Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Nana and Owen's Garden
One afternoon last week, I took all my perennials out of my biggest rectangular garden in my back yard. As I dug up the deep roots of ferns and irises, I thought about this project that I have envisioned all winter. I first had this idea of making Nana and Owen’s garden when reading my girlfriend Andrea Cameron’s book, “ Cameron’s Corner.” In it, she talks about the importance of vegetable gardens and her son. Gently transplanting my flowers, I reflected on how I want my grandchildren to have a place to get dirty, to feel the soil run through their fingers and watch things grow. I’ve bought Owen a pair of fire engine rubber boots and have a poka-dot pair for me. They wait on the basement step for Owen to arrive. Meanwhile, I dig and pull, rake and flatten, hoping that as Owen grows, he will be excited to come to Nana’s to work on his vegetable garden.
Now I know that this year he might not get into it fully. He is only 22 months old after all. But I believe in starting meaningful habits with children early. I’ve instructed Emily to send extra clothes for Owen’s much anticipated sleepover because he is going to get dirty. Meanwhile, the plot sits idle, waiting. Meanwhile Vincent, our tenant, tries to convince me to scrap my plan and create a zen garden. Really? And miss out on years of fun with my grandchildren. Sorry, no can do. So finally tonight, Owen is sleeping soundly in his crib in his room next to Nana’s. Our rubber boots are at the door, along with Owen’s new yellow pail and garden tools, just his size.
Early the next morning, after a visit to Tait’s for breakfast, Owen and I head to the garden, pails in hand. My nonstop conversation to Owen is answered with his usual response, ‘huh.” “Owen, want to plant some seeds?” “Huh?” After I string each line and dig the trenches, I open the packets and place the seeds in Owen’s plumb baby hand. His first attempt results in seeds anywhere but in the trench. But as we practice, he gets the hang of it. He is most successful with the large seeds for beets and cauliflower. After each package, he asks me, “Done?” “No, Owen, not quite,” I reply. At times, he takes a break and plays with his cars on the nearby driveway. Every so often, his left boot comes off. Frugal Nana bought the boots a little big in hopes that they would fit next year.
As the sun is reaching its zenith, Owen and I finish up with gladiola bulbs, nice and round. Then Owen sits down and plays happily in a bare patch in the garden for thirty minutes. I’m not sure how successful our efforts will be, I’ve never managed to grow bushels of vegetables from seed but together we will try. In the meantime, we will create some memories together and maybe even get dirty once in a while.
Now I know that this year he might not get into it fully. He is only 22 months old after all. But I believe in starting meaningful habits with children early. I’ve instructed Emily to send extra clothes for Owen’s much anticipated sleepover because he is going to get dirty. Meanwhile, the plot sits idle, waiting. Meanwhile Vincent, our tenant, tries to convince me to scrap my plan and create a zen garden. Really? And miss out on years of fun with my grandchildren. Sorry, no can do. So finally tonight, Owen is sleeping soundly in his crib in his room next to Nana’s. Our rubber boots are at the door, along with Owen’s new yellow pail and garden tools, just his size.
Early the next morning, after a visit to Tait’s for breakfast, Owen and I head to the garden, pails in hand. My nonstop conversation to Owen is answered with his usual response, ‘huh.” “Owen, want to plant some seeds?” “Huh?” After I string each line and dig the trenches, I open the packets and place the seeds in Owen’s plumb baby hand. His first attempt results in seeds anywhere but in the trench. But as we practice, he gets the hang of it. He is most successful with the large seeds for beets and cauliflower. After each package, he asks me, “Done?” “No, Owen, not quite,” I reply. At times, he takes a break and plays with his cars on the nearby driveway. Every so often, his left boot comes off. Frugal Nana bought the boots a little big in hopes that they would fit next year.
As the sun is reaching its zenith, Owen and I finish up with gladiola bulbs, nice and round. Then Owen sits down and plays happily in a bare patch in the garden for thirty minutes. I’m not sure how successful our efforts will be, I’ve never managed to grow bushels of vegetables from seed but together we will try. In the meantime, we will create some memories together and maybe even get dirty once in a while.
Peru
After a short three and half hour flight from Costa Rica, I land in Lima, Peru and wait in the baggage claim area for my girlfriend Helen to arrive. Thirty minutes later, she comes striding out, with a big grin and sexy bandana on her head. We’re here! After months of planning, we are finally in Peru. We grab our cab and take the one hour ride to Miraflores to our hotel. My only mistake at this part of our trip was booking a hotel so far away as the next morning, we are back on the highway, heading back to the airport to fly to Cusco. Nonetheless, Helen and I are both very excited.
Cusco is a beautiful city. Nestled in a valley, it is quiet in spite of having 300,000 inhabitants. Its main square reminds me of cities in Europe. Our accommodations, the Llimpimpac Guesthouse, are gorgeously quaint and very South American. For $43.00 US, we have a lovely large room, immaculately clean with ornate tile on the floors and a balcony that opens onto a courtyard. We spend our first day getting acclimatized. We are now at 3400 meters and need to acclimatize for our hike in two days time to Machu Picchu. In spite of taking altitude pills, Helen suffers more than me, says she feels drunk but with a headache. She barely makes it up the steep steps to Two Nations, a wonderful restaurant owned by an Aussie and a Peruvian. We take a break, sit and sip coca tea and eat quinoa soup to help her symptoms go away. When she feels well enough to walk again, we go check into Peru Treks, pay the remainder of our fees, get briefed and then head back to our hotel to rest and drink more coca tea which is available twenty four hours a day to help people with the altitude.
Our second day we spend touring the Sacred Valley and Helen starts to feel a little better. We feel confident that she will be fine for the trek. After forty-eight hours in Cusco, we are picked up by our cheery guides, Cesar and Amadeo at five-thirty in the morning. We drive around for an hour or more of collecting our fellow trekkers, one of whom partied too hard last night and had to be woken up and packed by Amadeo. In total we are fourteen, ten women and four men, the majority of us surprisingly are Canadians. Eventually we leave Cusco valley and drive to two and a half hours to kilometer 82, the starting point of our trek. We disembark, organize our gear for the porters and pose for a group shot. Everyone slathers on sun screen, warned that the sun is very strong at the altitude that we will be hiking through. I am already warm, still in my long trekking pants. For the next four days, I would be constantly peeling off or putting on layers.
Day One. The hiking is relatively easy, twelve kilometers to Wayllabamba, a nice warm up to the days to come. The trail winds around the valleys as we work our way upwards with our wooden walking sticks. One of the guides leads and the other always brings up the rear. Helen and I soon learn that we prefer being near the rear, not only because we are the oldest people in our group but because we like to stop and enjoy the moment. Dotted long the Urubamba valley are ancient Inca ruins. The photo ops are endless. Our first meal stop is lunch. There has been lots of speculation and wondering about what the food will be like. We are extremely impressed when we are served a three course lunch, complete with quinoa soup, rainbow trout, rice, vegetables and dessert. We can barely move after lunch. Nevertheless, we are encouraged to get moving, in order to make camp on time later this afternoon. Along the way, we enjoy the views and the bright sunshine, easing into the pace of the group. By four o’clock we arrive at the grassy plains of Wayllabamba (3000 meters) where our tents are all set up. The porters, having long ago arrived, applaud our successful first day of hiking. A glass of warm juice is thrust into our hands. Before dinner, warm basins of water are set out for us to wash our hands. Dinner apparently was another delicious meal but on this evening, I suffered badly with an altitude headache and went to bed early after Cesar instructed me that the best thing to do. I worry about how I will fare tomorrow.
Day Two. Early the next morning, we are awoken by roosters crowing at 4:30 but snuggle down into our sleeping bags for another hour until Amadeo delivers steaming hot coffee to our tent. Happily I am able to report that my headache is gone and I am ready to hike. Today will be our hardest day. After a big breakfast of quinoa pancakes, fresh fruit salad, toasted buns and quinoa porridge, we brush our teeth and are called for a team meeting. A lesson on chewing coca is essential. First we are instructed to roll a tiny piece of charcoal in ten coca leaves, place it in our mouth and chew until the lips and tongue become numb. Be careful not to swallow and spit it out within three minutes, Cesar warns us. Next we are told to roll ten leaves, this time without the charcoal, and stick it in the side of our mouth and leave it there for forty minutes. This step can be repeated many times a day depending on the need for altitude relief. Helen catches on quickly and soon develops a love for it.
Excited, we head out by six thirty. The day promises to be lovely, no rain in sight. The trail begins with a thirty percent grade. Before we know it, the porters who we left behind to take down the tents are soon passing us, practically running in sandals no less. We follow along a water fall, stripping clothes as we warm up. After our first water break, we begin to climb steep stone steps, into a cloud forest. The grade changes to forty-five degrees and our pace slows. We are reminded to pause often, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. We will be ascending 1200 meters today and hiking twelve kilometers. Even the heavily laden porters stop for rests along the way. I am euphoric, loving this climb.
Due to the difficulty of the hike today, we receive an additional brunch of popcorn, coca tea, sweet buns with cheese and crackers and jam at ten o’clock. We sit and chat with our gregarious guides. Amadeo loves to learn new English expressions so I teach him “whatever floats your boat.” Mountains encircle us as we sit at the tables and stools that the porters have set up for us. After thirty minutes, we set out again, energized. The third section of this hike is incredibly steep with no cover of trees, a rocky path. We have to pause every 100 feet or so to catch our breath. We look up to Dead Woman’s Pass, high above us. Other groups who left earlier can be seen up there in the distance. There are twenty-three groups trekking the trail today. Helen and I pass one of our trekkers, a lovely young woman who is really suffering today. We find out that Cat has been sick with a gastro bug for the last eight days but didn’t want to give in because she and her husband plan to reach Machu Picchu on the day of her thirtieth birthday. I give her a power gel and some electrolyte powder to give her energy. She is pale, weak and weepy. Normally quite peppy with a gentle laugh, she has lost her zip. Cesar soon catches up and administers some first-aid for her altitude induced headache.
Helen and I continue up the mountain. Meanwhile, an old porter passes us. Hunched over, he has a wonderful crinkled face, no teeth and yet a sparkling smile. I ask to take a photo of him. He rubs his two fingers together, the universal sign for payment. I offer him some coin but what he really wants is some of our coca leaves. Helen hands him a small bag full and he grins with happiness. We later find out that he got a much fuller bag from another one of our fellow travellers. Too funny!
Way down in the valley, alpacas graze on the green grass. Clouds roll in and out. After another hour and a half, we finally make it to the top of Dead Woman’s pass at 4200 meters. For a few moments, the sun comes out and we are able to take a nice photo but it is cool and we are encouraged to keep moving. It is now another hour and a half to camp, straight down. The path is treacherous, slippery and rocky. We have to choose our footing carefully, sometimes walking sideways to go down. Along the way, Helen and I chat with Chris, a young Australian in our group who has been traveling for the past few months. When we can see our bright blue tents in the distance, our pace quickens in spite of the pain in our knees from the constant downward motion. As we descend into the valley, Cat begins to feel much better. Upon our exhausted arrival at Pacamayo (3600 meters), we are again offered warm orange juice which I drink down greedily. We collect our duffels from the porters, find our tent, then head to the dining tent for our late lunch. It is now almost three in the afternoon. Lunch is a pasta soup, fried octopus, breaded chicken, French fries, Peruvian cheese, noodles and an apple sauce square for dessert. Delicious.
After lunch, we are introduced to the staff. We meet our Chinese chef and a sous-chef and compliment them on the amazing food. A head porter is in charge of organizing the camp and the twenty or so porters accompanying us. The porters range from eighteen years of age to fifty-six. Their limit is 25 kilos and each is responsible for carrying a specific thing, from the gas cylinders, the tents, duffel bags, tables, camp stools, dishes, cutlery, food and water. Any of these porters can do the entire Inca trail in five hours total. We learn how to say good morning and thank you to them in their native tongue, Quechua.(Allillanchu and sulpayki)
Eventually, Helen and I fall into our tent for a blissful nap. Later after a light dinner of warm sangria, asparagus soup, and a beef like stew, Cesar briefs us for our third day of trekking and then tells us wonderful ghost stories. By nine o’clock, we all turn in for the night and in spite of the loud chirping of crickets, we are asleep in minutes.
Day three is the longest, sixteen kilometers to be covered over the next eight to ten hours. I am beginning to smell like a goat as we haven’t been able to have a shower for three days now. Luckily, we all smell the same. My body is sore from turning like a rotisserie on the rock hard base under on our tent. Room service coffee arrives at 5:00 followed by breakfast: quinoa porridge, an omelet, sweet bread and fried bananas. The first leg of the day is hard, straight up for two hours. Helen and I are getting more fatigued as the days go on. My heart is racing, wishing that we could have had more of a gentle warm up. Overheated, I shed layers of clothing. Porters pass us, sweat dripping from their foreheads. They also don’t smell any better than us.
After our first stop at Runkurakay, we visit small circular Inca ruins that overlook the valley. Then we start heading down again on a narrow trail and back up to the second pass, Abra de Runkuracay at 4000 meters. I get stuck behind a girl with a big backpack on her back struggling on the uneven stone steps. The trail crosses stone embankments and skirts deep precipices. We pass through a beautiful cloud forest. Mountain toucans can be heard in the trees that are dripping with orchids, hanging mosses and tree ferns. The cloud forest is damp and by the time we stop for lunch, we are chilled. Our lunch is elaborate. We start with an appetizer of mashed potato and tuna with an olive on top. Followed by seminola soup with carrots, celery, squash and more potatoes. Our main course is rolls of chicken stuffed with spinach and cheese, accompanied by yucca and steamed vegetables. We finish up with chocolate pudding. Did I mention that we are at the third pass, 3700 meters in the mountain? What decadence.
After lunch, dully refreshed, we don our ponchos and hike for two and a half hours down ‘Gringo Killer’, a thousand or so steep steps. Our knees scream at us. The steepness slows us down and soon there is a back log of hikers making their way gingerly along the twists and turns. We pass through Inca tunnels with water dripping down from the ceilings. As porters come up behind us, we call out ‘porters on the right’. We always stay on the inside of the trail to avoid being knocked off the side. The porters come trotting along Gringo Killer as if it was nothing at all.
Eventually we arrive at Intipata, terraces of the sun. The mountain vista is breathtaking. Way down in the valley flows the Urubamba, twisting through the mountains. Again we can see our last camp site way down below. Helen and I reek. Three days without a shower, we’ve barely been able to wash our faces. We have all been promised hot showers and a beer at the end of today. Helen and I soak up on the sun on the multi-leveled terraces where the Inca used to grow potatoes and corn. Eventually we hoist our day packs and set our sights on the brightly colored tents that beckon us.
Two hours later, we stagger into the camp. Twenty different groups are here at Winay Wayna. To our chagrin the Peruvian government has just shut down the restaurant that serves beer since this is a national park after all. Someone scouted out the showers and advised that without flip flops, it would be a bit dodgy. So instead we relax, have another great dinner, tip our porters and get ready for the final hike to Machu Picchu in the morning.
Day Four. Up early at 3:30, excitement is in the air. Helen and I scramble to pack up our stuff. The darkness is not helping us. I hang a flashlight from the top of the tent and shove everything into my dry bags. It is teaming rain. We pile on our layers: T-shirt, long sleeve shirt, wool sweater, rain coat and later a poncho to protect our knapsacks. A quick breakfast and water bottle refill and we are off to hike to checkpoint to the entrance of this part of the park. Flashlights twinkle in the pitch black as we walk single file. It is 4:45 and we have to wait at the gate now for forty-five minutes in the pouring rain. We are the fourth group in line. Anticipation is building. I start to feel nauseous standing but can’t sit down on anything because it is all soaking wet. Finally at 5:30, the office opens and the line begins to move. The forced march begins, a colourful parade of ponchos bobbing on the hillside. Going down is easy but going up, my legs scream at me, protesting the fourth day of hiking. Up and down we travel, water dripping in our eyes, our feet squishing in our sodden shoes. It seems endless. Sweat is dripping down my back. Other hikers rush past us, forcing us to flatten ourselves into the mountain wall.
Just before the Sun Gate (Intipunku), we have to go up the Monkey Steps, so steep that we have to use our hands to climb up. At the top, we have a snack and pee in the forest. All around us, hikers are getting ready for the final for the final descent. There is no point in lingering as the view is nil today. Off we go, the sky becoming a little lighter with each passing minute. My legs continue to protest and my breathing is labored. An hour later, we arrive at the quintessential post card shot of Machu Picchu but we are not in luck. While it has stopped raining, the fog is socked in. A gentle mist sprays us. We cannot see a thing. I stand there staring into the fog, worried that we will not get to see Machu Picchu after all these days of hiking. We continue on the main entrance of the site and huddle miserably in the drizzle. Helen and I hang up our wooden walking sticks as they are not allowed in the site. Eventually, Cesar our guide suggests that we go in, in spite of the drizzle, in hopes that it will clear later in the morning. Still no view, but we remain hopeful.
Finally around eleven o’clock, the fog finally clears and the sun comes out. Suddenly the majestic Inca ruins reveal themselves, reaching up into the sky. At first it is a bit anticlimactic after the incredible four days of trekking but soon I am in awe imagining what life must have been like in those times. We wander around the labyrinth of stone rooms, enthralled. Helen and I take lots of photos, not that any of them will do the site justice. It has all been an incredible experience. Finally, tired, wet and hungry, we take the bus down to Aguas Calientes and head for the hot springs.
Cusco is a beautiful city. Nestled in a valley, it is quiet in spite of having 300,000 inhabitants. Its main square reminds me of cities in Europe. Our accommodations, the Llimpimpac Guesthouse, are gorgeously quaint and very South American. For $43.00 US, we have a lovely large room, immaculately clean with ornate tile on the floors and a balcony that opens onto a courtyard. We spend our first day getting acclimatized. We are now at 3400 meters and need to acclimatize for our hike in two days time to Machu Picchu. In spite of taking altitude pills, Helen suffers more than me, says she feels drunk but with a headache. She barely makes it up the steep steps to Two Nations, a wonderful restaurant owned by an Aussie and a Peruvian. We take a break, sit and sip coca tea and eat quinoa soup to help her symptoms go away. When she feels well enough to walk again, we go check into Peru Treks, pay the remainder of our fees, get briefed and then head back to our hotel to rest and drink more coca tea which is available twenty four hours a day to help people with the altitude.
Our second day we spend touring the Sacred Valley and Helen starts to feel a little better. We feel confident that she will be fine for the trek. After forty-eight hours in Cusco, we are picked up by our cheery guides, Cesar and Amadeo at five-thirty in the morning. We drive around for an hour or more of collecting our fellow trekkers, one of whom partied too hard last night and had to be woken up and packed by Amadeo. In total we are fourteen, ten women and four men, the majority of us surprisingly are Canadians. Eventually we leave Cusco valley and drive to two and a half hours to kilometer 82, the starting point of our trek. We disembark, organize our gear for the porters and pose for a group shot. Everyone slathers on sun screen, warned that the sun is very strong at the altitude that we will be hiking through. I am already warm, still in my long trekking pants. For the next four days, I would be constantly peeling off or putting on layers.
Day One. The hiking is relatively easy, twelve kilometers to Wayllabamba, a nice warm up to the days to come. The trail winds around the valleys as we work our way upwards with our wooden walking sticks. One of the guides leads and the other always brings up the rear. Helen and I soon learn that we prefer being near the rear, not only because we are the oldest people in our group but because we like to stop and enjoy the moment. Dotted long the Urubamba valley are ancient Inca ruins. The photo ops are endless. Our first meal stop is lunch. There has been lots of speculation and wondering about what the food will be like. We are extremely impressed when we are served a three course lunch, complete with quinoa soup, rainbow trout, rice, vegetables and dessert. We can barely move after lunch. Nevertheless, we are encouraged to get moving, in order to make camp on time later this afternoon. Along the way, we enjoy the views and the bright sunshine, easing into the pace of the group. By four o’clock we arrive at the grassy plains of Wayllabamba (3000 meters) where our tents are all set up. The porters, having long ago arrived, applaud our successful first day of hiking. A glass of warm juice is thrust into our hands. Before dinner, warm basins of water are set out for us to wash our hands. Dinner apparently was another delicious meal but on this evening, I suffered badly with an altitude headache and went to bed early after Cesar instructed me that the best thing to do. I worry about how I will fare tomorrow.
Day Two. Early the next morning, we are awoken by roosters crowing at 4:30 but snuggle down into our sleeping bags for another hour until Amadeo delivers steaming hot coffee to our tent. Happily I am able to report that my headache is gone and I am ready to hike. Today will be our hardest day. After a big breakfast of quinoa pancakes, fresh fruit salad, toasted buns and quinoa porridge, we brush our teeth and are called for a team meeting. A lesson on chewing coca is essential. First we are instructed to roll a tiny piece of charcoal in ten coca leaves, place it in our mouth and chew until the lips and tongue become numb. Be careful not to swallow and spit it out within three minutes, Cesar warns us. Next we are told to roll ten leaves, this time without the charcoal, and stick it in the side of our mouth and leave it there for forty minutes. This step can be repeated many times a day depending on the need for altitude relief. Helen catches on quickly and soon develops a love for it.
Excited, we head out by six thirty. The day promises to be lovely, no rain in sight. The trail begins with a thirty percent grade. Before we know it, the porters who we left behind to take down the tents are soon passing us, practically running in sandals no less. We follow along a water fall, stripping clothes as we warm up. After our first water break, we begin to climb steep stone steps, into a cloud forest. The grade changes to forty-five degrees and our pace slows. We are reminded to pause often, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. We will be ascending 1200 meters today and hiking twelve kilometers. Even the heavily laden porters stop for rests along the way. I am euphoric, loving this climb.
Due to the difficulty of the hike today, we receive an additional brunch of popcorn, coca tea, sweet buns with cheese and crackers and jam at ten o’clock. We sit and chat with our gregarious guides. Amadeo loves to learn new English expressions so I teach him “whatever floats your boat.” Mountains encircle us as we sit at the tables and stools that the porters have set up for us. After thirty minutes, we set out again, energized. The third section of this hike is incredibly steep with no cover of trees, a rocky path. We have to pause every 100 feet or so to catch our breath. We look up to Dead Woman’s Pass, high above us. Other groups who left earlier can be seen up there in the distance. There are twenty-three groups trekking the trail today. Helen and I pass one of our trekkers, a lovely young woman who is really suffering today. We find out that Cat has been sick with a gastro bug for the last eight days but didn’t want to give in because she and her husband plan to reach Machu Picchu on the day of her thirtieth birthday. I give her a power gel and some electrolyte powder to give her energy. She is pale, weak and weepy. Normally quite peppy with a gentle laugh, she has lost her zip. Cesar soon catches up and administers some first-aid for her altitude induced headache.
Helen and I continue up the mountain. Meanwhile, an old porter passes us. Hunched over, he has a wonderful crinkled face, no teeth and yet a sparkling smile. I ask to take a photo of him. He rubs his two fingers together, the universal sign for payment. I offer him some coin but what he really wants is some of our coca leaves. Helen hands him a small bag full and he grins with happiness. We later find out that he got a much fuller bag from another one of our fellow travellers. Too funny!
Way down in the valley, alpacas graze on the green grass. Clouds roll in and out. After another hour and a half, we finally make it to the top of Dead Woman’s pass at 4200 meters. For a few moments, the sun comes out and we are able to take a nice photo but it is cool and we are encouraged to keep moving. It is now another hour and a half to camp, straight down. The path is treacherous, slippery and rocky. We have to choose our footing carefully, sometimes walking sideways to go down. Along the way, Helen and I chat with Chris, a young Australian in our group who has been traveling for the past few months. When we can see our bright blue tents in the distance, our pace quickens in spite of the pain in our knees from the constant downward motion. As we descend into the valley, Cat begins to feel much better. Upon our exhausted arrival at Pacamayo (3600 meters), we are again offered warm orange juice which I drink down greedily. We collect our duffels from the porters, find our tent, then head to the dining tent for our late lunch. It is now almost three in the afternoon. Lunch is a pasta soup, fried octopus, breaded chicken, French fries, Peruvian cheese, noodles and an apple sauce square for dessert. Delicious.
After lunch, we are introduced to the staff. We meet our Chinese chef and a sous-chef and compliment them on the amazing food. A head porter is in charge of organizing the camp and the twenty or so porters accompanying us. The porters range from eighteen years of age to fifty-six. Their limit is 25 kilos and each is responsible for carrying a specific thing, from the gas cylinders, the tents, duffel bags, tables, camp stools, dishes, cutlery, food and water. Any of these porters can do the entire Inca trail in five hours total. We learn how to say good morning and thank you to them in their native tongue, Quechua.(Allillanchu and sulpayki)
Eventually, Helen and I fall into our tent for a blissful nap. Later after a light dinner of warm sangria, asparagus soup, and a beef like stew, Cesar briefs us for our third day of trekking and then tells us wonderful ghost stories. By nine o’clock, we all turn in for the night and in spite of the loud chirping of crickets, we are asleep in minutes.
Day three is the longest, sixteen kilometers to be covered over the next eight to ten hours. I am beginning to smell like a goat as we haven’t been able to have a shower for three days now. Luckily, we all smell the same. My body is sore from turning like a rotisserie on the rock hard base under on our tent. Room service coffee arrives at 5:00 followed by breakfast: quinoa porridge, an omelet, sweet bread and fried bananas. The first leg of the day is hard, straight up for two hours. Helen and I are getting more fatigued as the days go on. My heart is racing, wishing that we could have had more of a gentle warm up. Overheated, I shed layers of clothing. Porters pass us, sweat dripping from their foreheads. They also don’t smell any better than us.
After our first stop at Runkurakay, we visit small circular Inca ruins that overlook the valley. Then we start heading down again on a narrow trail and back up to the second pass, Abra de Runkuracay at 4000 meters. I get stuck behind a girl with a big backpack on her back struggling on the uneven stone steps. The trail crosses stone embankments and skirts deep precipices. We pass through a beautiful cloud forest. Mountain toucans can be heard in the trees that are dripping with orchids, hanging mosses and tree ferns. The cloud forest is damp and by the time we stop for lunch, we are chilled. Our lunch is elaborate. We start with an appetizer of mashed potato and tuna with an olive on top. Followed by seminola soup with carrots, celery, squash and more potatoes. Our main course is rolls of chicken stuffed with spinach and cheese, accompanied by yucca and steamed vegetables. We finish up with chocolate pudding. Did I mention that we are at the third pass, 3700 meters in the mountain? What decadence.
After lunch, dully refreshed, we don our ponchos and hike for two and a half hours down ‘Gringo Killer’, a thousand or so steep steps. Our knees scream at us. The steepness slows us down and soon there is a back log of hikers making their way gingerly along the twists and turns. We pass through Inca tunnels with water dripping down from the ceilings. As porters come up behind us, we call out ‘porters on the right’. We always stay on the inside of the trail to avoid being knocked off the side. The porters come trotting along Gringo Killer as if it was nothing at all.
Eventually we arrive at Intipata, terraces of the sun. The mountain vista is breathtaking. Way down in the valley flows the Urubamba, twisting through the mountains. Again we can see our last camp site way down below. Helen and I reek. Three days without a shower, we’ve barely been able to wash our faces. We have all been promised hot showers and a beer at the end of today. Helen and I soak up on the sun on the multi-leveled terraces where the Inca used to grow potatoes and corn. Eventually we hoist our day packs and set our sights on the brightly colored tents that beckon us.
Two hours later, we stagger into the camp. Twenty different groups are here at Winay Wayna. To our chagrin the Peruvian government has just shut down the restaurant that serves beer since this is a national park after all. Someone scouted out the showers and advised that without flip flops, it would be a bit dodgy. So instead we relax, have another great dinner, tip our porters and get ready for the final hike to Machu Picchu in the morning.
Day Four. Up early at 3:30, excitement is in the air. Helen and I scramble to pack up our stuff. The darkness is not helping us. I hang a flashlight from the top of the tent and shove everything into my dry bags. It is teaming rain. We pile on our layers: T-shirt, long sleeve shirt, wool sweater, rain coat and later a poncho to protect our knapsacks. A quick breakfast and water bottle refill and we are off to hike to checkpoint to the entrance of this part of the park. Flashlights twinkle in the pitch black as we walk single file. It is 4:45 and we have to wait at the gate now for forty-five minutes in the pouring rain. We are the fourth group in line. Anticipation is building. I start to feel nauseous standing but can’t sit down on anything because it is all soaking wet. Finally at 5:30, the office opens and the line begins to move. The forced march begins, a colourful parade of ponchos bobbing on the hillside. Going down is easy but going up, my legs scream at me, protesting the fourth day of hiking. Up and down we travel, water dripping in our eyes, our feet squishing in our sodden shoes. It seems endless. Sweat is dripping down my back. Other hikers rush past us, forcing us to flatten ourselves into the mountain wall.
Just before the Sun Gate (Intipunku), we have to go up the Monkey Steps, so steep that we have to use our hands to climb up. At the top, we have a snack and pee in the forest. All around us, hikers are getting ready for the final for the final descent. There is no point in lingering as the view is nil today. Off we go, the sky becoming a little lighter with each passing minute. My legs continue to protest and my breathing is labored. An hour later, we arrive at the quintessential post card shot of Machu Picchu but we are not in luck. While it has stopped raining, the fog is socked in. A gentle mist sprays us. We cannot see a thing. I stand there staring into the fog, worried that we will not get to see Machu Picchu after all these days of hiking. We continue on the main entrance of the site and huddle miserably in the drizzle. Helen and I hang up our wooden walking sticks as they are not allowed in the site. Eventually, Cesar our guide suggests that we go in, in spite of the drizzle, in hopes that it will clear later in the morning. Still no view, but we remain hopeful.
Finally around eleven o’clock, the fog finally clears and the sun comes out. Suddenly the majestic Inca ruins reveal themselves, reaching up into the sky. At first it is a bit anticlimactic after the incredible four days of trekking but soon I am in awe imagining what life must have been like in those times. We wander around the labyrinth of stone rooms, enthralled. Helen and I take lots of photos, not that any of them will do the site justice. It has all been an incredible experience. Finally, tired, wet and hungry, we take the bus down to Aguas Calientes and head for the hot springs.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Responsible Traveling and the Ethics of being a Tourist
One of the luxuries of this millennium is the ability to travel to virtually any part of the world. As we baby boomers enter into our mid and later years, many of us are able to explore areas of the world that earlier we only dreamed of seeing. I have just been to my tenth country on this year long sabbatical and all along the way I have been blessed with incredible experiences and awesome sights. I sipped red wine in the south of France, hiked from one village to another in Italy’s Cinque Terre, stood in the Pantheon in Athens, Greece, marveled at the Blue Mosque in Turkey, circumambulated the Bodhnath Stupa in Nepal, got harassed in Bangladesh (okay, not so great), walked the beaches of Goa, India, zip lined in Costa Rica, trekked the ancient Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru and searched for geckos with my grandson Owen in St. Lucia. Not too bad for nine months.
But there are issues that arise from traveling the world, concerns that are increasingly beginning to nag at me. The first one that comes to mind is the mountain of plastic bottles used by tourists. Keeping oneself hydrated is absolutely essential but potable water is not always available. A wise traveler will beware of drinking any tap water in any form, including ice cubes, unless they have a steady supply of cipro on hand. So the plastic bottles pile up. In Peru, my traveling partner Helen and I bought one bottle after another, in spite of the fact that we had water purification drops. We chose to put our trust in bottled water rather than our own treatment plan. On our hike to Machu Picchu, we were able to refill our bottles at each camp with boiled water, but that was only for four days. In St. Lucia, the heat drove my family and me to buy copious amounts to quench our thirst. We consciously put the plastic bottles aside, having been told that the island recycles. But later I watched in dismay as the manager of the villa threw them in with the regular garbage. I even attempted to boil water but the saucepan was only big enough to boil two eggs, let alone water for five people. In almost every country that I traveled lately, empty plastic bottles littered the side of the road, were thrown in ditches or lay scattered in waterways. Most surprising for this was Costa Rica, renowned for being an ecological island and St. Lucia, renowned for its natural beauty. It makes me feel very sad.
Then there is the other garbage. On our hike on the Inca trail, my trekking team all made a concerted effort to carry out every scrap of garbage that we generated. With the help of our porters, of course. But occasionally along the historic path we came across wrappers and bottles, discarded by others trekkers. Although not nearly as bad as photos that I have seen of base camp of Mount Everest, the trend was the same. The only saving grace is that according to our trekking guide, the Inca trail is cleaned every night as a concerted effort to preserve it. In Saint Lucia I often wondered where all the garbage goes generated by wealthy tourists. It is an island after all.
Another travel challenge is our carbon footprint. I’ve lost track of the number of flights that I have taken, it must be well over twenty in the last few months. Ask me how sick of airports I am. It worries me but I must confess that I am not quite sure what to do about my carbon footprint, given that I am a voracious traveler who needs her fix at least once a year if not more. Perhaps I will look into buying back my carbon footprint but worry that it is just another feel-good gimmick. Also, trekking ancient paths and climbing stone steps as old as Methuselah is enchanting but also worrisome as more and more areas of historic sites are being cordoned off, worn down from the footsteps of thousands upon thousands of tourists. I want my grandson’s children to be able to marvel at the imaginations of the ancients.
Finally, an issue that has been plaguing me for some time now is photographing the locals. I am as interested in people as I am in buildings, if not more. The life stories that old wizened faces have to offer beckon my camera. I try very consciously to be respectful of their privacy but it is not always easy. Some countries are more difficult than others. The Buddhist monks in their maroon robes in Nepal and the Sadus in India were very enticing but difficult to capture without offending. In Peru, the barrel-shaped women with bowler hats and very colourful dresses knew their uniqueness and always stretched out a hand for some coin in return for a snap. Some even went out of their way to dress in the traditional way, a child strapped to their back, another one in tow, complete with a llama or two. I never hesitated to give to them as I admire anyone who tries to do some sort of work rather than beg. One of the most fascinating photo-ops was on Lake Titicaca, Peru where just a handful of people live on floating reed islands, in reed houses with reed boats for transportation. The remote island of Taquille on the same lake was also fascinating, where men traditionally knit and women weave. Everywhere on the island, young and old men walked in clusters, a pair of knitting needles flying in their hands, a colourful ball of wool in their pocket. I tried my best to shoot only from a distance and never felt more like a tourist.
To all these issues, I have no answers. To not travel would be unthinkable for me. Travel gets the horizon off my nose. It makes me realize that the world is vast, that we are nothing but tiny ants on this earth. It helps bring perspective to our lives when we see the suffering of human beings in less fortunate countries. Travel allows us to enrich our lives but we must always remain mindful to enrich and not destroy the lives of those who grant us a vision into their world.
But there are issues that arise from traveling the world, concerns that are increasingly beginning to nag at me. The first one that comes to mind is the mountain of plastic bottles used by tourists. Keeping oneself hydrated is absolutely essential but potable water is not always available. A wise traveler will beware of drinking any tap water in any form, including ice cubes, unless they have a steady supply of cipro on hand. So the plastic bottles pile up. In Peru, my traveling partner Helen and I bought one bottle after another, in spite of the fact that we had water purification drops. We chose to put our trust in bottled water rather than our own treatment plan. On our hike to Machu Picchu, we were able to refill our bottles at each camp with boiled water, but that was only for four days. In St. Lucia, the heat drove my family and me to buy copious amounts to quench our thirst. We consciously put the plastic bottles aside, having been told that the island recycles. But later I watched in dismay as the manager of the villa threw them in with the regular garbage. I even attempted to boil water but the saucepan was only big enough to boil two eggs, let alone water for five people. In almost every country that I traveled lately, empty plastic bottles littered the side of the road, were thrown in ditches or lay scattered in waterways. Most surprising for this was Costa Rica, renowned for being an ecological island and St. Lucia, renowned for its natural beauty. It makes me feel very sad.
Then there is the other garbage. On our hike on the Inca trail, my trekking team all made a concerted effort to carry out every scrap of garbage that we generated. With the help of our porters, of course. But occasionally along the historic path we came across wrappers and bottles, discarded by others trekkers. Although not nearly as bad as photos that I have seen of base camp of Mount Everest, the trend was the same. The only saving grace is that according to our trekking guide, the Inca trail is cleaned every night as a concerted effort to preserve it. In Saint Lucia I often wondered where all the garbage goes generated by wealthy tourists. It is an island after all.
Another travel challenge is our carbon footprint. I’ve lost track of the number of flights that I have taken, it must be well over twenty in the last few months. Ask me how sick of airports I am. It worries me but I must confess that I am not quite sure what to do about my carbon footprint, given that I am a voracious traveler who needs her fix at least once a year if not more. Perhaps I will look into buying back my carbon footprint but worry that it is just another feel-good gimmick. Also, trekking ancient paths and climbing stone steps as old as Methuselah is enchanting but also worrisome as more and more areas of historic sites are being cordoned off, worn down from the footsteps of thousands upon thousands of tourists. I want my grandson’s children to be able to marvel at the imaginations of the ancients.
Finally, an issue that has been plaguing me for some time now is photographing the locals. I am as interested in people as I am in buildings, if not more. The life stories that old wizened faces have to offer beckon my camera. I try very consciously to be respectful of their privacy but it is not always easy. Some countries are more difficult than others. The Buddhist monks in their maroon robes in Nepal and the Sadus in India were very enticing but difficult to capture without offending. In Peru, the barrel-shaped women with bowler hats and very colourful dresses knew their uniqueness and always stretched out a hand for some coin in return for a snap. Some even went out of their way to dress in the traditional way, a child strapped to their back, another one in tow, complete with a llama or two. I never hesitated to give to them as I admire anyone who tries to do some sort of work rather than beg. One of the most fascinating photo-ops was on Lake Titicaca, Peru where just a handful of people live on floating reed islands, in reed houses with reed boats for transportation. The remote island of Taquille on the same lake was also fascinating, where men traditionally knit and women weave. Everywhere on the island, young and old men walked in clusters, a pair of knitting needles flying in their hands, a colourful ball of wool in their pocket. I tried my best to shoot only from a distance and never felt more like a tourist.
To all these issues, I have no answers. To not travel would be unthinkable for me. Travel gets the horizon off my nose. It makes me realize that the world is vast, that we are nothing but tiny ants on this earth. It helps bring perspective to our lives when we see the suffering of human beings in less fortunate countries. Travel allows us to enrich our lives but we must always remain mindful to enrich and not destroy the lives of those who grant us a vision into their world.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Costa Rica Part Two
Montezuma
As we head back down the rutted mountain road to Montezuma, this time in a shuttle van, Meghan and I discuss my rating of WOW factor. I have had many absolutely incredible experiences and sights during my expensive travels and have decided to rate them from one to ten on a WOW factor. A ten constitutes a combination of any of the following: a high adrenalin rush, incredible sights, a natural wonder of the world, a high level of physical activity or something that is very different from my everyday life. Some tens that come to mind immediately are Jaisalmer fort in Rajasthan, India; Cinque Terre, Italy; the town of Oia on San Torini Island, Greece, and my recent zip lining experience in Monteverde, Costa Rica. WOW.
I find that the more I travel, the harder it is to be impressed. As we leave Monteverde, I wonder if we are making a mistake leaving so soon with so much more to do there. One of the challenges of a short stay in a country is that one cannot see or do everything. And the transitions from one place to another have to be made quickly when there are only a limited amount of days. With this in mind, Meg has planned three days for us in Monteverde and three days in Montezuma. The remaining days in Costa Rica are designated for travel.
As we arrive in Montezuma, I worry that this hippy town will be too quiet, with not have enough to do. But I was mistaken. In our usual style, we check into one hotel but then scout around for another in the morning. As we walk down a dusty hot beach road, we are rewarded for our efforts. Beckoning us is Amor de mar, a beautifully maintained old wooden inn with a water front to die for. Hammocks attached to swaying palm trees call our names. A grassy lawn leads out to the ocean. Our steps quicken as we head inside to see if there are any rooms available. We are in luck, there is one room left. We leave a small deposit and dash back to our hotel for our backpacks.
Repacked and backs laden, Meaghan suggests we take a taxi, but of course, I see the walk as a gym workout, in absence of a gym. So we walk, and sweat. Excited about spending the next three days in the hammocks. Back at Hotel Amor de Mar, we don our bathing suits and head out to our hanging chairs. All of a sudden my desire for exercise is gone and I a m happy to sit and read my book. But every few minutes, I look up and marvel at the amazing views around me. The sun is scorching, perhaps because we so closer to the equator. Our white Canadian skin quickly begins to burn in spite of our 30 sunscreen and we decide to go for a swim at the beach right beside us. Then we jump in another swimming hole enclosed in rocks in front of us. Afterwards, we retreat back to the hammocks in the shade of the verdant palm trees. Meg brings me a glass of white wine and I feel pampered. Not one to sit still, I am finally brought to a halt, happily so.
One of our surprises in Costa Rica is how early the sun sets. By four, it is low in the sky and by six, it is pitch black out. We shower the salt water away, dress and head out for dinner. A delight has been the exceptional food. Each dinner we have is elegantly served and extremely tasty. The only downfall is that few hotels and restaurants accept credit cards and in Monteverde we attempted to withdraw cash at four different ATMS with no success. Finally in Montezuma, we are lucky and the one ATM machine in town works, dispersing both Colonnes and US cash. Just in time too. Otherwise we might have had to eat wieners and beans.
My world slows down as I switch gears into true relax mode. But the days go by way too quickly, punctuated by great meals, awesome fresh fruit drinks, swimming in the ocean, a small hike up to the Montezuma waterfalls, a dip in the natural pool beneath it and lots of reading. Meaghan and I discuss life and all its twists and turns and wonder what the future holds. We imagine her wedding (to whom and when as yet to be determined) on the grounds of this amazing hotel. It is truly a magical place.
All too soon, it is time to return to San Jose for Meg to fly back to Canada. I know that I will definitely return one day to Costa Rica, perhaps for a wedding, who knows. But for now I’m off to Peru to hike the ancient Inca trail to Machu Picchu.
As we head back down the rutted mountain road to Montezuma, this time in a shuttle van, Meghan and I discuss my rating of WOW factor. I have had many absolutely incredible experiences and sights during my expensive travels and have decided to rate them from one to ten on a WOW factor. A ten constitutes a combination of any of the following: a high adrenalin rush, incredible sights, a natural wonder of the world, a high level of physical activity or something that is very different from my everyday life. Some tens that come to mind immediately are Jaisalmer fort in Rajasthan, India; Cinque Terre, Italy; the town of Oia on San Torini Island, Greece, and my recent zip lining experience in Monteverde, Costa Rica. WOW.
I find that the more I travel, the harder it is to be impressed. As we leave Monteverde, I wonder if we are making a mistake leaving so soon with so much more to do there. One of the challenges of a short stay in a country is that one cannot see or do everything. And the transitions from one place to another have to be made quickly when there are only a limited amount of days. With this in mind, Meg has planned three days for us in Monteverde and three days in Montezuma. The remaining days in Costa Rica are designated for travel.
As we arrive in Montezuma, I worry that this hippy town will be too quiet, with not have enough to do. But I was mistaken. In our usual style, we check into one hotel but then scout around for another in the morning. As we walk down a dusty hot beach road, we are rewarded for our efforts. Beckoning us is Amor de mar, a beautifully maintained old wooden inn with a water front to die for. Hammocks attached to swaying palm trees call our names. A grassy lawn leads out to the ocean. Our steps quicken as we head inside to see if there are any rooms available. We are in luck, there is one room left. We leave a small deposit and dash back to our hotel for our backpacks.
Repacked and backs laden, Meaghan suggests we take a taxi, but of course, I see the walk as a gym workout, in absence of a gym. So we walk, and sweat. Excited about spending the next three days in the hammocks. Back at Hotel Amor de Mar, we don our bathing suits and head out to our hanging chairs. All of a sudden my desire for exercise is gone and I a m happy to sit and read my book. But every few minutes, I look up and marvel at the amazing views around me. The sun is scorching, perhaps because we so closer to the equator. Our white Canadian skin quickly begins to burn in spite of our 30 sunscreen and we decide to go for a swim at the beach right beside us. Then we jump in another swimming hole enclosed in rocks in front of us. Afterwards, we retreat back to the hammocks in the shade of the verdant palm trees. Meg brings me a glass of white wine and I feel pampered. Not one to sit still, I am finally brought to a halt, happily so.
One of our surprises in Costa Rica is how early the sun sets. By four, it is low in the sky and by six, it is pitch black out. We shower the salt water away, dress and head out for dinner. A delight has been the exceptional food. Each dinner we have is elegantly served and extremely tasty. The only downfall is that few hotels and restaurants accept credit cards and in Monteverde we attempted to withdraw cash at four different ATMS with no success. Finally in Montezuma, we are lucky and the one ATM machine in town works, dispersing both Colonnes and US cash. Just in time too. Otherwise we might have had to eat wieners and beans.
My world slows down as I switch gears into true relax mode. But the days go by way too quickly, punctuated by great meals, awesome fresh fruit drinks, swimming in the ocean, a small hike up to the Montezuma waterfalls, a dip in the natural pool beneath it and lots of reading. Meaghan and I discuss life and all its twists and turns and wonder what the future holds. We imagine her wedding (to whom and when as yet to be determined) on the grounds of this amazing hotel. It is truly a magical place.
All too soon, it is time to return to San Jose for Meg to fly back to Canada. I know that I will definitely return one day to Costa Rica, perhaps for a wedding, who knows. But for now I’m off to Peru to hike the ancient Inca trail to Machu Picchu.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Costa Rica: On the Road Again
March 2011
Part One
In spite of being on a sabbatical this year, I find myself at Toronto International airport on the Friday afternoon of March break. I am on my way to Costa Rica, in central America. This is traditionally one of the busiest days of travel for Canadians. Normally I try to avoid this time, but I am accommodating Meg’s week long holiday. However, she is not arriving until tomorrow, so today I travel alone. My anxiety level is slightly higher than usual. I attribute this to the two week long ear infection that I’ve been battling, making me feel like my head is under water. And also to the fact that I am not flying to either France or India, my most visited destinations. My comfort level with language, money and cultural customs is missing, as well as the friends that I always look forward to seeing in those parts of the world. But ever the adventurer, it is time to try something new. I have packed my backpack for three countries, which in itself posed a challenge with all the different activities planned, including a four-day hike up the Macchu Pichu trail.
Thankfully, today the flights are uneventful, pain free and blissfully short compared to flying to India. I check into the very quaint Hotel Santo Tomas in San Jose and upgrade to a room with a balcony and a breeze, enchanted by the gorgeous mosaic tile floors. It is late so all the establishments have closed. Meg and I would later notice that all through Costa Rica, restaurants close up very early and we would often be the last ones around at nine p.m. But tonight it is already eleven p.m. Out of luck, I go to bed hungry.
I spend the next day walking around downtown San Jose, particularly Avenue Central, for pedestrians only. The architecture is a mixture of lovely old classical buildings interspersed with ugly cement structures. Hawkers are everywhere, mostly selling local lottery tickets. I am surprised that they are not nearly as aggressive as in India. I sit in the window of a café sipping a latte and watch the world go by. The Saturday shoppers walk with purpose. Most of the women wear trousers, slightly overweight, their muffin tops extruding above their pants. The weather is not as warm as I had anticipated, perhaps around 23 degrees only. On the way back, I pick up some mangoes and a bottle of Malbec Argentinian wine.
I spend the late afternoon in my room, relaxing and catching up with friends and family on Skype. The last few weeks have been incredibly busy with the recent launch of my book, “Mommy When Are We Going Home?” so I am happy to unwind a bit and drink some wine. At eight o’clock, I get the call that Meaghan has arrived downstairs and run to gather her up in a big hug.
We spend the next morning exploring San Jose. We pause in front of a lovely old decaying palatial home that is for sale. “Oh Meg, let’s buy this. You could make pies and I could run a small hotel and sit on those ornate circular balconies,” I say. She laughs as we dream and make plans. We love doing pretends when we travel.
After lunch, Meg and I check out of our hotel and head for the local bus stop. We sit on wooden benches in a dubious part of town, waiting an hour for the ticket booth to open. Other backpackers join us. At two o’clock, we line up to buy our five dollar tickets to Monteverde and board the bus. It is not bad, the seats are plush, although dusty and the windows open. Meg and I find ourselves at the very back of the bus. Most of the travelers are women. A few extra seats remain. We settle in for we’ve been told is a four and a half hour ride.
As we leave San Jose, the landscape becomes more verdant. Costa Rica is incredibly hilly and the wind is always blowing. We are on the milk run and stop frequently to pick up locals along the way. Soon the bus is packed along with standing passengers. After two hours, we stop for a much needed pee break and Meg and I grab a snack of dried fried plantains and an iced tea. We stand around until the whistle blows and we reload to our same seats, anxious to get moving. But it is not to be. As we sit, Meg and I notice that our bus driver is over beside another bus helping someone who is working underneath that bus. We sit and sweat and sweat some more. But do not move. Fifteen minutes passes, then thirty. Our eyes do not leave our bus driver. He continues to stand by his buddy’s bus, handing him tools. We sit and stew. Finally there is some movement. Our driver comes onto our bus and yells in Spanish for everyone to get off and get on the other bus!
As the passengers on the other bus line up to load our bus, we all crawl off, collect our backpacks from underneath and walk hesitatingly to the bus that was just recently worked on. We pile on but soon realize to our dismay that we have lost our seats to the locals. I grab a couple of other seats for Meg and I but there is frustration as some of the ticketholders like us from San Jose are now without seats. Meanwhile our bus driver has disappeared so there is no one to help resolve the situation. Eventually a new driver gets on, resolves nothing and starts the bus. We sit and ponder the change of bus and driver. Perhaps he got a call from his wife to come home early? Perhaps a hot date? Or perhaps this bus could not be trusted to go wherever it was going? We’ll never know. Instead we try to sit back and not worry about what is wrong with this bus.
Sitting back however, is impossible. There is barely five inches between my seat and the one in front of me and I cannot put my legs forward. Meg’s seat is no better. She sticks her long legs into the aisle so I can twist mine sideways into her space. We remain in this contorted position for the next three hours. But at least we do not have to stand, like some others. The last hour up to Monteverde, we rattle up twelve kilometers of unpaved, rutted, washboard road that apparently the local Quakers refuse to be paved to keep the number of tourists down. By now, it is pitch dark but I get the feeling from the twinkling lights below that we are on the edge of steep drop-offs. Meg sleeps beside me, oblivious to the danger. We crawl ahead slowly, the headlights the only illumination of the steep and twisty road.
At nine o’clock, we finally arrive and pile off the bus with a huge sigh. We grab our backpacks and head out to find the Quetzel Inn, about two hundred meters away. But we are two hours late and our room with a view has been given away. We are assigned the very last room, a small camp like room that smells amazingly of cedar. Our luck turns when we find a fabulous restaurant, the Tree House, built around a fifty year old fig tree. Our exhaustion fades away as we sit outside by an outdoor heater, sipping red wine out of hand blown glasses. Meaghan’s mushroom filled crepes with a curry sauce are to die for. Happily we head back to our little room and fall into bed.
The next morning, after a breakfast of cold coffee and rock hard pancakes that Meg suggests we use for Frisbees, we search around for another place to stay. But the only place that appeals to us has no vacancies so we head back to Quetzel Inn and change into our promised room with a balcony. Not that it overlooks very much, only some clotheslines and gravel. One chair sits on the balcony. I ask twice for another but it never comes.
We spend three days in Monteverde hiking and zip lining. Our charming host, Grevin at Quetzel Inn makes suggestions for various tours and activities. “Perhaps you are interested in the ‘orse shit museum” he asks. “The ‘orse shit museum?” Meg attempts to clarify. “Yes, the ‘orse shit museum.” I stifle a giggle as we realize that he is referring to the ‘orchid’ museum. “No thanks,” we both say but opt instead for some hiking trips. Our first hike includes eight suspension bridges and beautiful paths through the forest. The rain forest is dense with verdant foliage but we don’t spot any birds. It is cool, necessitating a sweater.
Our second hike in the Cloud Forest Reserve is longer, with breathtaking with vast vistas and towering old trees. We cross the continental divide and hike for hours. But the highlight of our stay is the zip lining, a new experience for me. Meaghan and I rise early for a 7:00 start, thinking we must be out of our minds to be getting out of our warm beds to go zip lining. But it is so worth it. After a short shuttle ride, we are deposited at the center and geared up. A cheery staff member gives us a lesson on how to grab the line that attaches us to the main line with our left hand, put our right arm straight back and hold the main line, leaving our hand open in an O to allow the line to run through. To go faster, we are instructed to sit back more, cross our legs and bend our knees. To brake, we are to close the O with our heavily gloved hand and pull our body up. Excited, we set out to get started.
As we zip from one line to another, sometimes at a pace that barely allows me to catch my breath, we are clearly told at what point we need to brake on each line. Ideally you do not want to brake too soon and get stuck out on a line, necessitating one of the workers to scoot out to get you. That would just be embarrassing. Some lines are short, running through the trees while others crossed entire valleys. Traversing over the canopy of treetops, I am strangely relaxed and look around. The vistas are stunning. It was incredible to see valleys from a bird’s eye view. My braking goes well and I never have to be rescued. I am so hooked on this ‘sport’. At one point, my harness is changed around and I am instructed not to touch the line at any point. I superman over a long valley, looking face first down at the trees, my arms out like a bird. The variety of colours of green is amazing. The winds blows me gently sideways but not enough to worry me. It is exhilarating.
The finale is incredible. For some reason, I am the one in the lead of our entire group and also clearly the eldest. We are instructed to walk to the end of the long ramp, one by one. (Later I realize this is so that the next person in line does not see what is happening.) I walk out, wondering what this is all about. Two men hook me up to a 150 foot hanging rope. Intrigued, I ask what I am supposed to do, when to brake. “Just hold this line with both hands and don’t worry about braking,” the worker tells me. “Now bend your knees.” I don’t move. “Bend your knees,” he tells me again. A gate clicks open and I pitch forward into a free fall that reminds me of a recurring dream that I have had all my life. As I fall, my heart is in my throat until the rope jerks and I begin to swing like Tarzan. Three times back and forth I swing until a brake rope is thrown over my line and stops me immediately. Ecstatic, I want to run right back up the hill and do it all again. But alas, this is the end of my forty dollar zip lining experience for today. Meaghan follows after me, shrieking in fear and then in delight. We watch as others jump, some sounding very much like Tarzan. Only one person turns back after getting to the end of the ramp, refusing to jump. Tired, but happy, Meaghan and I head back to our hotel.
Sadly, our days in Monteverde come to an end all too soon and we prepare to leave. We have met some lovely people, ate amazing (although pricier than expected) meals and explored the rainforests. There are lots of activities and sights that we did not have time to do, but now it is time to head for the beach.
Monday, February 7, 2011
In Praise of Slow
Sabbatical(n): of the nature of a Sabbath or period of rest. Designating a period of leave from duty granted at intervals […] for study and travel
I recently had an epiphany. I am on a sabbatical but I am not resting. Instead, I am working frantically working on more than four major projects, cramming my days from morning to night. I had my epiphany after a particularly anxious day that ended in a meltdown by late-afternoon. Now, this was not my first meltdown, nor I’m sure, my last. I have a pattern of going full tilt, hell-bent-for-election until I crash. This time was no different. I sat in my home office, tears rolling down my face, staring at my computer. Immoblized and unable to focus. All of this was accompanied by an acute sense of unease, a nagging feeling that my life was spinning out of control. My head ached and I couldn’t concentrate as I stared at my to-do list for January, at all the unticked neat little boxes beside each task. It was almost February. I needed to get to work. But all I could do was cry.
My husband wondered what the fuss was about. After all, I am not teaching. “You are on a sabbatical, you have a year off,” he said. I cried some more. An hour later, I attempted to pull myself together for the visit of a girlfriend, but as we clinked glasses to cheer the Friday afternoon (her idea), I burst into tears again. Oh dear, this was serious.
Now I would describe myself as calm, in control, highly organized and extremely energetic person. All of which makes me an over-achiever. If I have heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times, “I don’t understand how you get so much done. I wish I had your energy.” But lately, I’ve been wishing that I could relax, do nothing and spend a day being unproductive. But the problem is that my brain will not shut off.
One thing I can do well when I am upset is fall sleep. Much to my husband’s chagrin. But as soon as I wake up, the mailbox in my head clicks open and my mind jumps into high gear. After my girlfriend left, I gave myself permission to go to bed early. The next morning, I tried to tame it by reaching for a book that had been sitting on my to-read pile for over two years, In Praise of Slow, by Carl Honore. Sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly brewed cup of coffee, I began to read. At first I raced across the words, using the speed reading techniques that I learned back in high school. Every few minutes, I jumped up to stir a soup I was making for lunch later, change the laundry and let the dogs out. Three pages into the book, I realized that I had not taken in one word. I guess speed reading a book about slowing down is a bit of an oxymoron, so I started back at page one. I had to do this three times before the words started to sink in. And sink in they did.
“Our lives have turned into an exercise in hurry, obsessed with being efficient; saving time, making every step count for three…We have become velocitized and have a constant need to go even faster.” It’s like getting on the 401 at Brockville, feeling like we are going fast at 100km/ hour. By Kingston we travel at 120km/hour and entering Toronto, we race along at 130km/hour just to stay with the traffic. In the same way, our lives have sped up to the verge of being out of control.
I first twigged into the realization that I had not bought into the full meaning of sabbatical when I found myself rushing frantically out the door to run an errand. I stopped suddenly, wondering why I was rushing. I had no deadline, no appointment, just my own self-made timelines. I was just running a simple errand; even the verb ‘running’ infers hurrying. So I cut my speed in half and carried on, but the anti-speed seed was planted in my head. At least for a few minutes.
As I struggled to analyze just where I was going wrong, I came up with some theories. I have always felt that each day is a gift from God and therefore should be lived to the fullest. What I have come to realize is that this does not necessarily mean jumping at every single opportunity and idea that comes along. And believe me, I have way more ideas than time. I need to learn to say no, or not now, or perhaps, never. Right. Easier said than done.
Then there is the time frame. My sabbatical is unlike retirement. It is finite. It ends in August. I have only so many months to jam in all my ideas. Oh, those damn ideas of mine. Another issue is that my sense of worth is based on producing and accomplishing. My father calls it Avery for Slavery. I call it work ethic out of control. And it doesn’t help that my husband is also a work-a-holic who works 80 hours a week and has very little time off. I find it hard to relax knowing that he is working so hard. So I renovate the house, reorganize my charity, write a cookbook, launch my first book and frantically plan the next trip.
I must admit that I have been very good at incorporating ‘travel’ into my sabbatical. I recently toured seven countries over four months and saw people relaxing everywhere. Scantily clad sunbathers laying on pebble beaches in France. Old men shooting the breeze on roadside benches in Italy. Muslim men having a picnic with their four wives in parks in Turkey. Men playing cards in the shade in Nepal. For the most part, I raced through the countries, as tourists often do, trying to see as much as possible, in spite of the fact that I had vowed that I would not do this. However, I did manage to spend many hours on balcony in Goa, slowly sipping my milky coffee or a late afternoon gin and tonic or two. Goa seems to be the only place where I can truly relax. I find it ironic that I allow myself to do nothing there but seem to be incapable of doing this in Canada. Unless friends come over. Then I find myself exclaiming to them, “ Thank God you’ve come, now I can sit down.” I can sit for hours and talk with cherished friends but I cannot sit still when I am alone.
I’m still reading Praise for Slow, two to three pages at a time, even though I am anxious to get to the How-To part of Honore’s message of slowing down. In the meantime, I’ve decided to make a few changes. Or at least try. (I can hear my friends laughing already.) Firstly, I need to train my mind to shut down for awhile. Stop listening to those voices in my head. After all, would I let anyone else order me around the way that those voices do? I also need to put things off. I have never been a procrastinator but perhaps it is a skill that I should learn. And I need to prioritize. The next time I make a list, I will go back and cross some things off of it. Finally, for the duration of this sabbatical, I am going to try to schedule a pajama day every week. One day with no obligations, no tasks to complete, no plans. A day to get up in the morning, dress or not dress and ask myself, “Okay, Crystle, what would you love to do today? Really love.” And give myself permission to do it. Wish me luck!
I recently had an epiphany. I am on a sabbatical but I am not resting. Instead, I am working frantically working on more than four major projects, cramming my days from morning to night. I had my epiphany after a particularly anxious day that ended in a meltdown by late-afternoon. Now, this was not my first meltdown, nor I’m sure, my last. I have a pattern of going full tilt, hell-bent-for-election until I crash. This time was no different. I sat in my home office, tears rolling down my face, staring at my computer. Immoblized and unable to focus. All of this was accompanied by an acute sense of unease, a nagging feeling that my life was spinning out of control. My head ached and I couldn’t concentrate as I stared at my to-do list for January, at all the unticked neat little boxes beside each task. It was almost February. I needed to get to work. But all I could do was cry.
My husband wondered what the fuss was about. After all, I am not teaching. “You are on a sabbatical, you have a year off,” he said. I cried some more. An hour later, I attempted to pull myself together for the visit of a girlfriend, but as we clinked glasses to cheer the Friday afternoon (her idea), I burst into tears again. Oh dear, this was serious.
Now I would describe myself as calm, in control, highly organized and extremely energetic person. All of which makes me an over-achiever. If I have heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times, “I don’t understand how you get so much done. I wish I had your energy.” But lately, I’ve been wishing that I could relax, do nothing and spend a day being unproductive. But the problem is that my brain will not shut off.
One thing I can do well when I am upset is fall sleep. Much to my husband’s chagrin. But as soon as I wake up, the mailbox in my head clicks open and my mind jumps into high gear. After my girlfriend left, I gave myself permission to go to bed early. The next morning, I tried to tame it by reaching for a book that had been sitting on my to-read pile for over two years, In Praise of Slow, by Carl Honore. Sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly brewed cup of coffee, I began to read. At first I raced across the words, using the speed reading techniques that I learned back in high school. Every few minutes, I jumped up to stir a soup I was making for lunch later, change the laundry and let the dogs out. Three pages into the book, I realized that I had not taken in one word. I guess speed reading a book about slowing down is a bit of an oxymoron, so I started back at page one. I had to do this three times before the words started to sink in. And sink in they did.
“Our lives have turned into an exercise in hurry, obsessed with being efficient; saving time, making every step count for three…We have become velocitized and have a constant need to go even faster.” It’s like getting on the 401 at Brockville, feeling like we are going fast at 100km/ hour. By Kingston we travel at 120km/hour and entering Toronto, we race along at 130km/hour just to stay with the traffic. In the same way, our lives have sped up to the verge of being out of control.
I first twigged into the realization that I had not bought into the full meaning of sabbatical when I found myself rushing frantically out the door to run an errand. I stopped suddenly, wondering why I was rushing. I had no deadline, no appointment, just my own self-made timelines. I was just running a simple errand; even the verb ‘running’ infers hurrying. So I cut my speed in half and carried on, but the anti-speed seed was planted in my head. At least for a few minutes.
As I struggled to analyze just where I was going wrong, I came up with some theories. I have always felt that each day is a gift from God and therefore should be lived to the fullest. What I have come to realize is that this does not necessarily mean jumping at every single opportunity and idea that comes along. And believe me, I have way more ideas than time. I need to learn to say no, or not now, or perhaps, never. Right. Easier said than done.
Then there is the time frame. My sabbatical is unlike retirement. It is finite. It ends in August. I have only so many months to jam in all my ideas. Oh, those damn ideas of mine. Another issue is that my sense of worth is based on producing and accomplishing. My father calls it Avery for Slavery. I call it work ethic out of control. And it doesn’t help that my husband is also a work-a-holic who works 80 hours a week and has very little time off. I find it hard to relax knowing that he is working so hard. So I renovate the house, reorganize my charity, write a cookbook, launch my first book and frantically plan the next trip.
I must admit that I have been very good at incorporating ‘travel’ into my sabbatical. I recently toured seven countries over four months and saw people relaxing everywhere. Scantily clad sunbathers laying on pebble beaches in France. Old men shooting the breeze on roadside benches in Italy. Muslim men having a picnic with their four wives in parks in Turkey. Men playing cards in the shade in Nepal. For the most part, I raced through the countries, as tourists often do, trying to see as much as possible, in spite of the fact that I had vowed that I would not do this. However, I did manage to spend many hours on balcony in Goa, slowly sipping my milky coffee or a late afternoon gin and tonic or two. Goa seems to be the only place where I can truly relax. I find it ironic that I allow myself to do nothing there but seem to be incapable of doing this in Canada. Unless friends come over. Then I find myself exclaiming to them, “ Thank God you’ve come, now I can sit down.” I can sit for hours and talk with cherished friends but I cannot sit still when I am alone.
I’m still reading Praise for Slow, two to three pages at a time, even though I am anxious to get to the How-To part of Honore’s message of slowing down. In the meantime, I’ve decided to make a few changes. Or at least try. (I can hear my friends laughing already.) Firstly, I need to train my mind to shut down for awhile. Stop listening to those voices in my head. After all, would I let anyone else order me around the way that those voices do? I also need to put things off. I have never been a procrastinator but perhaps it is a skill that I should learn. And I need to prioritize. The next time I make a list, I will go back and cross some things off of it. Finally, for the duration of this sabbatical, I am going to try to schedule a pajama day every week. One day with no obligations, no tasks to complete, no plans. A day to get up in the morning, dress or not dress and ask myself, “Okay, Crystle, what would you love to do today? Really love.” And give myself permission to do it. Wish me luck!
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