or military stronghold.
Cusco, our starting point, is in itself a beautiful city. It is a miracle of history - Incan capital destroyed by the Spanish yet holding such a personal history as the pride of the Incas remains to this day.
As a sidebar, I feel that I need to express something. In no way will I ever claim that British, French or Italian colonies were perfect, humane or even decent - both the Australian and Canadian examples shine out here for all the wrong reasons - yet there is something overzealous about the Spanish occupation in South America. Conquest by military, by commerce and by religion in such totalitarians ways. It is little wonder that the Simon Bolivars of the world exist.
The trek itself starts from the 82 kilometres mark - from Cusco - and immediately the thin air is noticeable. No amount of acclimatisation can prepare you for the body's relentless need for oxygen in an environment where a simple set of hotel steps can leave you gasping post-marathon. Surely 45 kilometres of some of this planet's steepest walkable hills is madness.
Day one is, noticeably, the easiest. There are hills to conquer, certainly, but they are nothing that would not be experienced in Berowra, or Jindabyne. The day ends at a camp, complete with silver service and food that would rival many of the restaurants in Lima. This part is certainly not hard.
Day two is, noticeably, the hardest. An immediate climb from 2,950m to 4,215m, over a distance of under nine kilometres left more than half our group struggling. Two members felt the altitude the hardest, nauseous and nearly passing out on multiple occasions. There is good reason for the oxygen bottles carried by the guides and the mandatory medical training.
From the top of the first pass, descend 700m in less than a kilometre and if you have a bad knee, expect pain on a level unexperienced before. Uneven, large drop stone steps all the way, slippery from the overnight rain, and slowed mental processes from the lack of oxygen combine for a hellish walk.
From the valley floor, rise again 450m in under three kilometres for simply the greatest views you will be afforded on the continent. Sweeping hills, majestic waterfalls and the knowledge that you are looking upon an ancient, powerful and magnificent landscape, untamed by mankind despite our arrogance. Even the hardiest here are reduced to the microscopic.
This is where we rise, both literally and metaphorically, to the challenge before us.
This is the Inca Trail.
Camino Inka. 45 kilometres of sheer cliffs, impossible rises and their associated geographic falls. Four days, rising to 4200 metres above sea level - nearly twice the height of Mount Kosciusko - and culminating in a dawn overlooking Machu Picchu.
This is the walk that can be adequately summarised in two words or less.
Hard.
Very hard.
And yet those two words - or less, depending on how dramatic you want me to be - completely fail to convey just the atmosphere of the walk, the history, the culture and the geography of the Andes.
In existence from the time of the height of the Incan Empire, until approximately 200 years before Spanish conquest when Machu Picchu was abandoned, the Inca Trail was the the main route into the fabled mountain-top town - rumoured to be either a religious site, royal holiday resort or military stronghold.
Cusco, our starting point, is in itself a beautiful city. It is a miracle of history - Incan capital destroyed by the Spanish yet holding such a personal history as the pride of the Incas remains to this day.
As a sidebar, I feel that I need to express something. In no way will I ever claim that British, French or Italian colonies were perfect, humane or even decent - both the Australian and Canadian examples shine out here for all the wrong reasons - yet there is something overzealous about the Spanish occupation in South America. Conquest by military, by commerce and by religion in such totalitarians ways. It is little wonder that the Simon Bolivars of the world exist.
The trek itself starts from the 82 kilometres mark - from Cusco - and immediately the thin air is noticeable. No amount of acclimatisation can prepare you for the body's relentless need for oxygen in an environment where a simple set of hotel steps can leave you gasping post-marathon. Surely 45 kilometres of some of this planet's steepest walkable hills is madness.
Day one is, noticeably, the easiest. There are hills to conquer, certainly, but they are nothing that would not be experienced in Berowra, or Jindabyne. The day ends at a camp, complete with silver service and food that would rival many of the restaurants in Lima. This part is certainly not hard.
Day two is, noticeably, the hardest. An immediate climb from 2,950m to 4,215m, over a distance of under nine kilometres left more than half our group struggling. Two members felt the altitude the hardest, nauseous and nearly passing out on multiple occasions. There is good reason for the oxygen bottles carried by the guides and the mandatory medical training.
From the top of the first pass, descend 700m in less than a kilometre and if you have a bad knee, expect pain on a level unexperienced before. Uneven, large drop stone steps all the way, slippery from the overnight rain, and slowed mental processes from the lack of oxygen combine for a hellish walk.
From the valley floor, rise again 450m in under three kilometres for simply the greatest views you will be afforded on the continent. Sweeping hills, majestic waterfalls and the knowledge that you are looking upon an ancient, powerful and magnificent landscape, untamed by mankind despite our arrogance. Even the hardiest here are reduced to the microscopic.
The Missing Adventures Part 1: An Amazonian Adventure
The Amazon Basin is one of the richest, and most diverse, sources of biodiversity on the planet. it's lush green tributaries and head waters feed the one river system over the breadth of the continent and support life relatively untouched since the dawn of time.
Here is the domain of the anaconda, the jaguar and the cayman. More concerning, here is the domain of the mosquito, the centipede and the countless other insects that threaten at any moment to crawl inside your eardrum and drive you insane with the eternal buzzing, Khan style.
The air is perpetually humid and hangs, heavy amid the chirping, forever around you. There is little escape. With no electricity in the camp, save the 90 minutes of generator time a night to recharge essential batteries (cameras, iPads and phones), with which to power a fan.
But despite this, the camp is a luxury amid the mud and fetid air. Built on short stilts to protect the virgin ground, the main pagoda sets the scene - lofty ceilings and hand-woven thatched roofs, green insect screens and stained dark timber. The eternal law is "keep the door closed" and woe-betide the unfortunate who forgets this and lets in the dollar-coin sized mosquitoes. Boardwalks connect the pagoda to the individual villas - built of the same style - and the bar runs clear with the local cerveza.
The Amazon basin itself - we are not on the Amazon, but one of its multitude of tributaries - is biodiversity incarnate, with the caveat that the vast majority of this biodiversity is invisible to the human eye as it wanders through the dank rainforest. The cayman, the capybara and the parrots are all clear for our inferior eyes, but the real diversity, the multitudal insect and microscopic life, are best left to the modern day Livingstones, pouring over microscopes in climate controlled laboratories.
Twice we ventured into the depths of the jungle, prevailing over mud, insect and, once, boar, to find, well not much really.
Don't misunderstand me, the forest is immense and impressive. The ancient fig trees and their strangler-vine counterparts cannot but impress. In hindsight, I suppose the failings of the Amazon basin are owed to the hype that has been built upon them and the reality that, for us at least, fell short of the lofty expectations.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
How Hot the Jungle
On a (too) brief stopover in Cusco in between time in the Amazon and the Inca Trail, and with no time to compose a post that would do justice to the last couple of days, instead I offer a humble haiku.
Air is heavy out
Heavier inside the hut
How hot the jungle
Cam
Air is heavy out
Heavier inside the hut
How hot the jungle
Cam
Saturday, April 5, 2014
The Enchanted Isles
The sea is turquoise here, save for the speckling of white sea-born chess pieces that litter the bay. Peering past the catamarans, yachts and fishing vessels, you can see the floor of the bay and, occasionally, the bait-fish that Boobies and Pelicans wait for anxiously for, floating high on the breeze off the ocean. To the south-west the walls of the bay are sheer cliffs, only ten metres in height, but impassable enough. To the north-east, mangrove swamps. Sandwiched between the two is the tiny port of Santa Cruz, the largest settlement on the Galápagos Islands.
It is on Santa Cruz that we will finish our whistle-stop tour. It has been eight days, but feels like 80, such is the enchantment of these isles that all sense of time, and place, is lost to the soothing temperatures and "flapping in the breeze" lifestyle.
Which is not to say that these eight days have been spent poorly, or if not richly then in more languid pursuits. Of course I think we have all found time to read more than a few chapters of our books, and there have been a few too many cervezas consumed once the sun begins its twilight trek, but these eight days have also been filled with the small discoveries that these islands allow.
Isla San Cristobal is, like any tourist mecca, built for the itinerant. A well manicured, if relaxed, waterfront esplanade, complete with souvenir shops, caters to the elderly, infirm or simply nautically-minded tourist who spends most of their time on one of the many small cruise ships to navigate the archipelago. At night you can see the endless shuffle of, mostly American, snow birds emigrating to the warmer climates as they wait out the last of the northern hemisphere winter. They are boated in, they eat and, sometimes, drink before buying a nick-nack and then are shuttled back to the floating nursing home that they are berthed in, ready to move onto the next island.
For us, however, staying on the island meant walking the maze of backstreets to find the local BBQ restaurant, waving to the local we meet the day before and, yes, finding the bar that doesn't cater to the tourists.
San Cristobal is the island of diving - at Leon Dominico or any of the protected bays on the long coastline. It is the island where, most likely, you will first swim with sea-lions, sea-turtles, manta and sting rays and occasionally a shark. It is the island where Charles Darwin first stepped ashore to epiphanise about the origin of the species and the island where you could lose yourself, caught between the last century and the current. Touched by tourism, it is nonetheless beautiful.
A short boat-ride away, Isla Floreana is everything that is not San Cristobal. Few tourists step off a boat here - why would you when there are no paved roads, only two restaurants and no souvenir shops? It is the closest to how I imagined the smaller of the Galapagos islands would be. It is the wild west and the undiscovered country. It is the island of playing in the water with penguins - solely on their terms - and of the marine iguana, Godzilla-like in every aspect but size.
Isla Isabela is caught somewhere in between San Cristobal and Floreana and is, in my opinion, the pick of the litter. The paved roads extend for little more than the first few metres off the dock and power is generated by diesel turbines - provoking much discussion about wind and solar power. Isabela is home to the Sierra Negra volcano - second largest crater in the world, immense lava fields and poorly exercised tsunami evacuation plan - although I suspect that is every island in the Galapagos chain. It is heaven. If you could imagine your tropical paradise, then the chances are that Isabela is close. Azure waters lap on sun-bleached coral beaches, followed closely by lime-green mangroves. Beach restaurants and bars cater to those who want nothing more than to relax as a hard days drifts away from them. There is simply no more relaxed place that I've found in this world.
Certainly not Isla Santa Cruz. Catering entirely to the tourist market, you will find more Americans in Santa Cruz than in Miami and, while the Galapagos have been home to visitors throughout their history, you have to wonder what the sea-lion thinks of the bright yellow trainers over knee-length socks, slightly-too-short shorts and bum-bags. It is the place that, by far, most tourists would spend time and, for that reason, the place I want to spend the least time. Give me two night on Floreana over this utopian dystopia. As with many places in the world, you have to wonder if our ambition has run rough-shod over the natural beauty of the world around us.
Tomorrow, we leave these islands, sorry to see them set behind us as we make our way back to the mainland. If only there was room on these islands for just two more people.
Cam
It is on Santa Cruz that we will finish our whistle-stop tour. It has been eight days, but feels like 80, such is the enchantment of these isles that all sense of time, and place, is lost to the soothing temperatures and "flapping in the breeze" lifestyle.
Which is not to say that these eight days have been spent poorly, or if not richly then in more languid pursuits. Of course I think we have all found time to read more than a few chapters of our books, and there have been a few too many cervezas consumed once the sun begins its twilight trek, but these eight days have also been filled with the small discoveries that these islands allow.
Isla San Cristobal is, like any tourist mecca, built for the itinerant. A well manicured, if relaxed, waterfront esplanade, complete with souvenir shops, caters to the elderly, infirm or simply nautically-minded tourist who spends most of their time on one of the many small cruise ships to navigate the archipelago. At night you can see the endless shuffle of, mostly American, snow birds emigrating to the warmer climates as they wait out the last of the northern hemisphere winter. They are boated in, they eat and, sometimes, drink before buying a nick-nack and then are shuttled back to the floating nursing home that they are berthed in, ready to move onto the next island.
For us, however, staying on the island meant walking the maze of backstreets to find the local BBQ restaurant, waving to the local we meet the day before and, yes, finding the bar that doesn't cater to the tourists.
San Cristobal is the island of diving - at Leon Dominico or any of the protected bays on the long coastline. It is the island where, most likely, you will first swim with sea-lions, sea-turtles, manta and sting rays and occasionally a shark. It is the island where Charles Darwin first stepped ashore to epiphanise about the origin of the species and the island where you could lose yourself, caught between the last century and the current. Touched by tourism, it is nonetheless beautiful.
A short boat-ride away, Isla Floreana is everything that is not San Cristobal. Few tourists step off a boat here - why would you when there are no paved roads, only two restaurants and no souvenir shops? It is the closest to how I imagined the smaller of the Galapagos islands would be. It is the wild west and the undiscovered country. It is the island of playing in the water with penguins - solely on their terms - and of the marine iguana, Godzilla-like in every aspect but size.
Isla Isabela is caught somewhere in between San Cristobal and Floreana and is, in my opinion, the pick of the litter. The paved roads extend for little more than the first few metres off the dock and power is generated by diesel turbines - provoking much discussion about wind and solar power. Isabela is home to the Sierra Negra volcano - second largest crater in the world, immense lava fields and poorly exercised tsunami evacuation plan - although I suspect that is every island in the Galapagos chain. It is heaven. If you could imagine your tropical paradise, then the chances are that Isabela is close. Azure waters lap on sun-bleached coral beaches, followed closely by lime-green mangroves. Beach restaurants and bars cater to those who want nothing more than to relax as a hard days drifts away from them. There is simply no more relaxed place that I've found in this world.
Certainly not Isla Santa Cruz. Catering entirely to the tourist market, you will find more Americans in Santa Cruz than in Miami and, while the Galapagos have been home to visitors throughout their history, you have to wonder what the sea-lion thinks of the bright yellow trainers over knee-length socks, slightly-too-short shorts and bum-bags. It is the place that, by far, most tourists would spend time and, for that reason, the place I want to spend the least time. Give me two night on Floreana over this utopian dystopia. As with many places in the world, you have to wonder if our ambition has run rough-shod over the natural beauty of the world around us.
Tomorrow, we leave these islands, sorry to see them set behind us as we make our way back to the mainland. If only there was room on these islands for just two more people.
Cam
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Tsunami Warnings and Public Chaos
First of all, natural disasters are terrible things, and for all the people in S. America who are suffering at the moment, our hearts go out to them. While the death toll is mercifully low, there will be many Chileans, Peruvians and Ecuadorians who are doing their best to return their lives to normal today, and every single one of them deserves our thoughts.
I had drafted a full post to bring everyone up to speed on the last few days, days that I'll now cover in a layer post.
For the moment I thought I would bring you all a first hand account from inside a Tsunami evacuation. Even as an Emergency Manager it was something very surreal and worth knowing about...
Tuesday 1 April, 2014. Isla Isabella, Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.
We'd arrived on Isla Isabella at 5pm and, after checking into our hotel, take a walk the block-and-a-half walk to the beach. It's simply something you need to experience to believe. Pristine white coral sand, beachside bars and restaurants, azure waters and bronzed volleyballers. Think everything you've experienced in Thailand, Australia and the south of France and you're close, but not quite there. It's beautiful.
At about 1830hrs1 we left the beach to shower and get ready for dinner. It was. Laurel's birthday, and we'd planned a dinner at a recommended local restaurant and had even planned a chocolate cake, Laurel's favourite, to celebrate.
After we'd showered, I put the (Spanish) news on while Laurel finished up with the outfit. The yes/no on various items of jewellery or make-up were the most pressing things on our minds. Glancing at the TV in between fashion decisions, I noticed that the news seemed to be on repeat - cars driving in the dark and obviously leaving somewhere. There was a split screen between the studio and Concepcion. The ticker at the bottom of the screen was scrolling through a message, and in the middle of the Spanish I could just make out "8.0", "Chile" and "tsunami."
I'd like to think that the thought process that I moved into then was a result of my training, but in honesty I think that anyone in that position would recognise that this combination of words is bad. Very bad.
Now this is the first part of when my job and training kicked in. I turned off my phone's airplane mode so that I could receive text messages and jumped onto the open source disaster alerts server. Yes, there had been a magnitude 8.2 earthquake off Chile, yes there was a tsunami alert in place and, yes, the Galapagos Islands fell into the alert area.
But we had heard nothing from the locals, there was no panic on the streets and indeed everything seemed normal. Quickly taking note of the wave times, after converting from Zulu/UTC, we joined the group in the hotel courtyard for dinner. The miracle of modern communication had kicked into gear, and everyone already knew. But they all also knew what I do for a living, and there were more than a few questions.
"What do we do now?", "Are we evacuating?", "When will the waves arrive?", "Where do we go?"
I'm not a local. I can tell, like any other Emergency Manager, what the hazards in the area are, and make a preliminary assessment as to the risks, but the risk treatments, or emergency incident management plans are just as unfamiliar to me as any other tourist. I reassured the group that there was still a matter of hours before a wave, if there was to be a wave, would arrive and that the local Police would be letting people know if there was an evacuation. I also reasoned that our guide would be joining us shortly, and may have more information.
I'm not 100 percent sure that I was keeping the uncertainty (fear?) out of my voice. I'm not going to lie, it was a frightening experience. I've seen the Indian Ocean tsunami coverage and have worked the Japanese tsunami from a coordination centre. I know how volatile the Nazca Plate is to earthquake activity, tsunami generation and that this particular fault had been playing up for a few weeks.
I'm not going to lie, I was scared.
Our guide arrived and told us to pack essential documents and water into our daypacks. I added that everyone should grab a jumper. We reconvened five minutes later and set off, still with dinner plans as there was just an alert, not a warning. "Just."
Not fifty metres from the hotel we heard the bells on the beach ringing and the guide confirmed that this was the evacuation signal.
It still amazes me how quickly human beings can change. The streets changed in a second. At once there were trucks moving away from the beach and people running.
Looking around the group, there was panic in some eyes and confusion in others. I'm confident that Australians are used to bush-fires and floods, but just as I was confronted by my first earthquake in Christchurch, so were we all experiencing our first tsunami.
We continued onto the main road out of town towards the hills, and there was now evidence of a wider panic. Locals were running with children and pets in their arms. A front end loader moved towards the beach without regard for anyone running the opposite direction and at one point a Police quad-bike drove past, the driver, in plain clothes, yelling at people to flee.
Our guide, to his eternal credit, remained calm. He had a family in the town, and I can only imagine the mental battle pulling him between them and us.
He stopped us by a corner store and convinced the owner to let us buy water. I added that people should get some food - if we were to evacuate, and there was a wave, we may be gone for days, and alone before help arrived.
Inside the corner store, the front shutters were closed, the danger of panic buying or all-out looking quite real. Having bought our supplies, we were ushered out the back and returned to the main street.
At this point, it was obvious that our guide had gone looking for transport, leaving us by ourselves, save for the Spanish speaking company accountant travelling with the group.
We made our way to the main intersection of the town, and were nearly herded onto the backs of tip-trucks, split up and in a strange town, not speaking the local language. It was at this point I'm reasonably sure my training kicked in. I knew that I just wanted to keep the group together, and safe.
I want to stress that I'm not writing this to glorify myself, I certainly had my faults in the next few minutes and I think any after-action review would identify actions that I could do differently next time. This account may also look/sound different to the others who were there, but from the feedback I've received both last night and today from the group, I believe this is accurate.
I'm writing this so that there's an account from my perspective of what happened.
At the intersection, members of the group were being herded towards a tip-truck crammed with people by a man in a tabard. The group was being split up and some were beginning to really panic.
I made my way through the group while someone was, almost crying, telling the man in the tabard that we can't be split up. In reality, I told him "no, gracias" but the effect was the same.
I moved the group out of the way, to the side of the intersection. Reassuring everyone that our guide was (probably) finding us transport - he had commented earlier that he'd organised a van - and that we just needed to wait. The wave was still 3 hours away. It was now 1930hrs.
The company accountant made her way through the group and gave me her mobile. On the line was the guide. Through the noise he explained that he'd arranged transport, to pick us up at the hotel, and we needed to make our way back there.
At this point, I think I need to reinforce the scene. Dark, few street lights, people everywhere, cars everywhere, Police nowhere, noise, panic.
I called the group together and explained that the guide was on the phone and we need to make our way back to the hotel. Everyone needed to find their room buddy, stick with them and calmly walk back to the hotel. The accountant would lead the way, we still had time, there was no rush.
We set off, clearly walking against the tide of people leaving the coast.
The buddy system fell apart within seconds, but we stayed together. I made sure we had a head count and one of the other members of the group offered to do anything I needed to delegate.
This is the point others have commented on today. I was thanked - unnecessarily - for remaining calm, providing direction and keeping the group together. I'm not convinced that I did any of those particularly well, but the in the middle of chaos perhaps people cling to any sense of order that exists.
At the hotel, another group was being shepherded onto a bus. We moved our group inside the courtyard and Laurel and I went to grab our shoes - we had forgotten those earlier and were just in thongs.
Now with shoes, the group had split into two different busses, but the tour company staff were in each. I think my biggest failing of the night was letting the group be split, but under the circumstances I think there was little I could do.
It was also at this point that I stopped being a professional, and became another evacuee.
The 45 minute bus ride to the tour company's pre-arranged evacuation point was a mix of surrealism, contemplative quiet and calm reassurance for everyone else on board. I think making light of the situation - the lack of beer brought with us and the missed opportunity for looting - kept others calm and played down the seriousness of the situation. If a professional can joke, then surely there's nothing to worry about, right? Inside, I was fighting a battle between my own fears and the desire to reassure others, knowing that I was being watched. I had no idea where we were going, whether there was still a threat - images of the Indian Ocean tsunami kept flooding back to me - or where the other bus was. I felt as though, with his phone call, the guide had entrusted me with his group while he looked after his family.
On the way, the company man in the bus received a phone call advising him that the warning had been downgraded, but that we would still go to the evacuation centre.
We arrived at the home of the hotel owners, who had set up a covered outdoor area for us all. Our bus set up a table with the snacks and water and, to my relief, we were shortly joined by the other bus. It was now 2130.
With tents set up, we passed the next few hours playing cards or chatting. Laurel was taking pictures of the people in the "centre" and, every few minutes, someone asked me when we would be returning - the only answer I could give was that the wave was due at 2230 and there would still be some time after that before the local authorities knew we were safe.
By 2200 we were joined by the tour guide and his family, a really nice old couple, and settled in for the long haul. Some of the group took advantage of the tents and got some sleep. Others kept talking or playing cards.
At 2300 the guide's father pickled up a (Spanish) news update - roughly translated by an expat as "warning downgraded."
At 0100 the owner of the house received a phone call, the all-clear had been given and we could return. We were all but kicked out, but the busses returned us to the hotel for some much needed sleep. Adrenaline is great, but once it wears off...
I think there were many things that could have been done better last night, for me and the local authorities. I can't properly describe what it was like, and even if I could it's only one piece of the puzzle.
Cam
1 All times are in local time (Galapagos Islands), six hours behind UTC and 17 hours behind Australian EST.
I had drafted a full post to bring everyone up to speed on the last few days, days that I'll now cover in a layer post.
For the moment I thought I would bring you all a first hand account from inside a Tsunami evacuation. Even as an Emergency Manager it was something very surreal and worth knowing about...
Tuesday 1 April, 2014. Isla Isabella, Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.
We'd arrived on Isla Isabella at 5pm and, after checking into our hotel, take a walk the block-and-a-half walk to the beach. It's simply something you need to experience to believe. Pristine white coral sand, beachside bars and restaurants, azure waters and bronzed volleyballers. Think everything you've experienced in Thailand, Australia and the south of France and you're close, but not quite there. It's beautiful.
At about 1830hrs1 we left the beach to shower and get ready for dinner. It was. Laurel's birthday, and we'd planned a dinner at a recommended local restaurant and had even planned a chocolate cake, Laurel's favourite, to celebrate.
After we'd showered, I put the (Spanish) news on while Laurel finished up with the outfit. The yes/no on various items of jewellery or make-up were the most pressing things on our minds. Glancing at the TV in between fashion decisions, I noticed that the news seemed to be on repeat - cars driving in the dark and obviously leaving somewhere. There was a split screen between the studio and Concepcion. The ticker at the bottom of the screen was scrolling through a message, and in the middle of the Spanish I could just make out "8.0", "Chile" and "tsunami."
I'd like to think that the thought process that I moved into then was a result of my training, but in honesty I think that anyone in that position would recognise that this combination of words is bad. Very bad.
Now this is the first part of when my job and training kicked in. I turned off my phone's airplane mode so that I could receive text messages and jumped onto the open source disaster alerts server. Yes, there had been a magnitude 8.2 earthquake off Chile, yes there was a tsunami alert in place and, yes, the Galapagos Islands fell into the alert area.
But we had heard nothing from the locals, there was no panic on the streets and indeed everything seemed normal. Quickly taking note of the wave times, after converting from Zulu/UTC, we joined the group in the hotel courtyard for dinner. The miracle of modern communication had kicked into gear, and everyone already knew. But they all also knew what I do for a living, and there were more than a few questions.
"What do we do now?", "Are we evacuating?", "When will the waves arrive?", "Where do we go?"
I'm not a local. I can tell, like any other Emergency Manager, what the hazards in the area are, and make a preliminary assessment as to the risks, but the risk treatments, or emergency incident management plans are just as unfamiliar to me as any other tourist. I reassured the group that there was still a matter of hours before a wave, if there was to be a wave, would arrive and that the local Police would be letting people know if there was an evacuation. I also reasoned that our guide would be joining us shortly, and may have more information.
I'm not 100 percent sure that I was keeping the uncertainty (fear?) out of my voice. I'm not going to lie, it was a frightening experience. I've seen the Indian Ocean tsunami coverage and have worked the Japanese tsunami from a coordination centre. I know how volatile the Nazca Plate is to earthquake activity, tsunami generation and that this particular fault had been playing up for a few weeks.
I'm not going to lie, I was scared.
Our guide arrived and told us to pack essential documents and water into our daypacks. I added that everyone should grab a jumper. We reconvened five minutes later and set off, still with dinner plans as there was just an alert, not a warning. "Just."
Not fifty metres from the hotel we heard the bells on the beach ringing and the guide confirmed that this was the evacuation signal.
It still amazes me how quickly human beings can change. The streets changed in a second. At once there were trucks moving away from the beach and people running.
Looking around the group, there was panic in some eyes and confusion in others. I'm confident that Australians are used to bush-fires and floods, but just as I was confronted by my first earthquake in Christchurch, so were we all experiencing our first tsunami.
We continued onto the main road out of town towards the hills, and there was now evidence of a wider panic. Locals were running with children and pets in their arms. A front end loader moved towards the beach without regard for anyone running the opposite direction and at one point a Police quad-bike drove past, the driver, in plain clothes, yelling at people to flee.
Our guide, to his eternal credit, remained calm. He had a family in the town, and I can only imagine the mental battle pulling him between them and us.
He stopped us by a corner store and convinced the owner to let us buy water. I added that people should get some food - if we were to evacuate, and there was a wave, we may be gone for days, and alone before help arrived.
Inside the corner store, the front shutters were closed, the danger of panic buying or all-out looking quite real. Having bought our supplies, we were ushered out the back and returned to the main street.
At this point, it was obvious that our guide had gone looking for transport, leaving us by ourselves, save for the Spanish speaking company accountant travelling with the group.
We made our way to the main intersection of the town, and were nearly herded onto the backs of tip-trucks, split up and in a strange town, not speaking the local language. It was at this point I'm reasonably sure my training kicked in. I knew that I just wanted to keep the group together, and safe.
I want to stress that I'm not writing this to glorify myself, I certainly had my faults in the next few minutes and I think any after-action review would identify actions that I could do differently next time. This account may also look/sound different to the others who were there, but from the feedback I've received both last night and today from the group, I believe this is accurate.
I'm writing this so that there's an account from my perspective of what happened.
At the intersection, members of the group were being herded towards a tip-truck crammed with people by a man in a tabard. The group was being split up and some were beginning to really panic.
I made my way through the group while someone was, almost crying, telling the man in the tabard that we can't be split up. In reality, I told him "no, gracias" but the effect was the same.
I moved the group out of the way, to the side of the intersection. Reassuring everyone that our guide was (probably) finding us transport - he had commented earlier that he'd organised a van - and that we just needed to wait. The wave was still 3 hours away. It was now 1930hrs.
The company accountant made her way through the group and gave me her mobile. On the line was the guide. Through the noise he explained that he'd arranged transport, to pick us up at the hotel, and we needed to make our way back there.
At this point, I think I need to reinforce the scene. Dark, few street lights, people everywhere, cars everywhere, Police nowhere, noise, panic.
I called the group together and explained that the guide was on the phone and we need to make our way back to the hotel. Everyone needed to find their room buddy, stick with them and calmly walk back to the hotel. The accountant would lead the way, we still had time, there was no rush.
We set off, clearly walking against the tide of people leaving the coast.
The buddy system fell apart within seconds, but we stayed together. I made sure we had a head count and one of the other members of the group offered to do anything I needed to delegate.
This is the point others have commented on today. I was thanked - unnecessarily - for remaining calm, providing direction and keeping the group together. I'm not convinced that I did any of those particularly well, but the in the middle of chaos perhaps people cling to any sense of order that exists.
At the hotel, another group was being shepherded onto a bus. We moved our group inside the courtyard and Laurel and I went to grab our shoes - we had forgotten those earlier and were just in thongs.
Now with shoes, the group had split into two different busses, but the tour company staff were in each. I think my biggest failing of the night was letting the group be split, but under the circumstances I think there was little I could do.
It was also at this point that I stopped being a professional, and became another evacuee.
The 45 minute bus ride to the tour company's pre-arranged evacuation point was a mix of surrealism, contemplative quiet and calm reassurance for everyone else on board. I think making light of the situation - the lack of beer brought with us and the missed opportunity for looting - kept others calm and played down the seriousness of the situation. If a professional can joke, then surely there's nothing to worry about, right? Inside, I was fighting a battle between my own fears and the desire to reassure others, knowing that I was being watched. I had no idea where we were going, whether there was still a threat - images of the Indian Ocean tsunami kept flooding back to me - or where the other bus was. I felt as though, with his phone call, the guide had entrusted me with his group while he looked after his family.
On the way, the company man in the bus received a phone call advising him that the warning had been downgraded, but that we would still go to the evacuation centre.
We arrived at the home of the hotel owners, who had set up a covered outdoor area for us all. Our bus set up a table with the snacks and water and, to my relief, we were shortly joined by the other bus. It was now 2130.
With tents set up, we passed the next few hours playing cards or chatting. Laurel was taking pictures of the people in the "centre" and, every few minutes, someone asked me when we would be returning - the only answer I could give was that the wave was due at 2230 and there would still be some time after that before the local authorities knew we were safe.
By 2200 we were joined by the tour guide and his family, a really nice old couple, and settled in for the long haul. Some of the group took advantage of the tents and got some sleep. Others kept talking or playing cards.
At 2300 the guide's father pickled up a (Spanish) news update - roughly translated by an expat as "warning downgraded."
At 0100 the owner of the house received a phone call, the all-clear had been given and we could return. We were all but kicked out, but the busses returned us to the hotel for some much needed sleep. Adrenaline is great, but once it wears off...
I think there were many things that could have been done better last night, for me and the local authorities. I can't properly describe what it was like, and even if I could it's only one piece of the puzzle.
Cam
1 All times are in local time (Galapagos Islands), six hours behind UTC and 17 hours behind Australian EST.
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