Tales of a Female Nomad (13 page)

My host now takes me to meet Mohamed, my assigned day host, who speaks English. Mohamed and I walk along immaculately clean, unpaved streets, lined with white stucco houses. There is a dignity in the people as they walk gracefully in their long robes and dresses. Several of the men have full white beards and glasses, and many are carrying canes, though they walk erect. The women look strong and stout under their full, loose dresses.

Mohamed appears to be in his late seventies, a handsome man with a thin face, a white beard, and a friendly smile. In broken English he tells me he is responsible for Servas coming to his village.

“I first,” he says. “All host sign because me. Now you meet all host.” And I begin my two-day tour, going from one home to the next.

Druse literature says that they “are a friendly, reliable people, considered by many to be the most hospitable and courageous race in the world.”

We knock on the door of the first host. I am greeted with a warm smile by a woman in a long maroon dress. There is a large tray on the coffee table in the simple living room, with three different kinds of nuts and assorted dried fruits and crunchy snacks.

Within two minutes of my arrival, people begin arriving from rooms in the back. The father, two teenage sons, a daughter about twenty, and several small children.

“Please,” says the father, pointing to the tray. I eat some peanuts. And then some cashews. Everyone watches. I sip coffee and smile.

One of the teenage sons speaks some English. We discuss where I’m from, how old he is, how many brothers and sisters he has. One of his brothers, he tells me proudly, is in the Israeli army.

“Please,” says the mother, gesturing toward the tray. I eat an apricot and a date.

As soon as I enter the second house, I hear things pouring into a tray from somewhere out of sight. And as I talk to the twelve-year-old daughter, who speaks a little English, the tray arrives, filled with nuts and fruits and more crunchy snacks.

As the day moves toward dusk, we visit more houses and the nuts continue to pour. And I continue to eat them and drink more coffee, but now there are also smells of dinners cooking. Onions frying. Meat stewing. Vegetables steaming. Blenders grinding.

“You will stay for dinner,” say the hosts that we visit from five o’clock on.

“No, no,” says Mohamed to all of them. “Thank you very much, but we have plans for dinner.”

I just smile politely. I am in his hands.

When Mohamed decides my day is done, we walk to his home. I tell him I am so full of nuts and coffee that I can barely walk. We laugh. We have laughed much during the day. I make many mistakes trying to learn Arabic words and they come out funny. Then five minutes later I ask for the same word all over again . . . and make the same pronunciation errors. In the course of our day, Mohamed has told me that he has four children and that his wife is sick and staying with one of their daughters. She has been away for several months.

“We are here,” he tells me and we climb a flight of stairs and enter a big room. It is everything in one: a kitchen, a sitting room, a bedroom. Mohamed tells me that he is going to prepare my dinner; he refuses my offer to help with the cooking.

Half an hour later Mohamed asks me to sit down at the table. There are humus and eggplant, string beans and pita and olives and tomatoes, and a very large fish. There is also only one setting of cutlery and one plate. He directs me to sit in front of it.

“Where is your plate?” I ask.

“I will eat later,” he says and sits across from me to watch me eat.

When I am finished eating, he returns me to the Home.

When my two Servas days are up, Mohamed accompanies me to the bus stop. I thank him for the wonderful experience of getting to know him and the people of his village.

“Ah,” he says. “Do not say thank you. I happy because you. Maybe wife die. We marry.”

One week later, as I fly toward New York, I reflect on my Israeli experience. It was not what I expected. I enjoyed the Israelis; they were warm and hospitable and full of spirit. And they graciously welcomed me into their homes and their lives.

I was deeply moved by the stories of people who had lived through the Holocaust, the Israeli wars, and the founding of a country. But even though I kept seeing people on the street who looked like my uncles and cousins, in the end, they were not a religion or a nationality, but individuals, like people everywhere.

I am thankful for the fact that Israel exists, and I will fight and vote and contribute to keep it healthy. But my humanity is what ties me to others, and that goes much, much deeper than a shared history.

Galápagos Islands

CHAPTER SEVEN

TRUE FREEDOM

It’s been nearly three years since my first tentative steps into Mexico City, and people in the U.S. are asking me if I’m ready yet to end my wandering and resume my life. Some of them are sure that I’m still reacting to the divorce, running from reality, avoiding some abstract “real world.”

“Perhaps,” suggests one friend, “therapy would be better than getting on another plane.”

They are all intelligent people who care about me, and I feel obligated to consider their comments. But no matter how often I ask myself if I’m running away from something, I always get the same answer. No, I’m not running away. On the contrary. I’ve discovered a new way to live.

My life is endlessly fascinating, filled with learning, adventure, interesting people, new and enlightening experiences. I laugh, sing, and dance more than I ever have. I am becoming the person inside me.

My life also offers opportunities to give as well. Wherever I am in the world, I read to children, visit classrooms, teach English, and bring food and laughter into homes.

And on top of all that, I’m existing on less than $10,000 a year, including airfares.

I’m embracing life, not running away from it. Why would I want to stop?

Jan is particularly happy to hear about my next destination. I have a contract to write a kids’ book about the animals in the Galápagos Islands. I’ll be writing it in the Charles Darwin Research Station Library on the island of Santa Cruz. Before I leave the States, Jan books her flight for a three-week visit.

I’ve come a long way since my first Galápagos trip eight years ago, the trip when I realized I wanted more than fine dinners and good theater in my life. I can’t wait to revisit the islands, connect with the animals, swim in the warm, tropical waters.

While I am still in the U.S., I buy a portable computer, a tiny printer, and a ton of sunblock #15. Two weeks before I leave, I remember one of the subjects frequently discussed in the “backpacker network”: the tyranny of customs people. They levy arbitrary taxes and fees at will, and they have been known to “hold” and “disappear” electronic gadgets.

My computer and printer are sure to be attractive to the guys behind the glass, so I decide to visit the press officer at the Ecuadorian Embassy in Washington, D.C. People like books about their countries. I’m hoping someone in the embassy will give me a letter that will move me through customs with no hassles.

The press officer at the embassy is intrigued that I’m writing a children’s book about the Galápagos. I tell him my concern about bringing a computer into Ecuador, and he promises to have someone meet me at customs in Guayaquil. Then he offers me a free flight from Guayaquil to the Galápagos on a military plane. I accept.

He adds, as I walk out the door, “I will also make arrangements to have you met by one of our workers when you arrive in the Galápagos. He will take you to a government house where you can live as long as you like. I’m sorry but you will have to share the house with two government employees.”

Wow! I never even asked.

I step off the plane in Guayaquil, my backpack a hump on my back, my gray computer-case and its eleven-pound contents weighing down my right shoulder, and my smaller printer case a lesser weight on my left shoulder. The first thing I see is someone in uniform waving my cardboard name. We speak a few words of introduction; he takes my computer and asks me to follow him. This guy is serious. No small talk here. I am high government business, even though I am wearing jeans.

We march past lines of people waiting to be interviewed by officials in glass booths. I feel the same smugness I felt many years ago when I first drove my new four-wheel-drive Jeep in a snowstorm, whizzing past all the cars that were stuck on the side of the road.

Even before the crew is off my plane, I am sitting in a room, holding a ticket for the free military flight, which, it turns out, goes to the military airport on the island of San Cristóbal. This is not the island where I thought I was going. On my other visit to the Galápagos, I flew into Baltra, which has an airstrip that the Americans built during World War II. In Baltra, there are boats and buses to take the passengers to the island of Santa Cruz. I just assumed that’s where I’d be taken this time too. It’s where tourists are delivered. It’s where the Charles Darwin Research Station is. It’s where I have to be. It never occurred to me to ask where the military plane landed.

As I sit there, I wonder if I should I say something. Nah. It’ll be an adventure. The Ecuadorian government has come through brilliantly so far. When things are working, it’s usually best not to break the rhythm with too many questions. It does occur to me, however, that I have no contact name, no address, and no paper proof that any arrangements have been made for me. All I have to go on is trust.

Interestingly, relying on trust and informality usually serves me better than when I ask for papers, stamps, and bureaucratic letters. I’m more comfortable operating on a personal level, asking about family, telling a little about my life, and often bringing one of my kids’ books as a token gift. Moving things into a business mode changes everything. If I’d been formal with the press officer at the embassy, the offers of a plane trip and a house might never have happened. I like the handshake-and-smile school of doing business. I’m not going to say anything about flying to the wrong island. I’ll just fly and see.

As usual, things work out. When the plane lands, there is another greeter with another Rita sign. Turns out that Felipe is one of the two men who lives in the house where I will be living. He’s my height, swarthy, with a full mustache and smiling eyes. His voice is deep and sexy. He’s probably close to forty. If I’d seen him on the street, I would have thought he was a farm worker. Actually, he’s a scientist with a Ph.D. in biology.

He takes me to a little office just up from the dock, and we sip bottled water while we wait for the ferry. It’s oppressively hot, with a little relief from the ceiling fan spinning over our heads. From time to time someone comes in and I am introduced. An hour after I arrive, Felipe and I climb onto the public ferry, a big motorboat, with about eight other people. When I nearly drop my computer into the water, there is a chorus of alarm.

“Déjeme ayudarle,”
Felipe says, smiling and reaching for the gray carrying case. Let me help you.

About half an hour later, we arrive in the town of Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz. Felipe carries my computer and printer and we walk through a plaza filled with souvenir shops, places to eat, small hotels, and boat repair and supply places. The plaza is busy with tourists shopping and eating and with locals hanging around. We pass through the plaza and walk up a dirt road past small houses, little stores, and lots of kids.

Our house is a white stucco cabin just off the main road about half a mile from the plaza. There’s a kitchen, a bathroom, and three small bedrooms . . . all opening into a central room. There’s also an enclosed porch in the front. The place smells of disinfectant and it’s sparkling clean. There are sheets on my bed, dishes and pots in the cabinets, and plenty of ash-trays, but there’s not a picture on a wall or a knick-knack on a table. There are no frills to these government accommodations.

The next day Felipe takes me to the beach along a path of sharp, black lava rocks. The Galápagos Islands are volcanic, having been spewed up from the ocean bottom. They became islands when the underwater mountains reached the air, millions of years ago, sputtering and hissing into being. Over millions of more years, dozens of craggy little islands and fourteen big ones established their presence in the vast ocean, six hundred miles away from the mainland and any form of terrestrial life. The birds arrived by air; the land animals on hunks of earth that broke off from the mainland and somehow bumped into the tiny masses in the vast Pacific.

As we walk along the path to the beach, Felipe gives me a lesson in how to negotiate lava. Every footstep has to be carefully placed; if you’re moving, you have to look down all the time. From time to time he takes my hand and helps me over a rough spot.

We spend several hours on the beach. He asks as many questions as he answers, and we share our history, our interests, our families. Felipe refuses to speak English; he says he can’t. But I know that someone with his education must have read books in English. Like many well-educated Hispanic men, he doesn’t want to make mistakes, so he won’t talk. We’ll have to get along in my flawed Spanish. I have no problem mutilating his language.

That night we go out to dinner to a local hangout where I get a thick hamburger with avocado and sprouts.

The next day I begin researching. The Charles Darwin Research Station is about a mile or so from our house. Felipe carries my computer to the library before he goes off to work. And when I get home, he’s cooked dinner and the table is set for two. Carlos, our housemate, is out.

I wonder, as I sit across from Felipe eating a wonderful stew made of
plátanos,
beef, and peanuts, if he is still on assignment: “Pick her up at the boat, take her to the house, and keep her happy.” If so, he’s doing a great job.

After I’ve been there for more than a week, all I can be certain of is that this ordinary-looking man, who reminds me of an Ecuadorian peasant, has sparked in me the pitter-patter sensations of a teenage crush. And then one night, when Felipe and I are sitting on the couch, my legs curled up under me, my knees slightly touching his legs, he asks,
“Puedo abrazarte?”
May I embrace you?

No one has ever asked before. Suddenly I feel shy and I don’t know how to answer. Somehow,
“Si”
feels uncomfortable and too short.
“Por
favor,”
please, feels needy.
“Por supuesto,”
of course, sounds too eager. I am wordless.

Understandably, Felipe finds the silence awkward and he’s too much of a gentleman to reach over without permission, which is of course what I want. He thinks I don’t understand the Spanish, and he asks again.

Fortunately, it’s one of those situations where language isn’t necessary. Felipe turns out to be the best government gift of all, a thoughtful friend and an extraordinary lover.

My research is going well. The books in the library answer all my questions, and there are dozens of scientists (marine biologists, geologists, ecologists, zoologists, etc.) here from all over the world who are willing to sit with me and explain whatever I don’t understand. I like being a part of this community of people who love what they’re doing and where they’re doing it.

Jan is on her way. Her timing is perfect. A day after she arrives, both Felipe and Carlos (my other housemate) are going on vacation. I do not have secrets from Jan; we are very close. Even before she arrives, I tell her about Felipe. But the fact that he will not be here will definitely make things more relaxed. When the guys return, Jan and I will be off on a two-week tour of the islands.

Touring the uninhabited (by people) islands is the essence of a Galápagos visit. The magic experience of these islands is observing the animals at close range: sitting on the ground just a couple of feet away from blue-footed boobies dancing their mating dance; swimming with sea lions when they brush you with their whiskers and swim around you as though you were a maypole; watching the big male marine iguanas jump into the water and swim for their algae food, looking like prehistoric aquatic dinosaurs; standing near the edge of a cliff while an albatross waits for the perfect wind to launch himself into the air.