The Middle of the World

Quito, the capital of Ecuador, is nestled high in the Andean mountain range. It flows along the base of a shallow valley: a river of concrete houses meandering its way amongst tree covered mountains. A sign at the airport informs new arrivals that they are now 2,850 meters above sea level. The highest mountain in Australia, the mighty Kosciusko, reaches a mere 2,228 meters on a good day. Up here the air is dry and thin, and it takes a few days for an oxygen-loving lowlander such as myself to adjust.

I expected Ecuador to be hot, with steamy, sweaty days and warm sleepless nights. A reasonable expectation in my opinion since the Equator pretty much cuts the country in half. I admit that I struggled with the finer points in my high school physics, but it's my understanding that the Equator is pretty much where the sun hangs out on its days off. Sure, we're a few thousands meters up from the warm, coastal lowlands, but that just means we're a little closer to the sun, which means it should be hotter, right?

Despite my irrefutable logic, the weather remains unconvinced. I shiver my way through the cold Quito nights. My ever-present beanie and my two jumpers provide my only protection against the cold, biting air. During the day I usually get by with a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. However, the cold mountain breeze lurks in the shadows, always ready to pounce should the sun lose concentration for even an instant, distracted by a passing cloud.

It's only a short bus ride from Quito to the Equator, that mystical, invisible line that cleaves the Earth in two, separating North from South. A group of French scientists spent a couple of years here in the 1700's using complex calculations to determine the exact location of the Equator. A huge monument and historical park have been constructed around the site, commemorating the work of the scientists and marking the location for curious visitors.

Somewhat embarrassingly for all those involved, the French scientists were a little out in their calculations (somebody probably forgot to carry the one). The true equator, located by GPS, passes virtually unnoticed some 300 meters to the north. By an unspoken consensus, all those established at the park (the monument, museums and tourist shops) have decided to overlook this minor, trivial detail and carry on with business as usual.

One small, family-run museum, found at the end of a poorly marked and dusty path, blows the lid on this dirty conspiracy. Here a small, aging sign made from tin and a faded red line mark the path of the true Equator. A guide takes us through the various exhibits of the museum, several of which are experiments demonstrating the peculiar scientific anomalies that occur here on the Equator.

Thanks to gravity the Earth is not quite a perfect sphere. At the Equator the Earth is fatter than at any other point and gravity is slightly less. Each of us weighs about a kilo less on the Equator than in our homelands, much to the delight of all visiting females. The fact that as soon as they move away from the Equator they will magically regain this missing kilo is conveniently and predictable overlooked.

On the equator gravity pulls straight down, from the sky to the earth. At every other point in the world, gravity combined with the rotation of the earth results in a force at a slight angle. Pour a bucket of water down a drain directly over the equator and the water just runs straight out. There's no evidence of the usual swirling whirlpool that we all expect with our years of dunny flushing experience. Move the drain into the northern hemisphere and the water runs counter-clockwise. Move it to the south and you end up with a clockwise swirl.

Another neat trick you can do on the Equator is balance an egg on the head of a nail. Since gravity is pulling straight down the egg balances nicely, standing by its own merit (if only Humpty had been Ecuadorian, a terrible tragedy could have been avoided). Even with gravity lending a hand, it takes me a few goes but eventually I succeed. I'm awarded a small photocopied certificate by the museum marking this momentous achievement in my life.

As well as the scientific games, the museum has a few cultural displays as well. One display includes the shrunken head of an unfortunate shaman, complete with nose piercings. The tiny dark head is no bigger than my clenched fist yet we can clearly make out facial characteristics. A little tuft of fine dark hair sprouts from the top making the head look like the top half of a decapitated Troll Doll.

A little further on we are given the chance to use an authentic indigenous blowgun. How anyone hunted with these heavy, two-meter long poles is a mystery to me. My attempt at using it hits the target (which is better than most) but with barely enough force for the dart to penetrate. Had I been aiming for a real target, a bird say, my only chance of bagging dinner would have been if the bird dropped dead out of sheer indignation.

Back in Quito I sign up for a few weeks of Spanish lessons. Spanish is a necessity in order for me to get the most out of this trip (i.e. hit on Latin American chics). If I stick to the Gringo trail I could probably manage with my pigeon Spanish (everything I know I've learnt from Manuel off Fawlty Towers and the Terminator movies). I have a rough plan however, to head into the Amazon and make my way by various means, hopefully including canoe, down the many rivers that flow down from the Andes and into the depths of the jungle. I have a feeling that English may not be overly common on some of these ventures.

Spanish is a nice little language with a flowing rhythm to it. Like English, Spanish has a few funny phrases that require a bit of imagination to translate. For instance where we use "look before you leap", the Spanish equivalent is "before you marry, look at what you do". Instead of making it "out of the frying pan and into the fire" a Latin American "leaves Guatemala and arrives in worse cornstalks" (though I'm not sure the Guatemalans use this saying). And my personal favorite: "I have an Aunt that plays the guitar", which is roughly equivalent to "what the hell has that got to do with anything?”

Since I'm spending a few weeks in Quito and Sasha is around for some of that time, we decide to find some decent accommodation. For the tourist, Quito is divided into two towns: the old town which is filled with old buildings, crowded little alleyways and a stupefying number of lavishly grand churches; and the new town which is crammed with funky cafes, cheap restaurants and busy hostels. We end up in a decent little hostel a little to the side of the main drag in the new town. It's a nice room with comfortable beds and they even give us towels (which is all it takes for me to be overwhelmed by the service these days - set low standards and you'll always find yourself satisfied).

The only questionable aspect of the room is the shower. A lot of showers in South America use direct electric heating for the hot water. The heating unit is actually attached to the showerhead so it sits right above you while you're showering. Normally this is not a problem but in this place the wires to the heating unit are completely exposed. Since I'm just a little taller than your average Ecuadorian my head regularly hits the showerhead. This means that my morning shower is not unlike a session of electric shock treatment. Luckily the voltage is low here and I just have to put up with a numb head for a little while after showering.

Between Spanish lessons we arrange a day trip to the huge, glacier capped Cotopaxi, the world's highest active volcano. Although quiet at the moment, this volcano last erupted in 1904 and most recently gave a little hiccup in 1975. Our guide drives us as far as the road will take us, above the clouds at a height of 4,500 meters. From there we make the arduous hike to a lookout sitting at 4,800 meters. The steep ascent and the thin air have us all panting by the time we reach the refuge, a few hundred meters below the snow line. The spectacular views both up to the lip of the crater and down to the cloud filled valleys below make it all worthwhile.

The trip down is a little more exciting than the trip up. Instead of driving we mount up on sturdy mountain bikes and pedal our way down the ruggard mountain side (though pedaling is completely unnecessary). A dirt road winds slowly down the face of the mountain but I take the "shortcut" straight down the mountain. The ground is covered in small loose stones. Breaking requires careful concentration and steering requires skill and agility. I have none of these qualities and so I fly down the face of a volcano unable to turn and reluctant to break.

At various points my "shortcut" crosses over the zigzagging road. It's at one of these junctions that I discover an alternative to breaking which proves to be much more affective. My front tire finds a ditch and decides to stop, while the rest of my bike and myself decide to keep going. I fly forward over the handlebars with what Glover would describe as "cat-like grace" when describing his own actions in one of his many bike incidents (i.e. I go down hard like a sack of shit). The end result: an impressive full forward somersault, me lying winded on my back and my bike lying on top of me, wheels still spinning.

No permanent damage is done so I continue on my way, finishing the ride with a little more caution and without further incident. We ride for a full two hours surrounded by glorious views until tired, sunburnt and well satisifed we climb back into our cars and return to Quito. The next day in Spanish lessons I have to look up "sore arse" in the directionary to explain why I'm having such trouble sitting down.

After a week, Sasha has moved on. She's now in the jungle doing Spanish lessons and making chocolate (I think the latter was the bigger selling point of the two) before heading south to Chile. I have one more week of Spanish here in Quito before I head once more into the unkown.

I've found myself another conservation project. Starting monday, I'll be chasing bears through the cloud forests of Ecuador for six weeks. Several Spectacled bears (so called because they have white rings around their eyes that look like goggles) have been fitted with radio collars and my job will be to follow them and gather information on their movements and activities.
Sounds fun! The project site is a good couple of hours from Internet access so postings will probably be intermittent at best.

Las Islas Encantadas

You can see how it happened. In fairness, it had been a pretty big week for God. He'd knocked a whole world together, got the garden looking just right, and even thrown in a few animals just to pretty the place up a bit. Things we're looking really good, he'd just have to put in a few hours on the weekend to add the final touches.

Saturday night rolled round and well, it was Man's birthday after all. He had to go out and have a few beers to celebrate, it would´ve been rude not to. After a few quiet ones they were just about to call it a night when Eve turned up in that sexy little fig-leaf outfit she saves for special occasions. A few beers turned into a few more beers, and well you know how those nights go.

Sunday was pretty much a write-off, and so maybe God just kind of forgot about the Galapagos Islands. Maybe he figured no one would notice anyway if he just left them a little raw and rough around the edges, a little unfinished. If it hadn't been for that smart-arsed Darwin bloke and his unhealthy finch obsession, he probably would have got away with it too.

The end result however is a stunning collection of volcanic islands scattered off the west coast of Ecuador. Untouched by humans until only a few short centuries ago, these Islands form a hauntingly beautiful landscape teeming with bizarre and somewhat prehistoric wildlife. Each Island is a microcosm of life, with a self-contained and still evolving eco-system: iguanas with punk-rock hair-dos bake themselves on black lava-rock; giant tortoises stroll ponderously through the misty highlands; and lanky sea birds hurl themselves from cliffs, too large and too awkward to get airborne any other way.

The Galapagos Islands sit on a huge tectonic plate that is hurtling towards the American mainland at the break-neck speed of three centimeters per year. As the plate collides with the mainland it slides beneath it, pushing the Andean mountains of South America a little higher. The islands on the east side of the Galapagos archipelagos, closest to the mainland, are gradually being pulled under the ocean. Within just a few thousand years these islands will sink under the sea and eventually under South America itself.

The tragic demise of these beautiful islands (all just babies really, barely a few million years old) is offset by the birth of new, fresh islands on the west side of the Galapagos. As the plate slides east, the churning lava below finds new ways to erupt to the surface, spewing out ash, and molten rock, and forming new land masses. These new islands, initially just inhospitable clumps of barren, black rock, are gradually worn down by the elements and over time new life takes hold. The tenacious cacti and small pioneer plants set up shop first, paving the way for all manner of marine and land-based creatures.

For a closet tree-hugging, animal lover such as myself there can be no greater experience than these Enchanted Islands of the Galapagos. Every moment spent in the Galapagos is an explosion of sights, sounds and smells. My mind is still trying to take in the raw, primitive beauty of the landscape when a leathery iguana slithers past my feet and a low-flying pelican blocks out the sun as it glides silently overhead. Always in the background, the low barking of sea-lions can be heard as the pups wrestle playfully on the sandy shore.

With embarrassingly little effort on my behalf, I find myself aboard the ship Sulidae, thanks solely to Sasha and her careful planning. The Sulidae is a beautiful, black-wood yacht with all the dark charisma of a pirate ship and sporting a skull and cross bone flag to complete the image. We join ten other travelers on board, and the 78-foot yacht accommodates both us and our crew of six comfortably. We are in spacious cabins of two people in comfortable bunk beds, each with a small toilet and cold-water shower.

Our crew are Ecuadorians, most having been born and bred in the Galapagos. El Capitan is a dark skinned man, sporting a heavy moustache and backing himself as a bit of a hit with the ladies, especially when wearing his formal Captains outfit. Assisting him and responsible for ferrying us to and from shore in a small wooden dinghy, is his second in command, known only as ¨El Guapo¨, Spanish for ¨The Handsome One¨. Apparently, it's common for Galapagos Islanders to give each other nicknames. The girls on board the ship assure me that El Guapo´s nick name is definitely used with a large dash of sarcasm.

Wilmer (dubbed Ricky Martin by us, after we awoke one morning to him singing La Vida Loca), is the deck hand and also acts as our ¨maid¨, making our beds each morning and with the unenviable task of cleaning our tiny little dunnies. He's also responsible for serving us our meals. These are prepared by Leo the chef, who has clearly sold his soul to the devil to be able to produce meals of such quality and variety on a rocking boat, in a kitchen smaller than most pantries. His meals are so good that I gorge myself at every sitting, polishing off any leftovers, and earning myself the dubious nick name of ¨El Gordo¨ which is Spanish for ¨The Fat One¨.

Our guide is a young local by the name of Marlon. Having grown up on the Galapagos, his knowledge of the Islands and their history is rivaled only by his passion for their preservation. He accompanies us everywhere telling us facts and stories about each of the Islands that we visit. He speaks with a thick Ecuadorian accent but is easily understood, and all of his stories include re-enactments of animal movements with sound effects. Watching him re-enact the mating dance of the blue-footed boobie is quite a sight, especially when he describes how the adults mark their territory by firing ¨poo poo¨ around in a circle.

Each Island we visit is unique, both in scenery and in animal inhabitants. On some islands we find beaches with pristine white sand, on others we find dull red sand and on others shiny black sand. Each beach may be set against a low hanging green-forest, a desolate black moonscape of solidified lava, or perhaps a series of eroded brown volcanoes covered in small hardy shrubs and cacti.

More amazing than the landscape is the diversity of wildlife. More amazing still, is the complete lack of fear these animals have towards humans. Having evolved without human contact, and in fact having no large predatory mammals at all, nearly all the creatures of the islands are stupidly trusting of humans. Often a blue-footed boobie will waddle its way through a crowd of humans to find a mate on the other side of the path, or a leathery iguana will spread itself on a warm rock not bothering to raise its head as the invading tourists are forced to sidestep around it.

Sea birds are abundant across all the islands. Great swarms of blue footed boobies nest on the islands. It's mating season while we are there and we watch as the males spread their wings to show off to their female counterparts (who act disinterested but of course are well impressed). Both the males and the females draw attention to their bright, blue, webbed feet through a comical little dance, raising one foot at a time. The brighter the feet the more attractive the boobie is to its partner.

After a long period of dancing, cooing and just generally posing for each other the two finally get it on. The male steps up onto the back of the female, wriggles himself into position and two seconds later it's all over. The male struts around for a while clearly very smug with himself and looking like he's about to light up a cigarette. The female, a little more subtle (but only a little) stretches her wings and gives a satisfied coo, letting any nearby females know that she's managed to bag herself a bloke (and one with nice blue feet too).

Boobies are very much into gender equality, and the parents each take turns minding their young while the other heads out to fish. Watching a boobie fish is quite a sight. It circles low over the water until it spots a school of fish. With it's prey sighted it shoots up into the air before turning around and plummeting back into the sea, pulling its wings in close and slipping like a spear into the water. It emerges a few moments later usually with a flapping silver fish in its beak.

Unlike the boobies, the great black frigate birds are opportunists rather than diligent workers. With their jet black feathers and bright red throat sacks they are truly the pirates of the sky. They circle slowly overhead waiting for a boobie to bring its hard earned catch back to the nest. In the brief moment when the fish is regurgitated to the young the frigate swoops, plucking the succulent fish right out of the mouth of the helpless boobie.

After the sea birds, the next most prominent inhabitant of the islands is without a doubt the sea lions. Generally we are greeted at the shore by the sight (and the stench) of a sprawling herd of these fat beasts lounging in the sun. On land a sea lion is as graceful and coordinated as a legless donkey. In the water however, it's a different story. When we snorkel along the rocky shores, through schools of fish so thick that you can barely see what's beyond them, sea lions often appear out of nowhere to play with us. They glide in towards us, faces almost colliding with our masks, staring at us with their huge puppy-dog eyes, before darting away at the last moment.

The sea lions, especially the younger ones, are total show offs. When they come near I chase them under the water and they circle around me, mocking my clumsy land-based body. I twist and turn with them, doing summersaults and rolls. If I do two rolls the sea lions do three, if I do three, they do four, always going one better. They like to poke fun at my breathing as well, blowing bubbles to match mine as I breath out underwater before surfacing for more air.

Small sharks patrol the depths of the ocean. We swim past and they pay us little attention. Something about the dark silhouette of a shark swimming below me causes my heart to skip even though Marlon assures me that they are completely "inoffensive". The sea lions have no such fear and they swim down to tease and play with the dark shapes. The sharks find this most annoying - it's hard to maintain a menacing, bad-ass image when a seal pup is doing twirls around you and nipping at your tail.

As we snorkel around one island a graceful flock of eagle-rays glides past beneath us. Few sights are as beautiful as these diamond-shaped rays winging their way silently over a submarine landscape through schools of tiny finish. The bright, white spots on their back provide a stunning contrast to their sleek, black bodies. Catching sight of us they turn in perfect formation, like a flock of birds, and effortlessly disappear into the murky depths of the ocean.

On another dive we are gifted with the stunning and rare sight of a group of green sea turtles feeding off an underwater garden of soft seaweed. Nothing could be more hypnotic than watching a turtle glide effortlessly towards the ocean bed, peacefully munching on sea grass like some underwater cow. It takes only the smallest movement of an agile flipper to turn their huge bodies upwards, and to then float slowly to the surface for air.

Swimming away from the others I come across a lone sea turtle cruising peacefully with the currents. She notices me and I stop all movement, even holding my breath in an effort not to disturb her. She begins circling me lazily, turning her head to check me out. I swim down under the water to the same depth as her and she almost swims over me, exposing her pale underbelly. I stay down there watching her drift past like some giant spaceship until my lungs are ready to burst and I am forced to the surface. When I dive back under I catch one last sight of her as she slowly disappears into the distance.

Marine iguanas join the turtles under the waves, feeding off the bright green algae on the submerged rocks. The iguanas, being cold blooded, spend most of the day sunning themselves on black rocks building up body heat. When they are warm enough they throw themselves into the surf and snake their way out to the calmer waters. Using only their tails to propel themselves, they dive down and cling to the rocks on the bottom, gripping with their sharp claws. They sit this way on the bottom for minutes, chewing clumps of moss that they tear from the rocks, and looking like a mini Godzilla.

Apparently Darwin tried to work out how long an iguana could hold its breath for by tying a rock to one and throwing it into the ocean. The story goes that he forgot about it and only remembered to bring it back up an hour later. The iguana was still alive (though not overly happy I imagine) and so it was concluded that they can hold their breath for at least an hour.

On a few islands we head into the ¨highlands¨. Only a few hundred meters above sea level the entire climate changes and along with it the wildlife and the scenery. A soft, cold fog envelopes us and we are surrounded by lush green forests. It is in one of these highlands that we come across the famous giant tortoises of the Galapagos (Galapagos is actually Spanish for tortoise).

These huge, lumbering beasts used to dominate these islands, now they are fighting their way back from the edge of extinction. Tortoises can survive for months without food and with little water. This made them ideal traveling livestock, especially for the long sea voyages through the Pacific: you can throw a couple of tortoises in the back of your boat and be looking forward to a good stew in six months time. Thousands of tortoises were taken for this purpose over the centuries of European exploration and colonization.

To make matters worse for the tortoise, when the sea farers no longer had much interest in them (due, I presume, to improvements in packaged dinners) Ecuadorian farmers moved in. The imported livestock of the farmers and the tortoises began competing for food. The farmers built fences to keep the tortoises out of their crops, but a barbed wire fence doesn't cause much concern for a 200 kilogram tank of a tortoise covered with solid body armor. The farmers began to kill off the turtles, seeing them as pests, much as foxes are seen in other parts of the world.

The fortune of the tortoise changed however with the rise of tourism. People were coming from all over the world to catch a glimpse of these impressive dinosaurs and they were bringing their wads of cash with them. All of sudden tortoises became profitable and the farmers were quick to realise that ushering around a few badly dressed tourists is a damn sight easier than plowing a field.

The change in attitude came a little late for one particular species of tortoise however (there are 11 species of tortoise in the Galapagos). Only one individual was found, wandering alone on an uninhabited island. Lonesome George as he became known now lives in the Darwin Institute where scientists have spent years trying to find some way to preserve this species. For a long time they held out hope that a female would be found somewhere on the islands, and they even offered a $10,000 reward to anyone who found such a creature.

They've all but given up hope on this option however and have decided that the next best option is to have George breed with a female of one of the closest matching species instead. They conducted the tortoise equivalent of Miss Universe to find suitable candidates. The winners were shipped to the Darwin Institute and moved into close quarters with George. Unfortunately Lonesome George was having none of it, showing no interest whatsoever in these young beauties.

The scientists next tried a little manual intervention. They called in an ¨expert¨ to get George in the mood. Covering her (hopefully gloved) hands in vaginal fluid from a female turtle she gave Lonesome George a full body massage complete with a happy ending. Even this (somewhat suspect) attempt didn't get George going and the project was aborted. It looked as if big George was perhaps past his prime (he is around 100 years old after all), however in the last few months he has apparently made a few attempts to get into gear. None of them have been successful as yet, but it's good to know there's life in the old boy yet.

Tortoises have not been the only animals to suffer from humans introducing foreign livestock onto the island. Goats, rats, insects and even cats have all come from across the seas and the sensitive Galapagos ecosystem has struggled to cope with the intruders. The birds, including the long-legged pink flamingos, and the reptiles have suffered the most, their eggs and their young being easy prey.

Recently attempts have been made to eradicate some of these foreigners. The most innovative has to be the ¨Judas Goat Project¨. The goats are hard to find, living in rocky, hard-to-reach areas and blending in well with their surroundings. To solve this problem ¨conservationists¨ took live goats, fixed a collar to them with a homing beacon and then released them into the wild. Goats live in herds, so naturally the newly arrived goat heads straight for its brethren. The conservationists then home in on its signal, fly in by helicopter with rifles and then mow down whole herds of goats from the sky. If Darwin's evolution is allowed to play itself out then years from now Galapagos goats will have evolved a natural distrust of anything wearing a collar.

Although the pets and pests of humans have established themselves quite firmly in the Islands, humans themselves have struggled until recently. Many times in the past, different groups of people have tried to settle down here for various reasons. Several colonies, started by a wide range of countries and ideals, have failed miserably. The shortage of fresh water and the lack of natural crops and livestock have provided a natural defense for the Galapagos.

A whaling community did establish itself here for a period, although it declined over time (but not before decimating both the local whale and seal population). The whalers established the first postal service in the Galapagos while they were here. This consisted simply of a large barrel on one of the islands where whalers would leave their male. Any ships returning to the mainland or Europe would check for mail addressed to an area near their destination.

The whalers are long since gone but their barrel still remains (although probably not the original one). Tourists now use this make-shift mail service, leaving postcards and letters addressed to love ones back home (or quite often to themselves). Other tourists passing through are encouraged to look for letters addressed to their home towns and to take these home with them. Once back in their own country it is traditional that these letters be delivered by hand.

There are no letters in the pile addressed to Australia but amongst the standard ¨wish you were here¨ cards I discover a few more creative messages. A few of the letters have requests that they not be delivered. One couple have left a letter addressed to their children who one day may travel through the same path their parents followed. Another guy has left a letter to himself reading, ¨Hi me, it´s me. I hope I´m doing well. Wish I was here. Regards, Me¨.

Before even the whalers were here, a group of pirates once used the Galapagos as a base, raiding both ships and towns along the coast of Ecuador. The most famous of these were the ¨Merry Bachelors¨, so called because they managed to capture a cargo ship with some eighty black, female slaves (presumably on their way to be sold in America somewhere). These happy lads actually managed to sack Guyaquil, the largest city in Ecuador.

I contemplate a mutiny on board Sulidae, taking over the ship and setting up a pirate empire for myself. As a pirate captain I could cruise the Galapagos paradise forever (hopefully capturing a shipload of women sometime in my travels as well). Regrettably I miss my chance and our eight days aboard the Sulidae are over before I know it. We don our fluorescent orange life jackets one last time and El Guapo drops us ashore. We have one last view of the islands as our plane turns and heads to the mountain city of Quito.

Reading back, I realize that I have barely outlined the stunning experiences that we have had in that brief period in the Galapagos. My descriptions are a poor depiction of the swirling collage of sights and sounds and smells that I have left the Galapagos with. I am forced to concede that plain simple words (or my command of them perhaps) are inadequate tools for capturing the sense of excitement and awe that these islands have aroused in me. Only by experiencing these ¨islas encantadas¨ first hand can you truly know the Galapagos.

Panarama

I said goodbye to my turtle friends and once more took to the road with only my trusty backpack for company. A short bus ride later, and I found myself at the border of Panama where I scrambled across a rickety, wooden bridge and into a whole new country. From there a jet boat took me to the island paradise of Bocas del Toras, navigating its way through a muddy river before bursting out onto the open sea.

Bocas is a small tourist town on an island archipelagos just off the north coast of Panama. The place is dotted with unspoilt tropical islands, each one covered in lush green rainforests. The town exists purely for tourism with all the usual infrastructure that comes with that (including your friendly, local drug dealers). Tourists come to Bocas for the laid back culture, the pristine beaches and the stunning natural scenery. It was the ideal place to spend a few days recovering after my hard-working weeks with the turtles.

The crowd at Bocas is the usual pot-smoking, Rastafarian, dread-locked, hippy crowd that loves to peace out in places like this (I imagine my Mum here, telling them all to get haircuts and handing out bars of soap). While I do feel a certain kindred to these free-spirited people and their idealistic passion, it never feels quite real to me. Perhaps I’m just not idealistic enough (or perhaps I’m too idealistic) to really get what all the fuss is about? Maybe I need dreadlocks and uncomfortably placed piercings before I can truly understand and embrace the Mother Goddess of the Earth.

I feel as much a tourist among these people as I do among any foreign culture. These lovably tragic, bohemian backpackers are so proud of their narrow escape from the trappings of materialistic goods. I wonder, uncharitably perhaps, how unmaterialistic they would be if someone tried to take away their favourite piercings, or worse, their stash of gange. Proudly and loudly they toast to their individuality and their freedom from all conformity, oblivious to the fact that they all look (and smell) the same.

Still, who am I to question the path of another? It works for them, and so I let them be with their shared non-conformity and their communal disdain for soap. A curious tourist in a foreign land, I observe and sometimes partake in their strange customs, but always as an outsider with my metaphorical Hawaiian shirt and Polaroid camera.

As any good tourist must, I booked myself on a local tour. Generally I avoid tours as most are over-priced stage shows, allowing a lazy tourist to tick off the requisite sites and experience the local ´culture´ at a suitably safe distance. Risking hypocrisy I convinced myself that this tour, being a nature tour rather than a cultural one, met with my stringent standards. Besides I was feeling lazy.

It was in fact a very worthwhile little adventure. A flat-bottomed jet boat, shared with ten other tourists, took us through the islands of this beautifully unspoilt archipelagos. Our first port of call was Dolphin Bay and true to its name a pod of beautiful grey dolphins skipped playfully through the water, glistening in the morning sun.

I wondered whether our outboard motor would scare off these graceful creatures. Our Captain, a stocky little Panamanian with dark skin and a pearly-white smile dismissed any concerns when he threw the engine into full throttle and starting doing some circle work. Sleek, grey shadows fell into line behind us and began surfing our wake. Playfully they tossed their slender bodies into the air, clearly showing off for the crowd and loving the attention.

It was a fantastic sight and I snapped my camera at them to capture the moment. They were too quick and too unpredictable for me though and I now have some fifty photos of the back of a boat and an unimpressive wave. The keen eye can probably make out the occasional fin, or the tip of a tail disappearing into the waves but not one shot captured the full acrobatics of these playful fish.

When the Dolphins bored of us we moved on (I wondered whether some enterprising dolphin ran a small shop under the surface with a sign reading ¨Come swim with the humans! Guaranteed wave ride with every tour!¨). Our next stop was lunch and our small boat pulled into a floating restaurant, built on a wharf jutting out from a deserted, tree-covered island. Although far over-priced (competition was not a concern for this establishment), the fresh fish was a taste sensation.

While waiting for our meals we donned snorkels and explored the pristine waters around the restaurant. The water was crystal clear and fish swam idly by with little concern given to our presence. The coral was a little sparse as the restaurant, in fairness, could not have been built on top of a full blown reef. The coral that we did see was vibrant with colour and alien enough to hold our attention before our appetites lured us back to the deck.

Our stomachs suitably sated, our boat set off once again. Our next destination was Red Frog Island. Here we walked among the rain forest in search of the rare and poisonous red arrow frogs that inhabit only this tiny speck on the globe. Our prey was not hard to find, being brilliant red in colour and hopping along the side of the path without fear of being eaten by larger animals (being poisonous has its advantages, though I image dating can be a problem). Apart from their vibrant colour, the most startling thing about these frogs is their size. Tiny, yet perfectly formed, they are no bigger than the tip of my finger.

After our exhausting hike in search of the frogs (all of a few hundred meters) we needed to relax. We laid out our towels on the soft white sand under the shade of the palm trees. There we slept for another hour, occasionally dragging ourselves down to the shore to cool our bodies in the gently lapping waves.

Our final stop was another snorkelling site. Here the coral was impressive (though it still rates below what I saw at the Cahuita reef). The small reef dropped sharply into the ocean causing an underwater cliff that disappeared into the cool, murky depths below. Swimming on the surface with the smaller fish it was easy for the mind to imagine larger darker shadows slowly patrolling the waters beneath us, adding a certain excitement to the otherwise relaxing swim.

Our captain dropped us off back at the dock. All of us were just a little tired and more than a little sunburnt, but definitely well satisfied. It would be dangerously easy to get used to this life as a lazy tourist, and my current travel plans place no demands on me. I have no place I need to be and no time that I have to be there by. Even for me this is a strange feeling, always in the past there has been some impetuous to my life, some timeline that had to be met, some goal that had to be achieved, some step that had to be taken. Here there is real possiblity of sitting fdown and doing nothing until the end of my days.

I decided it was time to move on. As appealing as a life of uncomplicated lethargy is, I prefer a bit more contrast in my life (how can you appreciate the slow without the fast, the lazy without the hectic). The next morning I found myself onboard a small twin-propeller plane heading for Panama city. The domestic airline in Panama is definitely impressive and for $60 I flew from one end of the country to the other.

My flight provided me with a glorious view, both of the scattered islands and of the stark high rises of Panama City, surrounded by dense green forest. As the plane banked for landing I was presented with a perfect view of the famous canal that cuts the land, and connects the Pacific to the Caribbean, leading out to the Atlantic. Great tankers queue at each end for their turn through the narrow waterway. It is an impressive sight, though I wonder if the 22,000 people that died trying to build it (mostly of yellow fever) would feel that the blood price was justified.

Panama City is a big city and although a bustling and interesting place it holds little appeal for me. I´m itching to get down to the Southern continent, to the cloud forests of the Amazon and the moutain kingdoms of the Incas. A message from Sasha, one of the girls from my turtle project, arrived just in time: she has booked passage on a ship touring the Galapagos and has room for one more. Fully aware that my usual planning skills could well result in me missing the Galapagos altogether, I happily sign up for the trip.

Tomorrow I fly to Quito in Ecuador and the following day I meet up with Sasha and hopefully a cruise ship. I know little about these islands apart from the fact that the nature there has evolved with minimal interaction with humans and so is some of the most unspoilt and open wildlife on this planet. It was in fact here that Darwin came up with the finer points of theory of evolution. This will probably be my last post until after my ship pulls back into port.

Luck of the Irish

After two weeks Jimmy was traded to the South house (the second, smaller location for this project, located near the town). In his place we were given a new Research Assistant: a guy by the name of Emmett. Since this was the first person I've ever met to share a name with one of my personal heroes (Doc Emmett Brown from Back to the Future) I was, perhaps unrealistically, expecting a wild-eyed, crazy-haired scientist, shouting "Great Scott!" and rambling on about the one-point-twenty-one gigawatts he'd need to power his flux capacitor.

Much to my disappointment he was not at all wild-eyed and had never even heard of a flux capacitor (although he did have pretty crazy hair). He was in fact a fairly run-of-the-mill Irish lad, rake-thin and with the standard Irish tan (bright white, with patches of pink). Sporting a pair of red swimming shorts, he was given the honorary title of "Mitch" after David Hasslehoff's alter-ego from Baywatch (though he resembled the Hoff about as much as I resemble Pamela Anderson).

Emmett is of the opinion that the Universe has a personal vendetta against him. After a few days the rest of us began to agree. His first shift was with Glenn and half way through, Emmett came down with a bout of food poisoning. Finding a quiet corner of the beach he (not so quietly) hurled his guts up. Glenn, ever dedicated to the turtle cause, pushed on regardless. The idea of turning back most probably never occurred to him.

The shift continued with Emmett hurling a total of five times. Worst of all, on the way back, the patrol came across a turtle. Diligently Glenn organised the volunteers, collected and relocated the eggs and took the turtle's measurements. All the while Emmett sat on a log, huddled in a ball, rocking gently and cursing every amphibious reptile that ever roamed this God forsaken earth.

After only one night of rest Emmett had his first nest exhumation. With the eggs from the beginning of the season now hatching, one of our new day jobs was to dig up and examine the old nests. During an exhumation, unhatched eggs are split open to find out why they did not hatch. Often this is due to a foul smelling fungus taking hold, or because of maggots. You can imagine the sheer joy of picking through the grey ooze of a half formed turtle fetus in search of maggots and mold; especially for someone recovering from a bout of food poisoning.

According to the rangers, just about everything in the park is able to kill you in under an hour (a snake dropped from the tree near a hammock I was sleeping in, one girl found a deadly scorpion inside her mosquito net, and a hiker in the park was stung by a sting-ray). Add to this that, without refridgeration, no anti-venom can be kept on site, and it's not really surprising that someone with Emmett´s luck had an extreme fear of all that creeped or crawled.

One night, after a late shift, I was enjoying my customary bowl of post-patrol corn flakes (quietly 'borrowed' from the chef's pantry - but that's just between you, me and the rest of the Internet) when Emmett emerged from his room at a fast but controlled pace, body rigid and nearly cross-eyed with the effort of trying to look down at his shirt while at the same time trying to keep his head as far from his body as possible.

As he turned his torch onto himself, I had a momentary glimpse of the abject terror in his eyes before he spotlighted a multi-legged black insect crawling up his chest. "Tell me", he said in a voice that was almost too calm, "is this a poisonous fecking spider do you think?" Informing him that it was in fact quite a harmless grasshopper seemed to lessen his fear not at all so I pulled the little creature from his shirt and let it loose into the night.

Emmett´s luck with insects continued. I gave him some Tiger Balm for his bites and told him I was rubbing it on my forehead to ease a flu I'd picked up (probably from lack of sleep and constant sweating). He gave this a go as well and decided I was an insane man, dangerous to all those around me. Tiger Balm is a mild anesthetic, useful for aches, pains and itches - it's not dissimilar to Deep Heat and has the same burning-freezing sensation, which is perhaps what Emmett took exception too. While Jimmy was there, he and I had numerous discussions about other possible uses for Tiger Balm, and while for my part these conversations were hypothetical, I suspect Jimmy may have partaken in some personal and (hopefully) private experimentation.

One morning Emmett awoke to find that the 98% deet-based insect repellent he'd borrowed the night before had caused his eye to swell up, making him look like Rocky after Round 7. We discovered a small but significant comment on the label: "WARNING: causes temporary but serious eye condition." Emmett´s eye was still swollen when I left him a few days ago.

Aside from Emmett´s entertaining antics (for us anyway, Emmett probably found them less entertaining), our days blurred into one. The heavy humidity and lack of sleep had us a little run down and feeling like we were all suffering from jet lag. Jose, one of the park rangers, broke the daily monotony by taking us out in his boat to the live coral reef. Here we snorkeled with schools of brightly coloured fish, totally unconcerned by our presence. On another day, Jose took us on a hike through the jungle, pointing out all the things that we had passed every day but never noticed. This included several lazy tree sloths that had been hanging near the path, unbeknownst to us for days.

The night patrols continued much as they had with two notable exceptions. The first was a visit from a Hawksbill turtle; properly kicking off the season for these smaller, less prehistoric turtles. For her first visit she laid only ten eggs (apparently fairly normal for a first time Mum at the beginning of the season) and although a paltry sum, these eggs took pole position as our first nest to be relocated to our now finished hatchery.

The second event was a surprise visit from a somewhat wayward Green turtle. Green turtles don´t generally lay at Cahuita and although tracks from this lone turtle had been sighted earlier in the season, we had not previously found a nest. It was with a bit of excitement then that we discovered this Green still on the beach and digging her nest.

Emmettt was leading the team and, anxious not to spook the Green, he hid in the bushes, in the dark with the mosquitoes while she dug her nest. After an excruciating slow hour she abandoned her first location and moved further up the beach. After digging for a further hour, she decided once more that the location was not quite right and tunneled her way under a tree for a third attempt. Finally, after two and a half hours of waiting she began to lay. We decided against bagging her eggs, as the Greens are not quite as tolerant as the slow-witted Leatherbacks. Instead we threw a tape measure in the nest, allowed her to lay and then dug the eggs up again when she had finished.

Emmettt was as excited as a little kid in a lollie shop and all his past trials and tribulations were forgiven and forgotten. After the Green had finished laying we did an inspection and got a real good look at her. Where the Leatherbacks are monstrousrous dinosaurs, the Greens are grace and finesse. The shell of the Leatherback is elongated with ridges that run from head to tail; more like the shell of a beetle than what you'd expect a to see on a turtle. The Green on the other hand, has a near-perfect round shell with a smooth, symmetrical mosaic - the work of a master craftsman (exactly like the pattern on the back of the Ninja Turtles). Even the flippers seem more agile and the head and neck have a graceful, feminine style.

After laying she crawled out of her pit and headed back to the sea. For just a moment she hesitated in the soft red glow of our torches, as we checked for salt excretion from her eyes (healthy turtles permanently cry long, salty tears that glisten in the moonlight - a poignant image for even the most unromantic soul out there), she turned her head slightly in our direction and she gave us what can only be described as a wink. Then, with no sound at all, she skittered her way down to the water's and disappearedared into the dark, warm water.

Each night we checked nests from the beginning of the season. Although we found dozens of baby tracks we never caught sight of the actual babies, hidden as they were by the darkness. We had one hope: a nest from the very beginning of the season had been relocated right next to the hatchery and was due to hatch the day we left. For our entire last night we kept a silent vigil, constantly checking for little, scrambling babies.

The ungrateful little bastards decided to stay buried however and we finished our three weeks there without ever seeing a baby turtle (though for my part I was lucky enough to see one of each of the three turtle species there and really cannot complain). Our last dawn we spent watching the sun rise the Caribbean, drinking sweet, white rum while the waves crashed onto the black sandy shore. Only Emmett broke the serenity, who having not slept all night and just taken his Malaria tablets (which often cause hallucinations) spent the dawn twirling his two torches, one red and one white, like a junkie at a rave.