What is this sculpture depicting?
What it looks like is a child attempting to climb a telephone pole in pursuit of some toys (and some regular household items?) that some evil person has tied up there for unknown reasons. Yet, upon further examination, it looks more like a mast of a ship than a telephone pole. But why are all these toys tied up on a mast of ship? And why are all these traditionally-dressed people on a ship? And where's the rest of the ship? The higher child seems relentless in pursuits of the toys/appliances; it seems the second child is trying to hold him back while using the man's head as a stepping stone. Is this a comment on consumerism? A depiction of a weird Christmas tradition? An attempt to express that kitchen appliances are like toys for adults? I have no idea but I'm headed back there tomorrow and hope to find out.
The Traveler Beard: A History
In one of my earliest memories, I am in Long Beach Island, New Jersey and my father is about shave his mustache. He'd maintained a robust, Selleck-like ‘stache during much of my early childhood, and was the proud owner of a notable beard for years before that. It was one of his defining physical characteristics back then and his decision to shave was therefore a seminal event in the life of me and my siblings. He became a clean-shaven man that afternoon ((He initially shaved only the left half of the mustache and came downstairs asking “Should I keep it like this?” My sister and I objected immediately and marched him back upstairs, I think my little brother thought it was all very silly. I realize now that he was joking with us, of course, but I remember thinking at the time “Half a mustache? What is he thinking?? Geez, Mom and Dad would be so lost if we weren't here.”)) but, before he did so, I remember thinking that one day I’d adopt a similar look. I’d grow out some substantial facial hair – a lumberjack beard, or maybe a pirate goatee – just as soon as I was old enough. Now seems like a good time.
I am not alone in trying out new facial hair options. Indeed, the traveler’s beard is nearly as associated with the road as the pack or the map. However, while beards have long been linked to the wandering, I believe the reasoning behind this vagabond/beard bond has gradually changed over the years.
Part One: Practicality
In the exploring days, the bearded look was borne of circumstance. It simply wasn't feasible for a man to keep clean-shaven during months at sea or in the woods, and there were generally few women around to impress anyway. Life was hard and there were far more critical things to worry about. More importantly, a good beard came with many needed benefits – it kept you warm and your face protected from the harsh elements of the wild. To shave regularly was both extremely inconvenient and simply not a good traveling practice. For the explorer-traveler, a beard made sense on multiple levels.
Part Two: Making a Statement
Those explorers, gleefully sporting big bushy beards in black-and-white pictures at the North Pole or the source of the Nile, mapped the world. Their achievement, along with advances in technology, allowed privileged (mostly Western) masses of curious people to explore it. While each person has their own reasons for long-term travel, a binding thread throughout personal travel philosophies is some kind of rejection of conventional society. People fed up with the status quo of their hometowns left to see how other people lived. A few decades ago, as jet technology truly opened up the world, a large and influential group of these travelers were hippies. The traversed India and Asia and wandered around Europe, learning about the world and “finding themselves”. And though they no longer provided a significant physical benefit (few of the ‘new age’ travelers were exploring extreme terrains), many of the men kept beards. The clean-shaven look was associated with military and corporate structures, long-hair and beards were uniforms of the counter-culture. Thus, the traveler beard transformed from a highly useful physical attribute to a proud identifier of liberalness and “free thinking”.
Part Three: Pure Experimentation
Which brings us to the present. Few among us are trekking enough that a beard is helpful in battling the elements. And travelers, as a whole, remain liberally-orientated but are probably not as politically-motivated as our hippie-traveler forefathers (plus, the beard is hardly the counter-culture icon it was once was.) With electric shavers and comfortable hostel bathrooms almost everywhere, it’s easy to remain clean-shaven if you so choose. And yet the traveler beard remains. The majority of male travelers I meet have some kind of facial hair, many haven’t shaved in months. What continues to keep facial hair in fashion among the wanderers?
For one, there is an element of pure laziness. When all structure and schedule are eliminated from your life, priorities quickly become rearranged. Besides apathy, the ubiquity of the beard is also partially a nod to the past. Every traveler wishes, on some level, that we could be those explorers of old, going someplace exotic that no man has ever been. Many also continue to identify with the hippies and view traveling as a way to conscientiously object to the politics or societal norms of home. So we’re all explorer-hippies in our own way and the beard is a way to partially express that. But I think there’s a new motivating element in keeping the beard – experimentation. Now, many travelers feel, is the time to indulge in the reckless and crazy and unknown. People treat modern backpacking as a kind of alternate reality, as if a defined correlation exists between geographical distance from home and the consequences of any choice. They skydive and get tattoos and drink too much because they feel this is their time to be free. They know they will have no history here. For male travelers, the beard is a small, almost subconscious, extension of that thinking. In essence, it's not about the beard. The same motivations are behind a brunette traveling as a blonde, a straight-laced school teacher dabbling in illegal temptations, even a regularly bearded man finally shaving his beard. It's the difference, the newness, the freedom to try things in an exciting new environment that's constantly changing - a new start is just a bus ride away. It's like we're all playing a massive video game and we all have unlimited lives. Everyone is just mashing all the buttons at once, seeing what happens, emboldened by a total lack of consequence. It’s no longer about the “why”, ((Like it was for the hippie-travelers)) it’s about the “why not?”
We are not men of the wild, instead we spend much of our time in relatively comfortable surroundings. We are not social activists, besides a general dislike of conservatism, we’re not trying to prove a collective point. We’re simply feeling liberated, and are not sure when the next time we’re going to have a few months of total freedom is going to be. When else am I going to be able to grow out this ‘beard’ ((Or a patchy half-goatee, or whatever it is)), no matter how scraggly it may be? A beard may seem an inconsequential thing but, when you see just how prevalent they are among this group, I think it says something relevant about the fraternity of modern travelers. Now is the time to do things you've never done before and may not have a chance to do back home. Growing out a beard is just one more act that fits that simple, essential criteria.
Unfortunately, it seems that I may not have inherited my father’s ability to quickly grow out a manly display of facial hair. ((Close friends still call me ‘Baby Ev’, a nickname leftover from our puberty years, when everyone first started shaving.)) Yet, even though I’m not sure if I’ll ever grow a beard to rival my father or Shackleton or Let-It-Be era McCartney, I do know that now is the time to find out. ((Yes, this post could have also been titled "The Traveler Beard: a Self-Indulgent Over-Investigation Into Why Many Travelers Have Beards"))
Safe Enough
Yesterday, I boarded a double-decker tour bus in an effort to explore more of Cuenca. As I climbed the stairs to the open-air roof section, the operator told me, rather casually, “Stay seated”. I nodded in quick acknowledgement, thinking little of the interaction. I soon discovered the reasoning behind his warning.
Throughout the two hour ride, dozens of times, we passed under power lines hanging so low they would have hit any standing person, of even medium height. Even sitting, I could have easily reached up and grabbed many of them. Most of the tour group instinctively ducked down in their seats throughout the trip, constantly aware of the imminent danger passing above us. The pure liability of it all shocked me.
Our tour group was a varied international mix, it wasn't clear that everyone had even understood the warning about the power lines. There were elderly people with poor eyesight, excited children clamoring on their parent’s laps for better views, ambitious photographers turned backwards, distracted by their cameras. The potential for catastrophe was incredible. To say nothing of electrocution, these thick black power lines could have easily caught and lifted a person off the bus. There were many close calls.
And yet, it was a great trip. Interesting, well-planned, and staffed by informative tour guides. The inherent danger involved seemed an afterthought to the locals running the operation, and I think that’s because of how obvious it all was. You can see that there are power lines everywhere - so don’t stand up. There was no need for waivers, or required seat belts, or constant precautions – the safety of each passenger relied on their own common sense. No, it wasn't perfectly safe, but it was safe enough.
Needless to say, something like this would never be allowed in the United States. In the land of insurance and liability and suing, it is a necessary business practice to think of every consumer as an unbelievably stupid, reckless child. To not to do so is a recipe for a bankruptcy- causing lawsuit.
There was not sufficient signage explaining that jumping into the tiger exhibit would expose my client to tiger attacks.
The restaurant establishment should not have allowed me to buy that 9th beer, they should have known about my penchant for drunk driving.
Yes, the chainsaw had a warning label against using power equipment while intoxicated, but I have trouble reading when I’m drunk.
This tort ridiculousness is incredibly limiting. Encountering rejection of this concept in foreign countries is a breath of fresh air. You’re still safe, but because a reasonable portion of that security depends on you, you have the option to assume more risk, if you so choose. You’re not a child anymore. You’re never forced into any kind of danger, but you get to make more choices about what type of danger you’re willing to accept. There is no overbearing legal and insurance system insisting that, because, one day in a fictional future, some distracted tourist might possibly not be aware enough of his surrounding to duck under a power line, an entire enjoyable bus tour should not be allowed to exist. No one is forcing you to take the bus tour, the choice is always yours.
Do I advocate full deregulation? No. I was there that day in Zimbabwe, walking to the bridge, when the bungee jump broke. I experienced Vang Vieng at the height of its madness and agree that it could not continue. Safety considerations, especially for the risk-inclined backpacker set, are necessary. But the United States has been transformed, through a misguided system of legal liability, into a place ruled by fear of a lawsuit. There is little excitement to be found inside a bubble of extreme protection and warning. It’s refreshing to be in a country where the consumer is given more responsibility and therefore more choice. It’s simply safe enough and, if you keep your wits about you, you’ll be just fine.
Cuenca from above
Flower Market
The best smelling square in all of Cuenca
Parque Calderón
Impressive greenery in Cuenca's main plaza
I Don't Love Montañita
It took about a week for me to turn on the Ecuadorian coastal town of Montañita. Our relationship started off, as so many do, passionately and full of excitement. The town seemed a little hippie-ish, but charmingly simple and full of interesting travelers. A good and social hostel, a diverse selection of cheap restaurants, and a decent view - that's all it takes, initially, to be excited, about a place. I met some cool Germans and hung out with an amazingly talented Peruvian guitarist at a rock club. I read some books and drank a lot of Americano coffees. I should have left after that. But then an Irish girl I liked showed up and I stayed.
Every traveler knows how easy it is to get stuck in a place. Moving around is the point but staying put takes so much less effort. It's 10:30, checkout is at 11, you're exhausted, your stuff is all over the dorm room, the mere thought of another bus ride seems too much to bear, and you haven't planned out where you're going next anyway. "One more night, I'll leave tomorrow." Oh the lies we tell ourselves.
And it's not just that, those logistical issues of when and how to leave and where to go. There is a social, emotional component that weighs heavily on the traveler's mind. You've met people, you've got a good group. You're comfortable with these people, surprisingly close to some of them. A new place means a new round of "Hi! I'm....". That's a blessing and a curse; that constant stream of new faces is integral to the joy of backpacking but it can get tiring. Sometimes you're just not in the mood to be that extroverted. Staying in a place means staying safe in that bubble of camaraderie, with all the inside jokes and shared memories. You're the 'cool kids' of the hostel, sitting around the lounge in a exclusive little group laughing, judging the new backpackers who have just arrived in town, wide-eyed and slightly confused. Leaving means being one of those new kids - and in some other town that might not even be as good as this one. The truth of course is that it's never as harsh as all that - in the next town you meet people easily, and they're just as great as your last group. Almost shockingly soon, you can't even remember some of the names of those people in that last, tight-knit, crew. But when you're convincing yourself to lazily stay "one more day" somewhere, you don't take such an objective view of the experience.
And so you stay. "One more day" becomes a week and though you feel lazy, you have your fellow just-as-lazy backpackers to share in the shame and commiserate with. Eventually, you move on and there's a few ways that happens. Maybe a portion of the group collectively decides to go somewhere new and you motivate each other into packing up and going. Sometimes you put a personal end to your procrastination and decide, as much as you've liked a place, you've simply have to get going. But every once in a while, something entirely different happens - you snap. You wake up one morning and absolutely hate where you are. It's not that you've slowly grown tired of it, it's that you suddenly simply have to leave. The cracks have become exposed and you feel incredibly stupid for staying as long as you did. There is literally nothing - not a girl, not a party, not an activity - that could convince you to stay. It's like a movie where one bad scene just takes you out of the whole thing. Or a relationship where you discover, and then can't stop thinking about, some dark facet of someone's personality. You're so in and then, suddenly, you're so out. This is what happened to me in Montañita.
"A surf town where no one fucking surfs. Everybody wants the vibe, no one wants the sport." "A wanna-be Thailand that fails miserably." "Oh you hippies, don't you dare try to sell me another Che Guevara shirt. If he were here today, I'm pretty sure anti-capitalist, anti-materialism, Che would tell you to take his damn image off your mass-produced merchandise."
Let's just say my engine was running hot. I'd had fun but become stuck, stayed far too long, and was suddenly overwhelmed not by the urge to move, but by the urge to leave. Yet, as rapidly angry as I'd become at this little beach town, the amazing experience that is backpacking provided a silver lining. In the traveler's world, leaving - when all those other considerations have been stripped away and you truly want to leave - is a beautifully uncomplicated notion. I woke up and truly wanted to leave. And so, within about twenty minutes, with my bag packed and my bill paid, I had disappeared back onto the road, grateful as always for the freedom to do so.
The Blue-footed Booby
The blue-footed booby ((Immature as it may be, the fact that only two bird species dominate the island and that their names are so divergent from one another is unendingly funny to me. One has ‘Magnificent’ in it’s moniker, the other has ‘Booby’. I have done no research to determine how these animals were named, but I like to imagine it was something like this (reminiscent of a scene from the movie 'Almost Heroes' for those who have seen it)….
[1600’s, a majestic clipper spots Isla Plata from afar and makes landfall. The captain, a pompous man dressed in full naval regalia, strides upon the deck and gathers his men.]
Captain Frederick: “We have discovered yet another isle for the glory of England! I claim this place in the name of the Queen!”
[The gathered men wearily cheer]
Captain Frederick: “Observe the noble black and white bird who lands gracefully on our deck! As I am the first civilized man to observe such a species, it is my right to name it! Henceforth, this animal shall be called ‘The Magnificent Frigatebird!’”
[The men cheer, even more wearily than before]
Captain Frederick: “There is another avian species inhabiting this small piece of land, that with those notably colored feet. I shall call it-“
[First Officer Jacobs gently interrupts the Captain]
First Officer Jacobs: “Excuse me sir, but the men were wondering, as you’ve named so many different things on our long and successful journey, if you might grace Willy with the opportunity to decide this bird’s official title?”
Captain Frederick: “’Drunk’ Willy? The cook?”
First Officer Jacobs: “Yes sir. You see, the men have grown quite fond of him, he entertains them with his lurid tales of debauchery and excess. They want to honor him with this task. You see how the bird stumbles oddly, staring manically this way and that? He’s an odd bird, much like Drunk Willy himself! Indeed, to name such a ridiculous creature would be below the status of a dignified man such as yourself….”
[Captain Frederick considers this for a moment]
Captain Frederick: “Yes, you are right. I have no interest in this idiot of an animal. Bring that madman Willy up from the galley, he will name this bird.”
[The men cheer with true vigor and meaning. Drunk Willy appears on deck. Rotund, slightly cross-eyed, dirty stubble covering his face, he looks at the Captain.]
Captain Frederick: “William, you may name this strange creature.”
Drunk Willy: “I git to name it eh? Alrite. Dat funny lil one with da blue feet o'er there?”
Captain Frederick: “Yes.”
[Drunk Willy looks off into the horizon for a moment. He considers what he values most in life, what a man like him strives for and finds joy in encountering]
Drunk Willy: “BOOBY! Da Blue-footed Booby!”
[The men cheer wildly. Captain Frederick shakes his head in disgust.])) is an absurdity of nature. It is weird and exotic and unintentionally hilarious. It looks like something an imaginative child would draw, like something that shouldn't actually exist outside of a cartoon. The fact that there are things like this, a crazed-looking bird flying around a tiny island thousands of miles away from where I'm from, is the reason why I travel. I didn't know anything about this. I didn't know that this existed. It almost angers me. How many more things are there like this zany bird with the Dr. Seuss feet? How many more beautifully weird things do I not know about? I cannot accept not trying to seek these things out, all these little treasures sprinkled throughout the big world. No person can get to them all, I know that. But every time I encounter such a strange gem of nature or culture or just plain unexpectedness out in some far-flung corner of the earth, it strengthens my resolve to go further, to keep looking. I'll be damned if I'm not going to try and find as many of these fascinating oddities as I can.
A male trying to impress a potential girlfriend. The blue-footed boobies is nervous on the ground - it walks like a drunk trying to navigate a beach wearing flippers - which makes the mating ritual all the more hilarious.
I was excited to see my first blue-footed booby.
A shy young male - the more neon and rich the blue, the younger the booby. The older birds have more of a pastel coloring.
The strange little bird, sitting alone on his strange little island, oblivious to how fascinating he is.
The Poor Man's Galapagos
Isla de la Plata, known as "The Poor Man's Galapagos", is a small island that's about an hour and a half boat ride from Puerto Lopez. It's surprisingly barren most of the time, but apparently every few years a spurt of rain turns the whole place quite green. I have no Galapagos to compare it to, but I found the whole place fascinating. I'll let the photos do the talking.
An overview of one of the many footpaths snaking around the island.
These are Magnificent Frigatebirds, one of a few species of birds to call the island home (a certain other deserves it's own post). Though I'm not sure they warrant their particular adjective, they are quite interesting in their own way. The photo above is actually something of a tragic scene. You see, the male Magnificent Frigatebird puffs out a bright red throat pouch in mating season. See that small patch of red in the photo above (click to enlarge)? Mating season is well underway for these birds and that unlucky bachelor seems to be the only one on the island without a partner.
Some cliffs of Isla de la Plata. Legend has it that the pirate Sir Francis Drake hid a large amount of silver near those cliffs (Isla de la Plata translates to "Silver Island") but, after extensive snorkeling, I didn't find any of it.
The Turtles
The Whales
Whale watching season in Ecuador lasts from June to September and, though our tour operator (a local known only as 'Eddie Spaghetti') assured us we wouldn't be disappointed, I was still nervous. Any wildlife tour, by definition, runs the risk of the main attractions simply not cooperating with the intrusive tourists. To attempt to assert control over the animals (by regularly feeding them for instance) is to defeat the very purpose of the experience. And so, nothing is assured. I needn't have worried.
Humpback whales, after a long 'summer' of feeding on krill in the artic, come to warmer coastal waters around the world to mate and breed. Here, they can live off fat reserves while they mate and give birth in relative peace, away from orcas ((Orcas are also known as "killer whales", partially because they've been known to hunt and kill the calves of various types of whales and then consume only very little of the carcass. The idea that they attack mostly to kill, rather than feed themselves, gives them their fearsome reputation in the world's oceans.)), their natural predators.
The light blue blob in the photo above is a newborn calf, which doesn't know how to swim when it's first born. The mother, as well as other whales in the family group, periodically, helps it to the surface for air. After a period of anywhere from 12 to 24 hours, the calf learns to swim and surface on it's own.
Though the pair in the photo above might suggest the idea that humpbacks mate for life, this isn't the case. They generally travel in groups of 10-20 and, though they will assist each other in child-rearing or defense against orcas, monogamous behavior has not been observed.
The many whales we saw will likely begin their long journey south very soon. The females, now pregnant and hungry, will need a massive amount of krill to sustain a gestation period of 11-12 months, after which time they'll return to the coasts of Ecuador, to begin the cycle anew.
Puerto Lopez
A dusty beach village, notable for being the entry point to Isla la Plata
Montanita Beach
A little Ecuadorian surf town
Name That Plant
During my recent ride on the Nariz del Diablo train, I sat next to a beautiful biologist. The company of a pretty, intelligent woman enhances any experience and in this particular instance I was able to find the answer to a question that’s been frustrating me. Namely, what the name of the plant pictured above is.
Some bromeliads growing on the walls of Quito
I’ve seen these large, fierce-looking growths throughout Ecuador, but attempts to discover their official name have since been unsuccessful. My Spanish is far too elementary to get any reliable information from a local and plant identification sites on the internet are surprisingly unhelpful if you don’t quite know what to search for. Nevertheless, I have found my answer. They are a type of Bromeliad of the family Bromiliacea, can thrive in harsh desert in environments, are closely related to the pineapple, and are so efficient at retaining water that frogs are often found living inside them, attracted to their moist stems. I was curious because of their surprising size and durability, they stick out in environments that would seem unable to support such robust plant life. And so while a passionate, international love affair with my gorgeous Dutch/Belgian seatmate may never materialize, I do have her to thank for this new-found piece of botanical trivia.
The Train
Thus far, this trip has been painfully devoid of trains. Trains are my preferred method of travel, by a significant degree, and this is an attitude shared by many of my fellow backpackers. We tolerate buses ((Proudly, almost arrogantly – “16 hours, 2 flat tires, but whatever, I’ve had worse”)), avoid flights (("Flying is cheating")), appreciate boat trips ((But only occasional ones with a defined purpose like whale watching or island hopping. The standard backpacker can’t stand more than a few days on the high seas; they get stir crazy and experience a painful withdrawal from the constant stream of the new views and people that they’re used to. The nautical backpacker however is an entirely different breed, rarely seen and only in the port cities like Cartagena or Cape Town, looking as uncomfortable in a crowded club as the standard backpacker looks on the deck of a ship.)), but what we really want is a train. Sadly, the golden age of the rail has come and gone. There are still great train trips to be had, and I plan to seek them out, but a long journey composed entirely of train travel simply isn't feasible any more ((The Trans-Siberian Railroad notwithstanding)). In The Old Patagonia Express Paul Theroux travels from Boston to Patagonia almost entirely by rail. The large majority of the routes he took have fallen into disrepair, never to be ridden again.
And yet, for all my despair, I have found a great train ride! A relic of that past railroad age, originally built for transport, now preserved and restored for the tourists. It delivers you nowhere, you begin and end in the same place, but the ride itself grants views that make you jealously angry there’s not more rails running through this beautiful country. It’s like being served a delicious appetizer, only to be told the restaurant has closed forever before the entree could be served.
La Nariz del Diablo (“The Nose of the Devil”) is a leftover piece of the Guayaquil-Quito line completed around the turn of the 20th century. It’s a feat of engineering that was only possible in the old days of large scale projects, when the lives of the poor or criminal were considered expendable in pursuit of technical accomplishment. Thousands died in it’s construction, which is partly the reason for it’s evil-sounding name, along with the fact that, according to local legend, a section of mountain looks suspiciously like the devil’s nose. It’s a short trip, highlighted by a series of incredibly steep switchbacks, but almost every view is one of stunning beauty. And as pleasant as it is, there’s a bittersweet feeling to it all. I disembarked back in Alusi and a few hours later boarded a bus for the coast. I was headed to a new place and that’s always an undeniable thrill. But some part of me wished I was back on a train, even if it wasn't taking me anywhere.
Train at the station
A typical view out the window
A picture of the "nose" and "eye" of the devil in a museum (I have outlined the features for clarity)