This is what conservation looks like: Galapagos 101

I didn’t know much about the Galapagos Islands. I had heard there were blue-footed boobies, iguanas and the giant tortoise, each living without predators. And that it was difficult and very expensive to get there. Still, people said to go. It’s like nothing else, they told me. You won’t regret it.

My experience in the remote Ecuadorian island chain went beyond incredible, sharp-edged lava landscapes, clear waters and rare and docile animals living in a protected environment. It took me several days to realize that I wasn’t just entering a unique ecosystem preserve; I was entering a conservation mindset like none I’d encountered.

Isla Isabela

Galapagos is made up of more than a dozen large islands and many more small islets. The largest of these include Isla Isabella, Santa Cruz, and San Cristobal. Other islands can be reached by boat, each offering a unique landscape or species. Isabella offers penguins; Seymour, the rare land iguana. Many visitors choose to visit each island by boat, some sleeping as their vessel move from island to island by night. This option was simply too expensive for us this time around. Instead, we based out of Santa Cruz and took days trips to nearby islands, spending much of our time in and then under the water.

The Galapagos Islands’ growth plan is based on the idea and practice of sustainability and conservation. No animal is to be touched, and one always stays a meter’s distance from the variety of large, lounging creatures: marine iguanas, sea lions, tortoises and the like. It became famous largely through Charles Darwin’s, The Origin of Species, in which he wrote about the evolution of small finches on various islands, noting how these small birds had evolved to meet the conditions on various islands. The Theory of Natural Selection. And while the writing on Galapagos animals is only a very small part of his work, Darwin has become a kind of founding father to Galapagos mythology and renown.

At The Charles Darwin Research Station, based on the island of Santa Cruz, naturalists work to preserve and reproduce some of the last remaining Giant Tortoises. These gentle creatures were nabbed by pirates and early colonists as an easy food source as they could live on ships without food or water for up to six months or longer. Preservation and breeding efforts began after researchers realized the creatures were almost extinct.

At the Station, signs referring to Darwin’s work abound: “The only thing we can be sure of is change,” or “The most adaptable to change survive.” And yet the way I saw it, Galapagos is and works hard to remain, frozen in time. In so doing, it also has seen a way to create an economic return that few other National Parks or cities in Ecuador can claim.

In 1978 UNESCO designated Galapagos as the first World Heritage site. A variety of conservation efforts have forced locals to adapt. For example, because of lobster overfishing (and the illegal harvesting of lobsters with their eggs) restaurants are allowed to serve lobster only two months of the year. Restaurants comply, and fishermen were encouraged to convert their vessels to serve tourists.

From the moment you set foot on Galapagos, you are entering a conservation zone. No fruit or organic matter is allowed. Your bags are carefully checked before you enter the plane at your departing city, and your luggage is sprayed with disinfectant while in the overhead compartment. Once you’ve landed, you step through a disinfectant puddle before entering the small airport, which is built with sustainability and energy conservation in mind (with levers that open when the temperature becomes too high). Then trained dogs are let loose on your luggage to sniff out natural elements (like my all-natural hand lotion, apparently).

Signs everywhere remind visitors not to throw trash on roads or in the ocean. No one is to approach or touch any animals, and along the stretches of road, there are turtle crossing signs. In fact, when a tortoise stopped to drink in a puddle in front of our bus, we were not allowed to move it. It’s an illegal act, our driver said as we waited five very long minutes.

It’s not just about animals; it’s also about the environment generally. One restaurant featured a sign advising their patrons that they didn’t offer straws because the instruments polluted oceans and didn’t biodegrade.

Many snorkelers and divers would agree that Galapagos is not best for color or tropical fish as there is little intact coral reef, and the species found there are far fewer than the Caribbean or IndoPacific. It’s about the big animals: alongside the white and black tipped sharks, sea lions, and sea turtles, there are also eagle and manta rays, and at greater depths, schools of hammerhead sharks.

One of the joys of this adventure was introducing my 10-year-old son Aiden to the world of scuba. Only one adventure dive in, he’s ready to get his PADI license!

Galapagos is also about turtles: sea turtles at many of the islands and the giant land tortoises that wander many islands. We spent time visiting the rehabilitation centers of Isabella and Santa Cruz, as well as a private ranch on Santa Cruz that has tortoises of all sizes in their natural environment enjoying the rich vegetation of the rainy season. We sipped iced tea, as the bellows of mating turtles broke the calm. Unfortunately, the last giant Pinta tortoise, ‘Lonesome George’ died in 2012 having failed to produce offspring.

What continued to strike me was the level of consciousness about habitat. Each tour is required to have a knowledgeable naturalist. Beaches and streets are clean, and I saw many tourists inspired to pick up random bits of trash when encountered—rare indeed. The water is crystal clear, and animals show little fear. One afternoon, a large marine iguana swam up to me and my son as we sat on the beach. He stretched out alongside us to absorb the suns rays, completely indifferent to our presence.

Visitors be forewarned: the equatorial sun is brutal and despite wearing 30 sunblock, hats, glasses and long-sleeved shirts at all times (also in the water), I was burned within minutes of exposure. April is apparently the hottest month, with the sun directly overhead.

So we hiked and swam, kayaked and snorkeled, watched amazing blue-footed boobies and red-breasted frigate birds fly overhead, and marveled at the gentle nature of the protected bays, which harbor dozens of baby sharks.

I leave these beautiful islands with a heavy heart, knowing I’ve witnessed something unique indeed. Not just protected species that exist nowhere else, but a way of thinking that is also endangered. One that informs and educates, teaches respect and responsibility and shows us circumstances where man and nature can coexist peacefully – and result in economic bounty for local communities. How different the world would be if people in other regions showed similar respect to the land and seas, and to the creature inhabitants of each. My comfort is in knowing that my young son now knows this is possible. He has seen it in action, has seen the economic and natural promise, and vows to   recreate it. It is the hope we should all share.

P.S. Here are a few more shots.

Hour 8 in a day

Blue footed Boobies

Playful friends off Isla Santa Fe

First time scuba diving. First of many!

Beach heading to Tortuga Bay

Diving companions

Giant tortoises out and about 

The dock at sunset

Fresh water pool

Sitting with a lazy friend. Isla Isabela

Preparing for a first dive

Kayaking at Tortuga Bay, Santa Cruz

So where's Fred?! And some photos of our journey in Mexico and Peru

I know I’ve left many of you on the edge of your seats wondering: What happened to Fred, and did those toxic meds fix what ailed me?!? Well, so as not to draw out the suspense, I do believe Fred is gone and my system seems to be back in regular working order. The altitude of Peru leaves me a bit shaky every morning and the new fauna and flora are surely getting adjusted. But in all I think whatever had its grip on me has left. For now. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

When we left you all, Aiden and I were learning to navigate Puerto Escondido, a town I may have judged too harshly at the outset. I realized by the end of our stay that as with any new town, it takes time to get a lay of the land and to become familiar. And without familiarity of any new place it’s hard to feel content and comfortable. So the longer we stayed in Puerto Escondido, the more lovely it became. With the help of many long time Canadian expats, we learned the best beaches and the best meals to order at which restaurant, where there was internet, and who had the best Oaxacan hot chocolate. And how easy it was to walk in our nearby surroundings to access whatever we needed. Suddenly an unfamiliar location, like any and all new places where we land -- became homey.  It’s a good reminder for me for those days entering new locales when the frustration heightens and there’s an urge to jump on yet another plane and retreat to something more familiar. So by the end of our stay Puerto Escondido was wonderful, and we’ll likely return.

From Puerto Escondido we returned to San Miguel de Allende in preparation for a visit to the Butterfly sanctuary, an experience I had been waiting for for years. Literally years. We went by van down past Mexico City and through several so called Magic Pueblos, beautiful small towns deemed by the government to be worthy of funding, preserving and thus visiting as a tourist. Apparently there are dozens of these villages, and from my experience of a few of them, I’d say all of them would be worth a visit!

 I’m not sure I understood just how much my body longed to be in nature but walking from the concrete and exhaust-filled streets of San Miguel into the soft forest, overflowing with yellow Monarch butterflies, filled me with a euphoria I hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was magical beyond words. Butterflies performed their dance all around us, filling the sky with orange flakes and leaving us giddy, a state of pure joy. A biopreserve called El Chalula was our first visit and by chance we were the only ones on the long winding forest trail. The next day at a separate preserve called El Rosario, it was a different experience: crowded walkways, with little walking at all. But the presence of so many Butterflies still made us feel as if we were walking into a different, light-filled and magical world. There aren’t enough words to describe how wonderful the experience, so I’ll just stop there and hope that anyone interested gets to experience this annual migration.

At the end of February we flew to Lima, Peru, a cultural stop I felt we should make before heading further inland to visit my dear childhood friend Sunday near Cusco. It was poor judgment, to be sure, as Lima is an enormous, dirty and hot city for which we had little patience. Luckily I had chosen a hotel in the Miraflores district, by far the nicest (and most expensive) part of Lima. Its cliffside, grassy park extends for miles, with climbing trees, green grass, quaint cafes and even a parachute lift off area where Aiden was able to entertain his daredevil self. It took me a good while to reconcile the idea I’d be sending my son over a cliff in a piece of flimsy parachute fabric, but seeing a shot of his enormous smiling face, followed by a dose of his growing confidence, made it worth the few years of my life I surely hacked off! Just an addition to my ever-growing challenge of letting go, and his efforts of spreading his wings wide.

Unfortunately, the heat left us uninspired to check out some of the other attractions in Lima, like the pre-Colombian museum, whose quasi pornographic artworks I had heard much about. Nor did we visit the old town Cathedral. Perhaps when we next pass through on our way to Ecuador.

Flying into Cusco, a town nestled among mountains as dramatic as they were welcoming, was almost as special as the Butterfly sanctuary. It was another reminder of my need for nature and expansiveness. My friend Sunday picked us up at the airport – always a gift if you have such a friend! -- and took us to her yoga farm an hour away in the Sacred Valley. If I thought Cusco was surrounded by welcoming mountains, those surrounding her property positively embraced us. The scene was right out of the postcard rack, with fresh mountain air and misty clouds overhead. It felt like the drama of nature was everything I needed to wash my mind of the US and all the toxic, negative antics going on there. Plus there’s no internet, so that helps a lot.

Cusco sits at eleven thousand feet above sea level, so it took some time to adjust. But it was a great excuse to hang out, find some good books and take in the scenery. Favorite book? Turn Right at Machu Picchu by Mark Adams, a fabulous travel/historical journal the likes of which I aspire to write one day!

Next up is a view of our trip to the hot springs but I’m still simmering in the images of vistas it took to get there. In the meantime, some more shots from Puerto Escondido and now Peru...

Our last day in Puerto Escondido. Emperor of the Beach!

Sun, sand, sea and so much love.

Rock art

More rock art.

Rock art with boy and bird.

Crab hunting under the sun.

Took me a while to muster the courage to throw my son off a cliff in the hands of this parachutist.

Seeing Aiden's face as he flew made my fear dissolve. A little.

Last time I saw this ABQ girl was about 15 years ago! But I recognized her from this Lima coffee shop! 

My favorite ruin is Sacsayhauman, in Cusco.

Ancient Inca slides at Sacsayhuaman.

Yep, there's a lot of tourists in Cusco. Aiden was a prime target for this shop owner! And yes, we bought the guinea pig.

Hiking with new friends in the Sacred Valley.

Curious Llama friends.

Town of Pisac on Market Day.

Buying natural dyes in Pisac.

One worm too many

This post is about my intestines. I share this not to gross anyone out, but to cast light on some failures in our US diagnostic system. And, well, because I’m a traveler and that’s what we do. So if you can take it, or share frustration with our own health services in the US, then read on.

For a couple years now I’ve been struggling with some form of digestive trouble. It came on quite suddenly while I was traveling in France a couple years ago.  My bowel movements stopped. Entirely. For two weeks. I started experiencing a searing pain in the right arch of my foot that would come on with absolutely no warning and would paralyze me with pain. Though it would only last ten seconds at most, the pain was so intense I would often break into a sweat. It started randomly, and at long intervals, maybe once a day, then sped up, hitting more than half a dozen zings during our flight home. I was in agony.

Once home, the doctors ordered a stool sample to rule out parasites, then moved on to more frightening examinations and ultrasounds of my ovaries, my cervix and my entire abdomen. Nothing. I was sent to a podiatrist for the foot pain (no, not gout, or plantar fasciitis, or anything else anyone could identify). I became increasingly convinced that my foot pain had nothing to do with my feet, but moreso with my internal organs. More blood tests, more radiology. I was told I was simply getting older. I should drink more water, eat more yoghurt, buy some supportive, expensive tennis shoes, deal with it. Definitely not satisfying. Lessening my sugar intake helped my foot pain immensely. Still, I embraced suggestions: I ate more yoghurt, drank olive oil, chugged magnesium, ate apples by the pound, drank water and moved daily. Over the years, we stopped short of a colonoscopy, mostly because at the time, and just before leaving the country, I had to undergo unrelated surgery, and didn’t have it in me to add on a scope of my nether regions, as important as it surely is to reading my general health.

Over time, my foot pain mysteriously disappeared with only occasional flare-ups, and I had become almost accustomed to the other intestinal challenges. So I was pretty upset when, after several weeks in Mexico – and perhaps fed by the twice-daily ice cream binges –, my foot pain came back, with a vengeance. I needed to find someone who could look at my foot pain as being integral to the rest of my body, and not solely about my foot. I called on a doctor most often recommended in this Mexican town and told him my tale. He had no answers but said he too would start at the beginning: with a stool sample, three in fact, because “one sample is never enough. Any doctor who only performs one doesn’t understand parasites. Or stool samples.” Hmmm.

Well, you can guess what happens next, right? We were equally surprised when tests showed I had a rare parasite, one so rare that he had never treated this, and had no medication for it. It was so rare in humans, in fact, that treatment is to be reported to the CDC, one site informed me! The little fella may have been with me for years, and MAY be causing some of my distress. May be? We finally tracked down and ordered the meds from Guadalajara. I consulted with some Santa Fe doctors, one of whom said to go ahead, the other told me to run the other way fast as the side effects included suicidal depression. This doctor told me to keep the parasite, informing me that worms have been used to treat autoimmune diseases, decrease inflammation in the gut and that I should celebrate this infestation. Rejoice! She also insisted the parasite, otherwise known as a Rat Worm, couldn’t possibly have to do with my inability to go to the bathroom. But while researching, I learned that parasites very often cause constipation, which can’t be good for my body no matter how I looked at it. I mulled this decision over for weeks, but finally decided that if there was a chance this could help me in the long run, I couldn’t pass it up. So here goes, dosing on some of the strongest meds I’ve taken in a long, long time. Wish me luck.

As I write this post I am reeling from this powerful medication. I’m left to wonder at the costs of all the tests I have already undergone, and more importantly, at their accuracy. Do I actually know what’s wrong? Could this parasite be the cause of my internal distress? Were the docs and nurses who did previous examinations exhaustive? Or even precise at all? I can’t help but question. If only they had accurately done a stool sample several years ago, would I have suffered so long? Then again, no telling if this medication will treat all of my symptoms, or any of them.

The one message I’m left with is that I was right. Not that I know if this is the true cause of my distress; what I mean is that we so often know when something isn’t right in our bodies. And I definitely knew something wasn’t right, regardless of how many people told me I was just getting older, or wasn’t eating enough yoghurt. I had no idea it was a parasite, but I’ll take that any day over something more serious. And if this worm, which Aiden has affectionately named Fred, has helped me in keeping my, uh, girlish figure, then I thank him. More importantly, I hope that it has not been key in providing me with an incredibly strong immune system, from which I have benefitted for many years. Because by taking this drug, I’ve decided that Fred has been up to more nefarious dealings in my body. I am deciding to eliminate him with toxins I am not entirely comfortable with, all in the name of trying to answer questions about my health that have plagued me for several years now. So, Fred, be gone with you now. It is with much gratitude that I am asking you, telling you, and then letting you go. 

Leaving San Miguel and History as some know it.

Hierve de Agua with Zubin and Ciela

Hierve de Agua

Me and Captain Nibbles, my Xmas present

Mitla

Wall art, Oaxaca City

Hotel Delphinus seconds as a stray dog shelter.

Chahue Beach in Huatulco

My baby after a bath

Turtle release in Puerto Escondido

Textile Exhibit outside Oaxaca City

We left San Miguel de Allende in early December and en route to Oaxaca spent several days in the magical capital city of Mexico. With a population hovering around 21 million, it’s the fourth largest in the world, and the grayish stained skies remind us every day of the impact of growing populations everywhere. Yet Mexico seems to have an infrastructure that somewhat sustains the masses, and like New York, city segments are separated into boroughs or neighborhoods, where one can live in a small region with few reminders of the surrounding chaos.

Mexico City has beautiful architecture, and a main park several times the size of New York’s Central park. It has amazing food, museums, and dedicated art and creativity that extend through the city. It also has amazing wealth and poverty, and like so many big, metropolitan cities, a chasm between the classes that only grows.  We visited the murals of Diego Rivera at the Palacio de Bellas Artes depicting the history and struggle of Mexico through the ages. We visited the floating markets of Xochimilco, now a busy weekend draw for tourists and Mexican families out for a Sunday picnic. The miles of canals are bogged with brightly colored barges carrying families, young lovers, teenage drinkers, interested tourists, singings bards and vendors of random food items. Next day we made our way to the spectacular pyramids of Teotihuacan, whose fall is still little understood. Increasingly, our guide told us, its fall is thought to have been caused by internal conflict (and certainly not external domination by Spaniards) and climate disruption. Change of rainfall patterns certainly were impacted by cutting all the trees, but there’s more. Originally set near a lake controlled by smartly placed dykes that controlled annual flooding, the Spaniards didn’t understand the native system of flood control and nor did they like the floods. So with little foresight, they drained the lake. No water, no life.  Sound familiar? We’ve seen this evidence throughout Mexico.

The amazing Monte Alban

While we’re talking about history, here’s a brief aside: Outside San Miguel there are roughly 1400 archeological sites that have been registered but have yet to be excavated. There is no telling how many people once lived and flourished in this region but according to the new book “1491; New Revelations of the Americas before Columbus” by Charles Mann, there could have been more than 25 million people in the Central Mexican plateau alone, more populous than Spain and Portugal combined. Another way to look at it, writes Mann, is that by the time Columbus arrived, there were more people living in the Americas than in Europe, with epidemics wiping out a great majority. The book is amazing, by the way, and reminds how little we actually know about our own history, and how subjective (read: so very Eurocentric) that history is.

From there we flew down to Oaxaca city, very recently known more for teacher protests turned violent, including the death of a Mexican Journalist covering the protests. It’s also an extraordinary region divided into 7 different geographic regions with dozens of indigenous communities and languages. It’s know for food, traditional crafts and as far as I could tell, a deep sense of rebellion against authoritarian rule and corruption. It’s my kind of place. We spent a lot of time simply trying to connect with some other expat families, but mostly in vain, oddly enough. We befriended some Mexican families, but mostly wandered the streets of central Oaxaca trying to get a sense of what life might be like on a day to day basis. Despite it’s reputation as a food haven, I didn’t find a favorite spot, though we did find a great Italian ice cream stand where we spent many, many hours. But after a wonderful month, made far better by visiting friends from home, I left feeling isolated. I also felt that extended time there might increase that feeling of isolation, despite the warmth of the people we met. The high point was feeling clarity about my need for community and connection regardless the place. Anyone living abroad has to eventually form a community and has to feel confident that that community will be supportive and embracing. But I never fully felt that possibility. Despite it’s enriching culture and beauty, I’m not sure Oaxaca is for me long term.

Puerto Escondido

But perhaps its beaches are? We decided to actually take a “vacation” and head to the southern beaches of Mexico, along the Oaxacan coast. Highly recommended from our travel agent were the calm bays of Huatulco, known as a resort destination with some nods toward sustainability. I say nods because resort and sustainability do not mix. Ever. No matter how many little signs management puts up for guests to consider water usage before asking daily for fresh towels. That, while the gardener is pouring literally hundreds of gallons of water on a small patch of grass so guests can experience bright green upon entry. Sorry, but resort and sustainable do not go together.

I found our hotel by accident. I was surfing various option while discussing details with the agent. I tried to merely bookmark something that was remotely in my price range, and discovered the booking could not be cancelled. We were going to hotel Delphinus – wherever that was. It turned out Delphinus was a bit of both heaven and hell on the coast. Doubling as a dog sanctuary, we discovered a small room with 9 small but extraordinarily beautiful puppies set off the main entryway. We were indeed in heaven. Bless them for allowing dogs and for doing the work to help strays, but the owners had two devil dogs of their own who barked morning, noon and night. Every day. Every hour. Brutal. I changed rooms only once, and at least was able to partly sleep through the night before heading off. Still, it was worth it to be able to see those sweet little faces every day.  It also helped that the beach directly off our hotel was the finest, funnest beach around. In fact, had we not paid in full at our next hotel in Puerto Escondido, I would immediately head back for more. But alas, one decision always negates another. This, I learn every day. That darn road not taken… story of my life.

From Huatulco we took a taxi west. Aiden was feeling sick and I was feeling lazy and sick, so a taxi seemed a minor price to pay for comfort and speed.

Puerto Escondido is pretty much what I thought it would be – but bigger. I was hoping for a dusty, overrun surf town, where fruit smoothies and yoga studios dotted every corner. Instead, it’s a tourist-laden, messy place with lots of drinking and smoking and dangerous beaches. We’re set apart, having to walk or take a taxi to any restaurant, fruit stand or even swimmable beach. We’re blessed with a great hotel pool, but no internet access, and a growing feeling of being trapped. (How did we live before internet, I can’t recall?) Puerto Escondido, even moreso than Oaxaca City, is probably not for me. So process of elimination might be working well in terms of determining our next year.

But it’s all about decisions, and in this case, having too many. Choosing anywhere or anything possible—within financial reach, that is. And in the big scheme of things, considering the world’s poverty, our reach is far.  Which makes decisions all the more difficult.

Let's Do the Holidays Differently

This week, in celebration of the Day of the Dead, thousands of people gathered in the central plaza here in Mexico, a great number in costume. There was laughter and singing, and the decorating and then visiting of dozens of elaborate shrines to the dead set up around the plaza. I was trying to think of any similar event in the US and I simply could not. For each holiday I could think of, it morphed into a different consumerist event. Sure, we have some nods to family and to giving, but as a general cultural expression, all of our holidays – every single one that I could think of – are about buying stuff. Except maybe Thanksgiving, which is entirely focused on overeating and then feeling guilty about it. Am I overlooking something? Can we even imagine an entire culture, young and old together, simply and completely honoring its dead – and having a great time doing it?

I was reminded that I won’t be in the US this holiday season and I’m thrilled (almost as thrilled as I am to be gone for this election!). Even one Christmas tune can put me on edge; one commercial telling me that if I just loved my family more I’d buy them a bunch more crap, and I lose it. And the thing is, we are so bombarded by these messages each year, we have no idea that it can be different. Depression always increases this time of year, stress skyrockets, and we all think we’re doing our part to fully participate in the American Dream. But it’s a dream created by markets that desperately need consumers, and 9 times out of ten – if not ten times out of ten – this consumerism does not bring any lasting happiness.

How clearly I remember that moment after tearing open the umpteenth gift only to crash in sadness when I realized it was the last one. Or not remembering a single gift except maybe that one special request. And now as a parent, sometimes realizing that the one desired gift might be unattainable, followed by a tinge of disappointment (ok, maybe I’m projecting my child’s presumed or obvious disappointment). Am I the only one who felt that the best I could do for my child, friend, or family member during the holidays, was not good enough? I’ve felt that more than I’d like. Those people aren’t your friends, you might say, but feelings of self-doubt aren’t logical. Because the TV, the radio, the papers and certainly the onslaught of internet sale emails, all tell you that you have to buy more, better and more often, to be a better person yourself.

I’ve tried to do my part to resist the barrage, to reduce the number of presents I give, to avoid department stores of all stripes during these months, and sometimes just to get out of town. I’ve tried to be creative in my giving – but not so creative as to be the kind of mother my son goes to therapy about years later claiming all his friends got amazing shwag while he got handicrafts. Whether our haul is small or large, I make sure we practice speaking out loud all the things for which we are grateful.  And if my child still complains that his present trove was skinny, I remind him of all the kids in the world, and so many in our state of New Mexico, who go to bed hungry every night. It’s manipulative, and it’s also true.

So this year I challenge people to celebrate differently. We have a massive cultural shift upon us, regardless of who becomes our next President. And I see our holiday culture and our current cultural shift as being intricately linked. It’s a consumerist, self-loathing, and divisive pressure. Think about it. Remind yourselves that stuff is not the IT of holiday celebration (and neither is overeating, by the way), and being unkind is not the IT of being American. Governments rise and fall, they fail and succeed and destroy, and while good folks work like mad to make the world a better place, it’s an uphill battle every day. Work hard but don’t be attached to the outcome, even if the results are infuriating. As the Dalai Lama once famously said, being angry is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.

This holiday season, do yourselves a favor and don’t eat the media’s toxic stew. Instead, turn off your computer and your phone and spend time with someone you love. Maybe that person is your kid, your dog, your partner, or yourself. If you don’t have a dog, get one. Go camping, drink a latte, full fat. Hug your kids, or a neighbor, or a stranger. Rent a funny movie or get your faces painted. Make a real plan to take that trip you’ve always wanted, cause you ain’t getting any younger. Take a break from all the messages that you may or may not believe and then go back refreshed. Because the fight will still be going on. Whether it’s against oppressive governments (by then possibly our own) or another damn Christmas jingle reminding us to buy more, it will be there. Try to make it different. This year, like the Day of the Dead celebrations, make your holidays about all the people you love and not the stuff they – or you – want.

Dia de los Muertos

October 2016

One year ago, on November 1, the traditional Mexican Day of the Dead, I honored my mother’s death. I had found her on her bedroom floor just ten days earlier, and several days after she had stopped returning my calls. Her death was sudden and unexpected – a brain aneurism that I pray every day took her quickly and without pain. Even in the depth of my sadness, I know that both she and I were so lucky for that quick passing. No days, months or years of slow decay, confined to her bed – or horror of horrors, in a hospital bed that was not her own.  And I know she was ready, despite her good health; she had told me so.

My mother was not afraid of death. She spoke of it openly with my son, even made clear that certain objects could be his after her passing. She insisted that after her death he finish building her sustainable house atop a mesa in northern New Mexico. He was eager for the Brazilian dart gun, but was less convinced that he would be finishing the house that she had already been constructing for 16 years – and counting.

Now a year past and I am in Mexico, where Day of the Dead is an extremely important cultural celebration. It lasts a week in fact, with a busy industry surrounding it. Near the central square in San Miguel there are dozens of vendors offering colorful sugar skulls, candles, and other offrendas ready for you to create an alter to your beloveds. Aiden made a day of it and chose sugar skulls, chickens, rams, and Catrinas (the skeletal female figure most common in Day of the Dead imagery). He hung paper decorations and bought candles. And he is always one to make sure there are flowers.

We placed two photos of my mother among the offerings, with nods to his two great grandmothers, both of whom also passed in recent years, and even sugar dogs representing the deeply loved animals, which existed in our family long before he was born.

As Aiden decorated he shared a story of the games he and his grandmother used to play: Warmer/Colder, he called it, whereby one has to identify an object with the other indicating proximity using “warmer” or “colder” signals.

I realize I can’t take this acceptance and open conversation for granted. I know there are so many children, especially in America, who are shielded from all aspects of real death, and see only its extreme ugliness through video games or TV. They don’t learn of the real act of death, sometimes the ugliness, but also the inevitability, importance of and even, yes, the beauty of death. Not to mention the value of openly discussing and being empowered by having—in fact choosing—what I call a “good” death. That’s a death on your own terms, be it quickly such as in your sleep, or in your own bed through the help of hospice care (angels, all). May we all be so lucky.

Sure, Aiden is innocent enough to still think death comes only at the end of a naturally long and healthy life. He is still blessed not to personally know anyone who has died young. But he knows that death comes. It always comes. And his first experience of death came with the idea that it is not to be feared.

So it feels essential one year later to celebrate my mother. On our alter we will add coffee and chocolate to sweeten her afterlife. We will add some tequila, because that has to be good, right? And some fresh bread, without which she might never have eaten a breakfast. If I were in Madagascar I might be among those digging up her bones after several years, dancing all night and replacing them with love. She wouldn’t have cared what happened to her physical body, regardless the year. She had always wanted her body burned with little care of where the ashes would go. “I’ll be gone by then,” she told me. “Do what you want.”

This will surely be a time of some sadness – I miss my mother every day – but as the celebrations here remind me, it is also a time of gratitude, love and joy. I had a wonderful mom, with whom I had many adventures and unforgettable moments. And her relationship with my son was beautiful. We were so fortunate, and that is worth celebrating. Her funeral last year was a great send off: live music, good food and lots of friends. So it will be during this year’s Dia de los Muertos, where we will continue to honor those we loved so deeply but who are no longer with us. I’ll play some old hippie tunes, we’ll tell stories of our time together and remember the fun we had. And I’ll remind myself again that we always carry with us the ones we love. In fact, I found myself in tears the other day watching a Mexican procession I imagined my mother would have loved seeing. When I explained my tears to Aiden it took his sweet insight to bring things back into focus: “But mom, she did see it. She’s here with us. In spirit.”

And, We're OFF!

I imagine I’m not alone. That for every parent who makes a choice to take her child out of school, away from home and community, and to immerse him or her in another country and culture, there comes a moment when one says, “Oh sh-t, what have I done?” This moment likely arrives amid some sort of chaos – perhaps an unsettled living arrangement, illness from new food or more polluted atmosphere, or simply one long day of no productivity, amplified by a child’s pleas of “I’m so Booored. What can I do??? (this, often codeword for Can I play on your phone or some other electronic device.) If I stick to my guns of no or limited device use, it reminds me that I am also the sole play pal, homeschool teacher, disciplinarian, cook, and comfort giver. Plus all the other crap us single moms are in charge of – no small load at that. So this moment came, shortly after our arrival in Mexico. We were at our fourth home/hotel stay in three weeks and I was getting very grumpy. With such constant movement, I was unable to settle into any writing/thinking/quiet time discipline. None of those imagined cheap yet luscious massages, long yoga classes or endless hours of life contemplation and research. Not to mention 8-hour sleep cycles I so desperately needed.

I left the US to Do Nothing, after a year of juggling what felt like three full time jobs in hostile environments and with health and home challenges, plus trying to carve out time to be a mom -- not to mention mourn the loss of my own mom, whose death was so sudden I’d hardly had time to absorb it all. So off we went. In search of Time. Some people called it a “vacation,” which, by American standards, is probably the only way some people can make sense of such journeys. Unless you’ve actually traveled, felt the challenges, and realized that in other countries, families aren’t torn apart by endless “work” hours, by lack of support for mothers and families, by lack of understanding that productivity should not be measured by the number of hours in a day or where that work is conducted (some of the most small minded folks I’ve worked with of late feel that sitting at a desk in an office is the only place where “work” happens). In other countries, people have leisure time, and yes, still live extremely productive lives. There is flexibility in work hours and more of an understanding that with greater familial and individual support, often efficiency and productivity increases.

It isn’t only time that we’re searching for, and indeed finding, but so many of the other benefits that travel can best provide.

Traveling also can force you to be vulnerable, sometimes on a daily basis, and it confronts you with the kindness of strangers. Sure there are dangers, like anywhere. But there are few other experiences where you must ask for help in so many ways, and count on the generosity of others, particularly in a place where you don’t speak the language. In turn, it has always made me want to help others more, both at home and abroad.

Travel makes you more compassionate when you realize how little people exist on every day, and how resourceful they are and often have to be. It reminds us how materialistic our culture is, and how consumerism is a national American pastime. It makes us do more with less. In fact, despite cries for more legos, toys, plastic crap and more, one of Aiden’s most used toys here is a small rubber superball with long ribbons attached. We’ve spent many evening hours bouncing the ball high into the sky, in coordination with or merely side by side with other Mexican children. Definitely outlasting some of the other more expensive items that have made their way into our household.

And travel at this time in my life is part of my rethinking of education. In fact I consider this travel a very active search for an alternative to standardized testing-focused schooling (and sadly, the $20k/year private schools in NM are simply not an option for me). Here we have a language challenge, immersion in a different culture, and the exploration of new and different schools. We’ve found a great unschooling center surrounding a pond filled with tiny frogs, with horses and sheep wandering nearby. Or a more “traditional” school, which teaches mythology using Rick Riordan books. There are Catholic and international schools with high price tags, and public Mexican schools where the level of education is still questionable. But the exploration continues. I might admit soon that I’m not the best homeschool teacher, which seems to require a level of consistency, dedication and scheduling that I tend to avoid generally while traveling. But education is a continuum and I can’t forget the larger picture: that leaving your place of comfort is often where the greatest growth occurs.

This trip also makes me think about national dialogues, ours in particular. Having been immersed in media for much of my life and career, taking a break from this noxious, toxic environment is a blessing. Sure, some of the Trump obscenities sneak through -- my favorite being the Dr. Seuss tweets -- but it’s not shouting at me from every newspaper, TV or radio ad.  It is work trying to avoid one of the most racist, sexist, and virulent (if not outright violent) election cycles I’ve encountered in my lifetime. But most days I am successful, which means I am not as easily pulled down by the crazies. Not a small point for one’s general and mental health.

I don’t want to romanticize too much, because travel is difficult. And sometimes very uncomfortable. For example, losing a month’s rent when we realized that our mold-filled nasty hotel right next to a disco was simply not going to work, well that just plain sucked. Plus, I miss the mountains. I miss the clean air. I miss my easily accessible organic foods. And I miss my dogs. My lungs seem to have adjusted to the emissions-spewing vehicles down here, but that’s not necessarily a good thing. Though it does make the days go by easier. And becoming volunteers at the local animal shelter has taken off some of the edge from our current dog-free lives. But living without a car and depending on a bus system that in this town can only be learned by psychic interpretation (as there are no maps indicating routes, nor consistent signage on any bus that indicates where it might be traveling!) is a great challenge.  But challenges make you stronger, right? They certainly make me more appreciative of the ease with which I live in America. But that ease comes with a price to society and to the environment that not many Americans care to think about. Yet I’m having to think a lot about it here.

So perhaps that Oh Sh-t moment is not as profound as it sounds or feels. Perhaps it’s just the residue of jumping in and taking a big risk and not knowing yet how it will all work out. It’s living without familiar comforts and without a PLAN. Which can be really scary. And when things settle in and you find the house and town that works, you realize that those moments come and go, regardless of where you are.

Sitting here and watching Aiden read in a hammock with the beautiful city of San Miguel spread out before us, with Legos spread on a table and fresh mangoes on the kitchen counter, I have to remember that this kind of time together is rare. And time I did not have and could not afford in Santa Fe. So today, rather than asking questions or wondering about my choices, I’ll simply count my blessings. Indeed I have so many.