I loved Mindo and it was tough to leave but I do not miss the hungry insects.

Arriving in Otavalo was more city than I was prepared for. Cars! Buses! Noise! The highlight is the Saturday Market for animals which makes one question her consumption of meat. Pigs, sheep, cows, chickens, roosters, ducks, guinea pigs, are bound, bagged, tethered, and treated like the soon to be dinners they are. A bit tough to watch from the sanitized supermarket culture I’m accustomed to, but the market offers a glimpse of the reality few of us think about.

I took a 16km hike around Lagoona Cuicocha in a torrential downpour (Rain seems to be everywhere.) The views, when visible between raindrops, were gorgeous. I was told it was highly recommended to go with a guide, “the path was tricky” so I sought out a trekking agency and they provided me with an indigenous guide. He was barely an adult. The path was tough with lots of ups and downs, but extremely well marked. It was my guide’s second time around the lagoon (I appreciated his honestly). He was able to answer some of my questions, using as few words as possible, and was content to walk behind me the entire time. I never heard his feet touch the ground and he only spoke if spoken to, so ultimately it was as if I was there alone.

The following day I walked from Otavalo, beside an infrequently used rail track (the locals walk on the tracks), to a waterfall in Peguche. The waterfall is in a spacious verdant park with trails and camping. Indigenous people offer tasty meals (trout, pork, chicken) to the tourists in ancient looking eateries that were actually new, on grills or large pots over wood fires. After a filling delicious meal of steamed trout I visited a funky little museum with photos of Otavalo and the surrounding area one hundred years ago. Life has changed and remained the same.

For two dollars I was invited to visit a cave “built by the Incas, then used by the Spanish” for “meditation.” The inside decorations of faux flowers was kinda hokey-but I stayed awhile for some peaceful contemplation. I enjoyed conversing with the people in the park about life and such. They were very friendly and curious, and since there were very few visitors seemed in no hurry.  Throughout Ecuador I am always asked the same questions: Traveling alone? Married? Children? Do you like Ecuador? How long are you staying?  But this time I was asked: How old are you? Are you here to buy property? I only answer the questions I wish to. One man knew of President Washington and asked about the president today. The name Trump meant nothing to him. It was refreshing.

I continued walking up the road through some indigenous communities where numerous dogs greeted me with various degrees of friendliness. Don’t let this photo fool you. Some can become quite territorial. I picked up a few hearty rocks to ward off one aggressive hound and pretended to throw one. It quickly retreated.

Later, I was struck by the image of a woman grazing her cows and wanted to take her photo, but was too far to ask permission. I snapped a shot and thought she was displeased. I waved in apology. But I was likely mistaken. Shortly after we were chatting like old friends. She made the motion to speak first. After asking where I was from, she asked if my parents were still alive. We sympathized our common loss. It was a novel way to start a conversation but it was also very touching. As I waited for a bus back to Otavalo we spoke of family and cows.

I then decided to spend two nights with an indigenous family outside of Cotacachi. Mom, Mercedes, dad, Mario, two daughters (22 and 18) Isabel and Diana and their sons (4 and 2) Ally (who I thought was a girl given his plaited hair then realized the men wear one long braid down their back.) and Dylan (Bob Dylan was an unknown.) son-in law Jimmy(18) who could have been a model, three dogs, cows, chickens, pigs, and guinea pigs. The home was basic but the bed was extremely comfortable and the Volcano Cotacachi loomed large from my window.

I helped make tortillas on an open fire and attempted with little success to milk a cow. Mario was trying to have me “cured” of any ailments by seeing the local shaman at $30 a visit. He uses a guinea pig for diagnosis. Mario spoke of other tourists being cured of cancer after two visits. I finally convinced him that I was fortunately quite healthy. The children attended high school and university. The parents toiled from sun up to sun down- tending the livestock, plowing the field with two cows no differently from centuries past, drying corn, making large pots of soup on open flames, and a multitude of other daily chores. They stopped to eat, sleep, and converse with me.

Cotacachi is a Mecca for retired Americans living on Social Security benefits. It had a strange vibe between the gringo and local culture. But the retirees I saw seemed quite content chatting in various American accents over their American breakfasts.

Needing a few days to figure out what to do next I decided to head back to Quito and see sites I missed the first time around: The exquisite Casa del Alabama offering a fine collection of Pre-Colombian art and the impressive gold filled church-La Compañia were outstanding.

I think my next stop is Cotapaxi in the hopes of doing some riding. Hopefully the rain gods will soon be appeased!

I had been drawn to Mindo for its array of birds, and since I was seeing nary a one, I was encouraged to hire a professional guide. Thus one morning at 5:20am I set off with Javier (guide) and Cesar (driver) to visit a “lek.” A lek is where male birds, in this case the brilliantly red headed cock-of-the-rocks, gather in the woods to gain the attention of a mate. The females will only come for a quick visit, if at all. Meanwhile the males squawk, preen, compete for a branch, flitter about and make a raucous time of it.

I hadn’t expected to arrive, at this wee hour, amongst a small group of tourists already staked out with enormous cameras and zoom lens perched on hefty tripods in a hunters-like blind, (I had booked a “private” tour). Near dawn is the optimal time to see them.

Behind us our respective guides chatted away as if it was a daily occurrence to be in such a coveted area, but of course for them it was. We arrived in the near dark and could only faintly make out the red heads of these resplendent creatures. Hearing them was no problem. Their calls were incessant–and lacked all melody.

As light came to the thick woods the cock-of-the-rocks were glimpsed in thrilling, fleeting moments. Catching them on film was, even for those with professional equipment, decidedly difficult. (The picture in this post was taken a different day.)

Javier’s talents were impressive and uncanny. (A wicked cold dampened his enthusiasm.) He was able to identify 700 bird calls and imitate 140. When he was ten, his interest had been whet by a visiting Canadian ornithologist offering free workshops.

After an hour or so, the sun now up, we left the lek. Sighting any other birds remained elusive to me. But Javier would whistle, enticing various species, put down his tidy legged telescope and locate a bird with the aim of a sniper. He never missed. I tried repeating his actions-I was lucky to find a tree. He had spent eight hours a day for several months developing his skill and years honing it. The birds in the telescope appeared inches away and were splendid. They came in vibrant shades of blues, reds, yellows, purples and greens with a few brown ones too. Names were told to me and forgotten, there were too many to recall.

After an allotted time at one site we would head to another for a particular species’ sighting. Each tourist would get into a vehicle with their respective guide and driver. There were no more than fifteen of us, but driving, then walking in file, felt like being part of a tourist caravan. Arriving at a site cameras would be set up as if by a string of paparazzi.

Witnessing Javier at work and admiring gorgeous birds- birds I never would have seen without his assistance filled a memorable and worthwhile morning.

Yet I was also happy to visit the woods again under quieter (less human chatter) and less regulated circumstances.

I get asked, “What is it like to be a solo traveler?” Fortunately, when I want company there is rarely an occasion when it is not found.

As I headed to the highly recommended Nambillo waterfalls, a 5km steep walk uphill from Mindo, on a dirt road, I passed several lodges and places offering ziplining and tubing, clearly catering to tourists. There was no one in sight.

The walk up on the rough road was slow going with little to see given the thick foliage. And thus, as usual, with proper timing and chemistry, I met a perfect companion to pass the time.

A small terrier mix was standing by the side of the road. She seemed just as happy to see me as I her. She wore no collar, there was no owner in sight, and from that moment on never left my side during the ascent to the falls. She asked for nothing except frequent petting. I was happy to oblige.

When we got to the entry of the falls, I was greeted by some employees. “That’s our dog “Ruina.” I didn’t tell them that I had already started calling her “Milou” for Tintin’s faithful four-legged companion. She hadn’t minded at all. These men manned the “tarabita” (cable car, that traversed the ravine with a river far below to arrive at the waterfalls.) I asked if I could continue my hike of the falls with “Ruina” (a.ka. “Milou”).

They noted we made a fine pair.

“Milou” and I boarded the tarabita together with one of the men. I was more startled by the speed of this rickety looking transport than she. My companion was clearly an old hand.

The path was often wet, steep, and muddy but the falls were powerful and grand. If I stopped for a moment to take in the view, Milou would sit or stand by my side or lie down fullout for a quick nap only to bound up again when I took a step. And so it went for the next four hours. We walked, we relaxed, we offered each other affection and perfect company.

However, our parting came abruptly. As soon as we got back to the other side of the ravine, Milou’s meal was ready and she dashed off. Our bond only went so far. But we would meet again for another spontaneous meeting for a walk in the woods.

Instead of the familiar ocean’s roar in the Galapagos and scorching heat, I adjusted to a raging river, downpours, chilly mornings and cool nights during my ten days in Mindo. Cloud forest is the perfect name for this region. The frequent rains with a confluence of climate and hilly landscape create robust waterfalls, rivers, and a verdant forest which hosts an extraordinary array of birds, butterflies, and orchids.

I came here for the birds-Mindo is renown for them. Yet I am immediately struck by not seeing any. I hear them singing, chirping, whistling, and making the various sounds that birds do, but they are elusive and I strain to catch a glimpse of any as they swoop or flutter by.

The Galapagos has spoiled me. On the islands birds know no fear and allow a proximity that is, I am quickly reminded, atypical. It will take a walk with a professional guide and binoculars to see these evasive creatures.

Fortunately hummingbirds are the exception enticed by feeders that adorn most residents’ porches, eaves, and trees.

The splendor of butterflies and orchids are abundant in private domains one enters for a fee and in the wild.

My days are spent hiking, birding, meeting locals,foreigners-some passing through others staying on for months or years, and a few outstanding dogs.

My tongue is loosening to the sounds of Spanish.

Mindo is a special place.

To be continued…

Arriving from Floreana to the pier on Isla Isabela, I was told it was either a 15 to 20 minute walk or a $1 taxi into the main town Puerto Villamil . Given the heat of the day and the sun’s rays that shine with the force of a laser, it was an easy choice.

At the end of the pier was a man, perhaps 30, tall and slender, wearing a baseball cap, shorts, reflective sunglasses, and barefoot standing beside a, now for me, recognizable taxi-a white pick-up truck. “Taxi?” he asked. We confirmed the price and not knowing where I would be staying he offered to show me a place “clean and reasonable”. Two or three minutes later we arrived at a bland cement building painted pink. The owners came out and showed me a “clean and reasonable” charmless room for $30/night. I graciously declined. Carlos, the driver, was not discouraged and took me to another place with unfortunately an equal lack of appeal. He seemed genuinely content to take me to any number of places before I found what I was looking for. However, after another attempt, I thought it best to continue on my own. He let me off near a small cluster of hostals (small hotels). I gave him $1.50 for the fare and his time.

Planning to stay five nights I was hoping to find a sweet place, and with luck a balcony and view of the sea. It took me another few tries, but I found exactly what I was looking for. A top floor with large bedroom, wide windows with screens, balcony, large bathroom with a great shower, separate kitchen area-minus a stove, in a very pretty white stucco structure embellished with wood and full kitchen on the ground level. The view and sound of the sea, a few hundred feet away, was seen and heard from my balcony and a terrace just outside my door offered a view of a pond, on the other side, with flamingos. The room was $25/night.

Isabela is the largest island in the Galapagos and the population is roughly 1800 people, much more than Floreana’s roughly 150, yet Puerto Villamil remains peaceful and sleepy. Most of the hostals, shops, tourist agencies, and restaurants lie one block away and parallel to the beach-a gorgeous wide stretch of white sand and active surf.

The owners of “my home” were Edith and Beto. Beto’s favorite hangout was his eponymous bar on the beach where he lazed in a hammock when he wasn’t stocking the refrigerator with beer: Pilsner (an Ecuadorean Schlitz of sorts) and Club (a tad tastier). They’d been living on the island for 30 years and converted their first building, which housed the bar, from a church. The bar was mostly frequented by young foreign tourists who smoked, drank the beer, and spent most of the time gliding their fingers along their phones. The music was equally foreign: reggae, blues, and soul.

Although there was an assortment of guided activities designed for tourists I opted for only one: snorkeling at los tuneles. A forty-five minute boat ride to unusual land forms with cactus and pristine waters provided direct encounters with enormous (at least 5 feet long) sea turtles, white-tipped sharks of different sizes- fortunately not aggressive since I unknowingly wandered into their “den”-colorful tropical fish, one large seahorse (about 6 inches long) and more blue footed boobies.

I was happy to spend the rest of the time investigating on my own. I rented a bike and rode along a rough unpaved road, sometimes deep in sand, to a National Park with El Muro de Lagrimas (Wall of Tears) a remnant from the cruel conditions of the penal colony .  This massive stone wall, with no particular purpose,  was built by prisoners starved and worked to death. Just getting there during the heat of the day was challenge enough.

The park also offered natural wonders. I wandered and swam within the mangroves, watched giant tortoises wander too, and sat along the surf once again entertained by iguanas, colorful crabs, and pelicans.

A highlight of my stay was snorkeling at the nearby Concha de Perla with some very social penguins! When they weren’t diving for sardines they seemed delighted to swim with me-and the other humans.

In the evenings I explored the town.

A priest was holding mass in a large modern church, off the main street. Galapagos creatures were depicted in the stained glass. There was one worshiper in attendance. Yet, I passed a few homes where parents squeezed onto sofas with their children and listened to enthusiastic sermons. These preachers were likely hoping for a larger venue to attract their flock.

There is a complete sense of security on the islands and I walked alone at night virtually carefree.( Dangers do lie in unlit, uneven,  roads .)

Although greetings might me exchanged on the street, there was never any unwanted attention. I found the people overall very kind and helpful. My first evening I stepped into a shop to ask where the market was. The shop owner gave a worker $5. She told him to take me to the market and come back with some fruit. When we arrived, the man gave me a tour of the six stalls and their products although the offerings were few.

Blocks away from the main street and tourist shops the local life emerges: homes and shops are single story structures. Doors are left open to catch the sea breeze. Children ride bicycles or kick balls back and forth. Men and women sit outside quietly or socialize.  Barbecues are set up for personal use and business.

The eateries served the typical  fish, chicken with rice, lentils, french fries, salad, and fresh fruit juices/milkshakes of guanabana, maracuya, mora, guayaba, and the more familiar pineapple, coconut, and strawberry. All are delicious!

Dining entertainment, in the form of a TV, was often ultra violent films where I heard, but did my best not to watch, actors in dubbed voices suffering from various means of torture. The local viewers appeared engrossed.

On my last afternoon I scheduled a haircut and color with Dany from Quito in a sparse salon. He complained about his lack of supplies, but I left very happy with his efforts.

I bought a ticket  for a lancha back to Santa Cruz for 3pm. My flight was leaving for Quito at 12:45pm the following day.

Twice a week a lancha (public speedboat) leaves Floreana for Santa Cruz. It takes two hours–too late to catch an on going boat to Isla Isabela the same day. Thus, getting to Isla Isabela, another two hours, requires sleeping in Santa Cruz (no doubt a happy circumstance for hotel owners in Santa Cruz).

At least that’s what I was told.

However, I learned that a captain of a tourist charter, if willing, could take me directly to Isabela-in an hour and half-for the same $30 fare.

A few inquiries later brought me to a pool hall, hidden in the back of my “go to” eatery in Floreana, to seek out a Capitain Gabriel. I found him smoking a cigarette, shooting pool with a buddy and was relieved to see he was drinking soda rather than alcohol. I explained my situation and he responded succinctly with the fare and when to be where. I showed up, as directed, on the pier at 3pm. The guide of the tourists I was to join did not seem pleased with my arrangement. Fortunately, the tourists were extremely gracious and welcomed me aboard. I later heard that some people are not so lucky and are refused such passage outright.

I spent part of the trip speaking to an Australian about politics, usually unadvisable in the best of circumstances– fortunately we shared a common view, before the boat’s movement lulled us into quiet reflection and dozing along with the other passengers. The ninety minutes passed pleasantly and quickly.

Arriving in the harbor at Isabela I was told to stay on board with the luggage while the other tourists boarded a ferry and were whisked off toward land. A few moments later a different ferry pulled up. I got in while they loaded all the bags. My passage did not include the VIP treatment, but I enjoyed the chance to see behind the scenes. Once the task was completed, the luggage, ferry driver and I made our way to shore. Meanwhile a police boat was pulling up to the speed boat I just left for an inspection.

Once on shore, without a word, my bag was magically separated from all the others and passed over to me. I arrived in Isabela a day earlier than expected.

I’ll discuss my time on Isabela in another post…

Boat travel in the Galapagos is virtually obligatory and from my experience, very well organized. The ferrys, 18-footers with a partial tarp roof and wooden seats around the sides, are used to transport passengers and their belongings from the lanchas (speed boats about 30 feet with roof and padded seats along the sides which travel between the islands) to shore. Pangas-sturdy inflatable rafts with seating on the edges-seem primarily used for the cruise ships.

The men who work the vessels vary in age and often wear hats, sunglasses, face masks, long-sleeved shirts and gloves to protect them from the sun, shorts and sandals are the exception. They do not flinch no matter how heavy the suitcases and graciously assist people getting in and out of their boats. It was a comfort to have a steady hand at the ready! (Hands grip wrists.)

Shopping around at any one of the numerous travel agencies (tourism accounts for roughly 80% of the employment- Floreana may be the exception.) isn’t common. The prices are generally fixed at $30. You are given a paper receipt, with the name of the boat, date and time of departure .

Showing up half an hour early at the muelle (pier) is enough time to have your bags inspected (no organic matter is allowed to be transported between islands without some official approval- although the “search” was often perfunctory at best. I suspect they rely mostly on the good faith of the tourists. The risk is real in transporting potentially devastating insects.

People in uniform and other official employees have a clipboard with the passengers names, nationalities, passport number and boat. Once I was “checked-in” I was given a plastic name tag to wear around my neck that identifies my boat amongst the several that leave at the same time according to need. When the boat’s name is called we (around 18 passengers) line up like obedient school children awaiting our turn to board.

Our bags are loaded in the front of the ferry and we take a seat. This trip is just a matter of minutes. Time enough to travel from the muelle to our lancha and pay the driver- the fare ranges from 50 cents to one dollar. The bags are loaded from ferry to lancha and we embark.

The name tags are collected and we head off into the open waters to our destination seeing an array of rays, dolphins, frigates, sea turtles, and pelicans along the way.