Awesome 101: Intro to Davy Jones' Locker

I spent my first three weeks here wondering why, while the island is swarming with teenage and 20-something guys, I had met one girl my age– who happens to be the host sister of a friend. Turns out, as a result of the nonexistent state of condoms here, the young adult female population is either pregnant, married, or being kept in by their respective parental units with the objective of avoiding aforementioned situations.

Because our dear professor decided to have class all day for the first two weeks of the module, we got class off last week. A few of us decided to take the opportunity introduce ourselves to the grand old world down under. So, at 9 am on Tuesday, we showed up at Wreck Bay Diving Center to spend five hours attempting to stay awake in the sweltering heat while watching one of the most monotonous instructional DVDs known to mankind and getting fitted for wetsuits and booties. Wednesday afternoon we donned our wetsuits, loaded all of our gear in the back of a pickup and drove to the smallest, shallowest, murkiest swimming pool known to mankind to practice variations of breathing underwater, clearing masks, and breathing from a buddy’s tank. Thursday afternoon we finished watching our DVD. Not that we actually payed attention– we found ourselves distracted by a couple of locals across the street stringing up and gutting a pair of 10-ft marlins they had caught that morning. We then learned how to assemble our gear for our practice dive the next morning. Friday we showed up bright and early at 7 am to the dive shop for our second “confined water” skills dive. We strapped BCDs to oxygen tanks, screwed on regulators, connected hoses to our BCDs, gathered fins, masks, snorkels, and weight belts and arrived at the pier in less than a minute’s drive. After suiting up, inflating our BCDs and making sure the water was clear of lobos, we took a giant leap and found ourselves floating in the ocean with a good 40 lbs of gear on our backs. The next hour and a half was spent practicing more skills as fish swam around us in circles before returning to the dive center to disassemble and clean our gear. Late that evening, to the amusement of my classmates, I had the fortune to discover that diving, on occasion, has the peculiar aftereffect of making a person feel, appear, and act extremely stoned. Saturday the nine of us and our instructors finally got on a boat and headed back to Isla Lobos for our first open water dive. For some reason everything other than marine iguanas and a few parrotfish had decided to vacate the area for the day, but we still spent time exploring the rocky shoreline before practicing taking off and putting on BCDs and weight belts under water. After surfacing, eating, and changing tanks, we took another dive just off the shore of a nearby beach. Yesterday we again met early, this time heading out to a bay under a breeding colony of frigatebirds. Our first dive was supposed to be to 60 ft, working our way up and into the bay. However, due to a group member’s difficulties equalizing and a somewhat nauseous guide, we only made it down to 25 ft, where instead of encountering octopi, we found ourselves in the middle of a giant, surging school of fish that by all rights belonged in Planet Earth. After lunch, we made our final dive: After descending 35 ft we arrived at a wreck waiting for us on the bottom of the bay just outside Puerto Baquerizo Moreno. We swam over and around the metal and wood, every new surface we encountered teeming with parrotfish, seahorses, coral, urchins, lobsters, surgeonfish, and other giant, ugly, small, pretty, camoflagued and gaudy denizens of the skeleton in the deep blue sea. Today, we found ourselves once again at Wreck Bay, this time taking a final and receiving pretty little temprary paper cards that declared us certified Open Water Divers.

Last Thursday marked the beginning of the Galapagos High Holidays (for lack of a better term). Festivities last from the night before February 12th, the day San Cristóbal became a political entity in the Galápagos, to February 18th (the day the Galápagos became a province). So, for a solid week, drinking, music and parties abounded. Carnival also managed to fall smack in the center of the festivities, from the 14th to the 16th. The three days were filled with beauty pagents, more beauty pagents, and dodging every boy aged 16 and younger in sight, bound to be armed with paint, eggs, oil, flour, water baloons, and squirt guns (the three-year-olds), all targeting every unsuspecting gringo within range. Thursday culminated with a party in the main square where we danced through the night under pouring rain to a local band playing covers of every overplayed reggetón song imaginable until 3am, when I left to crash for three hours before dragging myself out of bed at 6 for our 7:AM skills practice dive– after which I spent the next three hours waiting for the restaurant that was supposed to serve us lunch to frantically call our coordinator demanding to know why there were 16 of us instead of 10, bolting down ceviche and banana chips, skimming 60 pages of redundant data on Darwin’s finches, reviewing a week of material, catnapping, running across the street to the beach to buy an ice cream bar, getting through the final exam on a sugar rush, making a valiant attempt to crash for an hour in the sweltering heat, and finally dually finishing and submitting a research paper on kleptoparasitism in frigatebirds while watching Planet Earth with the English students as they struggled to understand dear David Attenborough’s narration.

Also, some other interesting tidbits: Marine iguanas are crazy awesome. The feed on algae in the ocean and have organisms in their stomach that help them digest it. In the stressful rainy season, when their food sources are scarce due to decreased sunlight, the iguanas’ bodies shrink. They don’t just get skinnier– they reabsorb calcium from their bones and shorten by up to several inches, still retaining their original proportions. They also have glands on their noses from which they squirt salt previously ingested while swimming. Iguanas on different islands also differ in size up to ten times different; on the islands where sexual selection is stronger than natural selection, the iguanas are larger and on the islands where naturas selection plays a stronger role than sexual selection they’re smaller.

I'm Female. Get Over It.

Last semester the university came up with this ingenius program called Primos (Cousins). Each of the local students studying English is paired up with one of the GAIAS students, with the objective of making connections within the community and improving our respective foreign languages. Our assignment is to meet once a week for an hour and chat about whatever we want. Roberto, my primo, is around 45 years old and owns an inn with his wife. Sunday morning, he and a two of his friends took me and a couple others out on his boat to go fishing for the day. After arriving near a small rock called Five Fingers with a signal light perched on top, we set up the pole and began trolling, using flocks of seabirds with the occasional lobo mixed in as guides to the fishes’ location. A sharp jerk on the line soon informed us of a tuna on the other end. As we began reeling it in, however, the lobo in the vicinity decided to take advantage of the free meal sitting in front of its face. And so, a tug-or-war ensued until we realized that this particular lobo had inherited the stupid gene. Normally, when a lobo robs a line of fish, it’s smart enough to eat everything but the head. This lobo, however, had eaten the entire fish and was now swimming in circles around the boat with the lure caught in the side of her mouth. Horrified, I watched as we cut the line free and the lobo swam off– hopefully to come up on one of San Cristóbal’s beaches for the night and be found by a ranger, who would be able to cut the lure out of its mouth. So, without a lure, we proceeded to return to Isla Lobo and León Dormido and then make our way to a couple of white, sandy beaches punctuated by groves of mangroves, with rocky outcroppings populated by cactii, lava gulls, pelicans, boobies, night herons, crabs, and lobos sprawled anywhere available to escape the afternoon heat.

Thursday we hung over the rail next to the beach after dinner, watching hundreds of lobos sprawled across the sand for the night. As we watched machos fighting each other we noticed our lobo from Sunday morning waddling up the beach, fishing lure still caught in the top of its mouth. The back end of the lure had managed to catch in the flesh of its chest, preventing it from being able to open its mouth or extend its neck to sleep. So, we went and found some rangers, who told us that if they tried to do anything they would lose their job, and furthermore, everyone was currently preoccupied with preparations for Carnival. We returned to the lobo, who had now attracted a crowd of gringos and a few locals, one of whom worked for INGALA, the local government. After some harassment by our dear Mexican native David, he pulled out a cell phone and put a call into animal control. And then we waited. Why, in a town that takes ten minutes to get from one side to the other, it should take almost an hour for a few guys to arrive in a pickup with a net, a 2x4 and a couple sets of pliers and wirecutters is beyond me. (But hey, we’re in Ecuador. It was probably a rapid response time.) Anyway, we had to give them props for knowing what they were doing. After netting the lobo three men pounced to hold it down, using the 2x4 as an aid to keep its head still while the fourth member of the group took all of a minute and a half to rid the lobo of the lure. After the first attempt to free lobo from the net failed, knives came out, the net was cut, and the lobo scrambled down the beach, swing his neck round and around, enjoying his newfound freedom. We then to dropped into the bar next door to check out a few of our local friends’ band, Arkabuz (World’s Worst Wireless prevents me from checking out their website, Arkabuz.com, but pull it up if you’re interested). The next couple hours were spent dancing to Galapaguean rock and pop before I cut out early to walk home around 1:00 am and begin work on a powerpoint due the next morning on kleptoparasitism in frigatebirds.

On another note, I feel itemized. I have a friend who spent a semester in Cairo a couple years ago. Until I set myself down in the middle of Latin America, I never really quite understood what whe meant when she talked about the absurd number of cat calls she received, and the shamelessly brash manner in which she was treated by egyptian men on the street. They told us it would be intense in Quito, where I found myself the recipient of a few wolf whistles and lacking the ability to dance without a male partner at a club for more than 20 seconds. When I turned someone down, they wanted to know why I was mad. I’m not mad, dude, I just don’t want to dance with you. But that’s not an acceptable answer, because 20-year-old girls from the EEUU are easy, enjoying their freedom, surrounded by ripped latin-american guys, and by all means, why on earth would we not want to make out with every guy who we encounter in a club in the middle of the night in a foreign country well known for pickpockets, theft, drugs, and rapes? San Cristóbal, however, is what I like to refer to as a “special place.” I don’t know why, but for some reason I expected there to be less of the whole, “Hey chica, wanna go have sex?” But no. Quite the contrary. So, here’s a shout out to my 18-50 year old companions for the upcoming 2.5 months:

Dear male citizens of San Cristóbal,

Seriously, haven’t you noticed that ceaseless cat calls, hissing, and wolf whistles get you absolutely nowhere? I will hit low. Don’t believe me? Ask the guy who did his best to chat me up as I walked home at three in the morning and kissed me full on when we parted directions. You, there. You are an old man who does not appear to have showered in a week. No, I will not dance with you. Hey, ripped 30-year-old. You’re fun to hang out with, when you’re not drunk. Thanks for the tequila shots, but I’m not going home with you. Hey, bizarre 31-year-old who hangs out on the beach a lot. We call you Vagisil because we can’t pronounce your name. No, I am not your angel. Weren’t you supposed to go back to Guayaquil last week? Pancho: I’ve said hi to you an entire three times, during two of which you asked quite persistently to go home with me and offer companionship in my house. During one of which you interrupted the climax of a discussion about hauling dead people out of the woods (not that you had any idea, but still). I’m not stupid; you can ask to take a photo with me and a blonde friend “to remember,” but we’re well aware by the way you’re yanking us into your body that you just want a shot with a couple chicks from the EEUU. Pass the message along to your friend, too. Por favor. And Friend of Some Friends from last night: just because you passed around an unnamed plant in a roll of paper and followed me around like a duckling for the last hour does not mean I am going to make out with you. No matter how gently and nicely you insist. No, Lo siento, No quiero, Chao, Adios, Goodbye, Keep walking.

However. A small proportion of San Cristóbal's men still give me faith that the male half of our species can be helpful, funny, chill, welcoming, and uninvasive of my bubble. The island is beautiful, I swim with sea lions and turtles every day, I've worn pants once since I arrived, I'm legal, and I have afternoons off for the rest of the semester.

I Found Paradise.

It takes ten minutes to walk across the town of Puerto Baquerizo Moreno, situated on the southwest corner of Isla San Cristóbal in the Galapagos. My walk to school takes me seven blocks down toward the sea, past a couple grocery stores, the town’s nonfunctional hospital, and one of the two “main roads.” I then walk several blocks along the Malicon (waterfront), dodging herons, crabs, and indolent sea lions (lobos) who haven’t gotten their asses off the sidewalks, benches and stairs and into the water yet and passing pods of gringos who’ve just been ferried to the tourist pier, loaded with backpacks, binoculars, and sun hats as they clump together, unsure of where to go and gawping at the aforementioned lobos. I then follow a beach another couple blocks, turn up a block past an inn, turn and follow a road a few blocks parallel to the water, and arrive either at (to the left) Playa Mann, or (to the right) la universidad. La universidad is the nicest building in town. It has two classrooms, a computer lab filled with ancient PCs, a library, an upstairs with a kitchen and common room for eating and working, a balcony, dorm rooms for the professors, and the slowest wireless I have ever encountered in my life. And we’re supposed to use it to download articles. No joke. During class we do our best to stay awake and only succeed half the time. During breaks, we run across the street to jump in the water.

At the time the last census was taken in 2006, the town of Puerto Baquerizo Moreno had around 6,000 inhabitants, which means there are around 8,000 people living here now. So, I came here with a mission to find a guy named Pepe, which I thought would be accomplished on my first day in a town this size. What I didn’t realize is that every person on the island goes by at least one nickname and more than likely several. Everyone knows everyone, but more often than not, people don’t know each others’s real names. So, I ask a guy I’m having a beer with if he knows someone around my age named Pepe. He say he doesn’t know, but maybe he knows him by another name. Do I know his last name? No. I’ll try to get a photo, though. So I go home and tell my host parents I’m looking for Pepe, and no I don’t have a last name, and no I don’t have a photo, but I think he has a young kid (but I could be mistaken) and he might have a friend named Juan. They start laughing in my face. Later, my host parents take me to meet my host grandmother, who owns the nicest bar on the island, and my host uncle Marco. My host grandmother promptly sets tequila shots in front of myself and my host dad. Fifteen minutes later, my host mom decides to inform her brother that I’m looking for Pepe. Marco looks at me. “Pepe? I know 30.” We all start laughing hysterically. “I think he has a friend named Juan.” “I know 29.” We laugh harder. “I think he has a kid?” “I know 20.” Shit. “I’ll try to get a photo.” So later that evening, having obtained a photo, I show my host parents. Ooh, that Pepe. We thought that might be the one. Well, thanks. So, yesterday after tracking him down for a couple days I finally found Pepe, delivered a message, and came out of the experience with all the knowledge I will ever need to know about the meaning of life.

I never knew that such adorable animals as baby sea lions could make such hideous noises as dying sheep. But they do, and they’re everywhere. During the day they play in the water, swim with us, or laze on the beach, sharing the rocks with basking marine iguanas and hundreds of crabs. At night, they take over the Malicon– mashed under benches, on top of benches, on the walkways, against buildings, and in every spot on the beaches, half-out of water and plopped down in seaweed or not. Pups suckle or make their way through the colony bleating pitifully. Machos chase after each other, picking fights, squashing anyone in their path. And the females sack out, sound asleep.

Snorkeling on the equator is like snorkeling in bathwater. Yesterday, our class took a little jaunt out to Isla Lobo (Sea Lion Island) and León Dormido (Kicker Rock) to have some fun out in the Big Bad Ocean. At Isla Lobo, we slathered ourselves with sunscreen, jumped out of the boat and into the crystal clear water, and explored the edge of the tiny island above shallow rocks and sandy bottoms. We found stingrays, marine iguanas, a couple of small spotted eagle rays, barracudas, and some sea lions who decided to play around us for a while. We then headed out to León Dormido and jumped into choppier seas, to snorkel the channel separating the rock’s entirety. It was one of the most beautiful and eerie places I’ve ever been. Outside the passage, the sun’s rays penetrated the water all around me, down through schools of fish and the occasional shark to where they were lost in deep blue darkness. The rock walls were covered in giant barnicles, coral, sea stars, hundreds of species of fish and other organisms. The occasional sea lion appeared, gliding around the island in search of food. Inside the passage, the ocean floor rose to a depth of 15 meters or so. We swam above and dived with hundreds of schools of fish and sharks who thronged in pods below. A couple lucky souls spotted a hammerhead. As we were about to leave, a school of spotted eagle rays, massive and graceful and somewhat alien, made their way into the passage. Individually, they reminded me of grumpy old grandpas. As a whole school, however, they exuded a majestic, eerie ambience, distinctly making me think of Star Wars as they loomed out of the deep blue watery abyss, gliding slowly but purposefully in formation through the channel above the hundreds of sharks below. (All right, I'm a nerd. Moving on.)

Throughout the day I applied sunscreen four times and snorkeled with a t-shirt from noon onward… and I’m still sunburned. Gotta love it.