Unforgettable moments flip through the slideshow of my memory: my father’s boyish grin lighting up in spite of himself as he stood, lifejacket up around his ears, the dolphin leaning in and kissing his cheek. Shaking his head in disbelief as our two waiters explained the special six-course meal that the famous French chef at Piaf, Michele Mustiere, had prepared for him, taking into account all of the complicated restrictions of his diet. Seeing him lying back on a canopied lounge on the beach, soaking up the sun and the attentions of an efficient and watchful staff.

My factory-worker dad, father of nine and grandfather of a houseful of rambunctious little ones, had never come close to such luxury. He hadn’t even known that it existed. A shadetree mechanic and consummate fixer of broken things, I found him examining the cooling system in our suite and chatting up the shuttle drivers and motorcycle salesmen we would meet along the way.

Recently diagnosed with mesothelioma, an asbestos-induced cancer with a grim prognosis, he had decided to work with a naturopathic doctor to boost his immune system in an attempt to beat back the cancer. One strategy was a radical change in diet; my meat-and-potatoes Dad was a sudden vegan. Another, according to all that we had read, was to keep living to the fullest, doing things that brought him joy.

“I’m not afraid to die,” he told me not long after his diagnosis. “But as long as I’m here, I’m going to live.”

I wanted to support him in that vow on every level. I had long dreamed of bringing my parents to Mexico, my adopted second country, to share with them a bit of the culture that I had come to love. Now I knew there was no time to waste. I persuaded them to get their passports, and in December, we escaped the dreary Midwest winter for nine precious days on the Yucatan Penninsula.

“Just when you think it can’t get any better… it does,” he mused as we wound our way down the thatch-roofed passageway through the jungle, one beautiful vista opening after another; here a garden with a small waterfall, there a cenote filled with clear spring water. Everything had been developed in this resort with an eye toward protecting the fragile seaside ecosystem; Grand Velas has won numerous awards for its environmental stewardship, and it’s evident as we look around us – especially as we walked along the picture-perfect beach and saw the long expanses of green that extended between Grand Velas and neighboring resorts. An environment all the more appealing for my forest-dwelling folks.

There were moments not made for Kodak on this trip, to be sure. The rental car agency that charged us twice the price for insurance what we’d paid for the online vehicle rental; the frantic hour spent looking for them when I lost them to Merida’s chaotic traffic; the unpleasant surprise when Dad reached out to grab a tree in the jungle walk at Xel Ha – and pulled his hand away to find it crawling with biting ants; his long silences as I drove, catching a farway look in his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I’d say.

“Watch out, you’re about to hit that speed bump,” he’d respond.

Moments like these I ached to know what was on his mind – and more importantly, that he was really on the mend, that the diet and all the supplements and naturopathic treatments were doing the trick, that his low energy was due to his healing process and not his decline.

This was not for us to know, as he gently reminded me time and again. “It’s all in the Lord’s hands,” he would say.

I would take a deep breath and nod.

The first five days of our trip we’d spent on a road trip to Merida, where we stayed three days in the picturesque colonial city and two days at an atmospheric and picturesque restored hacienda, Hacienda Petac. Friday we drove back to Cancun, touring Chichen Itza and a bit of the colonial city of Valladolid along the way. We spent the night at the JW Marriott in the Zona Hotelera, spending a relaxed morning on the beach before heading down to Grand Velas on the Riviera Maya – named by Conde Nast and AAA as one of the world’s finest hotels. We had saved the best for last.

Saturday afternoon we arrived at Grand Velas, driving over a moat and through a gateway in the vast expanse of white stone that walled off this exclusive compound. “Welcome home,” said the young man with the clipboard, and we crossed another blue waterway onto a narrow lane that wound through the jungle. We found our way to the elegant thatch-roofed lobby. Our car was whisked away and our personal butler, Aldo, saw us to our spacious picture-perfect Zen Suite, with a giant jacuzzi and French doors that opened out onto the room and a patio that opened out onto a water garden complete with bougainvillea and a lilac-colored water lily. Beyond the tiny garden extended the jungle; beyond that, the mangrove forest, and beyond that, the beach and the brilliant blue Caribbean.

All this beauty was hard to leave behind, but dinner at Frida’s, one of the resort’s seven award-winning restaurants, awaited; named for the iconic Frida Kahlo, whose portrait brightens up the entry with an earthy radiance, the decor, like the menu, presents Mexican traditions with a fresh and modern twist. A classically dressed Mexican singer and guitarist serenaded us with romantic ballads as we dined. To my delight, salmon al pastor was on the menu. How I’d longed to share one of my onetime Mexican favorites – tacos al pastor, with its succulent pork marinated in the juices of a pineapple and turned on a rotisserie in front of the fire. Now, since an occasional serving of fish was allowed in the second phase of his diet, I could share the essence of this typical taste treat with him. He loved it almost as much as I did.

Day Two began early with an hour’s drive south to Tulum, with its ancient pyramids on the coast. The stark white limestone stood out against the brilliant blue sky and the multihued turquoise and cerulean waters, and he pronounced the view worth the walk – a circuit that a year ago he could have breezed through before breakfast had become a rigorous workout, but one he completed with good cheer.

Dinner found us at the unforgettable Piaf, named for the tiny French singer with a voice that conquered hearts the world over. “Think of us, not as your waiters, but as your tour guides on this culinary adventure,” said Adolfo, one of two young men who meticulously attended us, as he handed Dad a damp cloth to wipe his hands before commencing a procession of works of culinary art, beginning with a salad of mixed lettuces and flower petals accompanied with a red wine sorbet and a quail egg.

The dishes were dismayingly tiny, to my Dad’s way of thinking, but I promised he would not go hungry. Six courses later, Chef Mustiere himself stood before us and explained the way he’d prepared our dessert himself – a strawberry savayón, a confection sweetened with port wine, alcohol evaporated off, and topped with a golden-brown merengue – all, apparently, on my Dad’s diet. Dad nodded his appreciation to the white-garbed gentleman – “It’s all just great,” he said, and posed sheepishly for a few photos.

“Can I ask for seconds?” he wanted to know. But the chef was already gone.

Monday was the exciting climax of our Riviera Maya adventure, with a dolphin swim scheduled at Xel-Ha, one of several nature-oriented theme parks along the coast. Irasema was our guide, taking us on a walk that led through the jungle and past all manner of means to entertain ourselves in the aquatic wonderland of the Yucatan: cenotes where you could dive in, enter a cave and emerge downstream on the shore of an inlet; ropes you could swing on like a modern-day Tarzan; a cliff you could dive off of into the deep blue waters below; and a “lazy river” that you could lie on an inner tube and wind your way through the park for nearly an hour.

Dad’s a country boy who grew up on the river, and just last summer, I’d have been struggling to keep up with him. But these days his circulation was not what it used to be, and he was afraid of catching a chill, so we walked along the path and wistfully watched others splashing joyfully along the way.

Nonetheless, come 1:30, we found ourselves lined up for the orientation with the dolphin trainer. “Prepare yourselves for the experience of a lifetime,” the excited young man advised us. Dad looked dubious and fiddled with his lifejacket. Mom looked tiny in her child-sized jacket. We lined up with the three young girls who were assigned to our group – Sophie, Zoey and Phoebe, aged from 7 to 11 – and followed our guide to the dock.

“It looks cold!” said Dad.

“It’s going to be an adventure!” said Mom.

Both of them were right.

Our dolphin was named for Hunahpu, one of the twin heroes whose stories were told in the ancient Mayan text the Popol Vuh. Like his namesake, a feisty soccer player, our Hunahpu was a playful fellow indeed, flirting and kissing and splashing and dancing in turn with each of us. As gentle as he seemed, we also had a glimpse of his strength when we formed a circle and he swam rapidly around and around us, surrounding us in a powerful wave that nearly knocked us over.

Dad’s tense face relaxed into a smile as the dolphin performed his antics, and he seemed to have all but forgotten the cold by the climax – the dolphin push. “No, no, no, I think that’s a little too much,” he said as I repeated to him the procedure outlined by the trainers. Two dolphins would place their noses at the base of each foot and push him rapidly through the water, eventually lifting him upright as if he were skiing.

“You love skiing, Dad – remember?” I cajoled him. “And this is easier – the dolphins do all the work!”

Finally, he consented. One of the girls and I went first to show him how it was done – and it was exhilarating to feel the two shiny noses planted on the soles of my feet, and my body lifting from the force of forward movement. I turned to see Dad preparing for his turn, hoping that I’d been right, and that it wouldn’t be too much for him.

I needn’t have worried. The same Dad who’d taught me to ski, coaxing me through my fear bit by bit to my legs from the cockpit of his beloved boat, took to the dolphin push like a champ, nearly rising to a full stand before taking the plunge. He emerged grinning from ear to ear.

“That was something,” he said.

But Dad is a man not given to idle talk, and I wasn’t sure if I’d hit the mark with all of this activity. Was he enjoying it all – or just humoring me? Would he have preferred to just lounge in our suite and surf the massive flat-screen TV?

It wasn’t until the day after we returned that I got my answer. I tuned in as I heard him relate the whole tale to his friends and brothers on the phone.

“You just had to see it to believe it,” he’d say. “…and there were these chefs…. and we had a butler… and they treat you like a king… and the dolphin kissed us, and we kissed the dolphins.”

“And me, an old boy from Iron County, Missouri. It was just more than I could have imagined.”

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Story and photos by Melissa Gaskill

This blog frequently covers travel that makes a difference – trips that incorporate volunteering, are culturally sensitive, support local businesses, and respect the human and natural environment – or all of the above. I wrote a guest post about such a trip about a year ago, Turtle Rescue on the Eco Side of Baja. More and more places, particularly in developing countries, see this kind of tourism as a sustainable way to protect sea turtles. At the 31st Symposium on Sea Turtle Biology and Conservation, held in San Diego April 12-16, several presentations reported on programs that have seen success, so I thought I’d share them here.

SEE Turtles, a US based non-profit, promotes travel that supports conservation, organizing its own trips to Baja California, Costa Rica and Trinidad.

“We know tourism can be bad for people and animals, especially when done in an unplanned and uncontrolled way,” director Brad Nahill told symposium attendees. “Or it can have positive impacts, including direct financing of conservation and research, reduced dependency on direct use of resources (such as eating sea turtle eggs), increased monitoring, and an increased local constituency. We use local businesses, share commissions, and do additional fundraising, education, volunteer recruiting, and advocacy.”

The organization uses detailed criteria for selecting trip sites, follows established guidelines for trip activities, and monitors trips to ensure they don’t have a negative effect. Locals are always involved either as guides, or as the source for provisions and souvenirs. Fees and donations go back into the community.

So far, Nahill reported, SEE Turtles has generated more than $230,000 for conservation and communities. At least 250 people have visited turtle sites, 1,000 volunteer shifts have been filled, and more than 15 million people have been reached with education and conservation messages. All of this, he pointed out, despite starting the program in a terrible economy. The organization helps programs tap into adventure travelers, volunteer tourists, domestic travelers, and day trippers. In addition to offering organized trips, it also will match up travelers with reputable sea turtle programs near almost any destination in the world.

Lindsey West reported on the efforts of Sea Sense, a small marine conservation organization protecting a small nesting population of green and hawksbills on Tanzania’s Mafia Island. This island contains two-thirds of all sea turtle nests in the country. The organization monitors six nesting sites, four within a marine park, conducting daily patrols and relocating nests at risk of tide inundation.

So far, it has trained 48 locals elected by their villages as conservation officers. Its nest incentive program pays a small stipend to anyone reporting the location of a nest to these conservation officers, and another small incentive when a nest successfully hatches. This program has reduced poaching from more than 80 percent to less than two. Half of the revenues generated by eco-tourism are directed into a village environmental fund, so the community sees direct benefit, West said.

That revenue also covers the cost of monthly allowances for monitors, field equipment, and nest incentives. Sea Sense is exploring the potential to expand sea turtle tourism by incorporating turtle experience into village tours, nature walks, and beach picnics. “We need long-term sustainability and decreased dependence on donations,” West said. Challenges the effort faces include very remote nesting beaches, plastic debris on beaches, the tour guides’ lack of confidence and skill, visitor expectations, cultural considerations, and communications.

Alarmed by the slaughter of turtles in northern Trinidad in the 1970s and 80s, the local communities of Grande Riviere, Matura Beach and Fishing Pond joined forces with Nature Seekers, assisted by the government’s Forestry Division, to protect nesting leatherbacks, hawksbill and green sea turtles. Some 5,000 turtles nest on a beach roughly a mile long here. The program offers guided educational turtle tours nightly March through August – and has carefully monitored and tested the potential effect of lights, photography, touching and the size of groups on the turtles. Its activities also include beach cleaning, sand turtle contests, and tagging and data collection, which are highly dependent on volunteers, often from Earthwatch. SEE Turtles brings groups here as well.

Locals in these communities have also been trained to create jewelry and other items from glass bottles that wash up on the beaches. This program raises funds for locals and sea turtle conservation and leaves the beach cleaner for turtles as well. Turtles tagged in Trinidad have been observed as far east as the Mediterranean and as far north as Nova Scotia, so Nature Seekers’ effects reach far beyond the Caribbean island.

Consider including one of these destinations and programs, or others like them, in your future travels. You’ll see a beautiful place, and do a beautiful thing – help save the sea turtles.

For more of Melissa Gaskill’s life-affirming stories and beautiful photography, visit her blog.

It was the journey I had dreamed of and then laid awake nights worrying about: Would we really be able to pull it off? In the end, we did. We spent 10 action-packed days on the road, covering more than 2,500 miles – every step along the way, receiving reminders to SLOW DOWN and to take care of the present moment.

Some of those reminders were costly, others just funny. Many times I looked in the rear-view mirror at the utility trailer I was hauling and thought of my pioneer great-great-grandmother Caroline, who packed all her belongings into a covered wagon and traveled to the wilds of Missouri to start a new life. Apparently some of her pioneer spirit was my heritage, but in an era of internet, motor vehicles and airlines, it’s a much, much easier proposition.

Tami and I left my parents’ home in the country south of St. Louis on Friday, long after our scheduled departure, because of the many complications involved in purchasing and outfitting the vehicle I had acquired for this move: first the 4×8 utility trailer, then the Toyota 4-runner to haul it, and then, after the transmission began going out on it a few miles down the road, a Toyota pickup truck. Much distress surrounding that incident but thanks to my father, an excellent mechanic with a hobby of buying and repairing Toyotas and reselling them, I was able to quickly locate a second vehicle and leave the first one with him to get repaired and resell – and then, a camper shell to install on my new truck within a few miles of his house. It wasn’t a perfect fit, however, and required some clever and time-consuming engineering to install it. Not too many people would have even attempted such a thing, but Dad pulled it off. Together with the vehicle inspection and registration, we lost a day, but gained a warm and loving night at Mom and Dad’s, which I wouldn’t have given up for anything.

Now we were finally on our way to Columbia, to say goodbye to sister Toni and pick up the trailer andTara, who would accompany me to my Houston storage locker to pick up my belongings, my San Antonio “home” for the night, and then on to the border and to Teopantli Kalpulli, an ecovillage on the outskirts of Guadalajara, where I will be making my new southern home.

First, however, we had a final family visit at my brother Scott’s beautiful country home in Edgerton, Kansas. We arrived at about 2:30 am on Saturday the 8th to find him and sister Tasha, unbelievably, waiting up for us, catching up on each others’ stories. We caught a few hours’ sleep before enjoying a great breakfast, rides on Oreo, one of the family’s three horses, and a recording session for the album Trina is creating for our Mom and Dad.

Here are the photos of that little adventure. I’m sorry I can’t include a taste of the refreshing below-zero temperatures!

Scott was able to upload Garmin’s Mexico data package onto my Nuvi GPS device, which I’m happy to report is a fantastic addition to my life – it performed wonderfully throughout the cross-country trip and navigated the streets of Saltillo, San Luis Potosi, Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta with barely a hitch, and saved us many hours of driving in circles looking for directions.

We were able to sort through the contents of the storage locker in Houston, fitting about a third of them into my trailer and the back of my pickup truck with the help of Mike the mover. I was unable to part with 2/3 of my belongings as planned, and Tara found many of them interesting, so we made a plan to follow up with one more trip in March, when the rent on my storage locker expires, with the remaining contents of the locker going to my family in Missouri and needy families in Houston. Amazingly, Tara’s up for one more adventure. More on that later.

Meanwhile, here are the highlights of this Mexico trip:

* Laredo and La Posada: We spent the day visiting with Audrey and shopping in San Antonio, my last chance to visit a Whole Foods and get US prices on electronics and other important items. We splurged on a night at La Posada, the beautiful, classic hotel right on the plaza in old Laredo, as quaint and charming and peaceful as it’s ever been, despite the mayhem we’ve heard about in Mexican border towns. It’s a lovely way to prepare for your border crossing, with a staff well versed in the details of the procedure, and it’s luxury on a budget, with a great restaurant, a pool in the courtyard and fresh apples and friendly smiles at the reception desk.

* Delays at the border: This was touch and go as I didn’t have the actual title of the truck and trailer, only registration papers, having just bought them. Also, the inspection of the trailer was a big unknown; people on the Mexico Expat list had reported everything from painstaking unpacking and revision of every item, to taking a peek and sailing through.

My case was somewhere in between; the girl in charge asked me to remove a few things, took a peek, charged me $100 in taxes and sent me on my way. On the other side of the border, at the Mexican vehicle importation office, they accepted the registration documents, thankfully. However, they discovered that I had a car registered in Mexico, a fact that almost cost me the entire enterprise. It seems that once you’ve registered a car in Mexico, it’s illegal to leave without taking the car with you. This I had done several times with my Toyota Celica, CiCi, but it never seemed to be an issue until now, with CiCi sitting behind my folks’ house in Missouri.

“Can’t I just have my parents fax the papers?” I wanted to know. “No, you must bring the car back to the border and have the permit canceled,” the official told me severely. “But I can’t do that! It’s almost 2,000 miles away!” I protested. “Can’t I just pay a fine or something?” “No,” he told me firmly. “The punishment for this infraction is that you may never bring a vehicle into Mexico again. Not until you bring that one back.”

This statement rang in the air like a death knell. I gasped and clutched at my face. “What can I do?” I pleaded. Seeing my distress, he relented. “Does she have a car in Mexico?” he asked, beckoning to Tara. “Why… no,” I said. “OK, then, go back over to Laredo and get a temporary title in her name,” he instructed. This process took an hour and $60, and we were, thankfully, on our way – although in order to ever bring a vehicle legally across the border again, I will still have to bring my Celica down and have the permit canceled. Thankfully, I had not yet sold it. It seems CiCi wants to take another trip to Mexico.

* Saltillo: We had had our sights set on the beautiful colonial city of San Luis Potosi, about halfway to Guadalajara, for our layover, but delays at the border set us way back, and we were strongly discouraged by many people on both sides of the border from driving after dark on the Mexican side of the border, mainly in the north. We found our way to the historic center and a charming colonial hotel but a cold wave had struck with full force and our short expedition in search of dinner left us shivering down to our bones. In the morning, we headed off to discover that an ice storm had turned all the trees into a winter postcard and the highways into complete chaos, with all the bridges closed and traffic moving at a snail’s pace. Long story short, it was noon before we finally got out of town – with two police stopping us along the way to call me on my infractions and extract mordidas, or bites – the spanish word for bribes. Sigh.

* San Luis Potosi: Once again, due to our late start, we would have had to drive far into the night to reach our goal – so we decided to spend the night at the Panorama, downtown SLP’s classy, glassy hotel-with-a-view – a bit past its prime, sadly, with its sky lounge and piano bar closed for undisclosed reasons, but still lovely, and the city itself is a charmer. We asked a man on a bicycle for directions and instead of explaining he offered to lead us through the tangle of city streets – and we almost made it.

Our only bad moment in SLP occurred when yet another police officer stopped me for traveling in the historic center with a trailer – an infraction that was going to cost me plenty and he was going to ensure it, having suffered a ticket during his time in Texas, which he shared with me while trying to point to the infraction in his rule book. I was determined not to pay another mordida especially for such a silly rule and I raised such a ruckus that bystanders began to gather and another police officer finally intervened and let me go.

* Guadalajara: Beautiful in the mid-afternoon sun, but we were late and I was a bit worried as I had just learned from my landlord, Francisco, that Teopantli Kalpulli had just held its first meeting of the year and instead of receiving the letter I had sent and approving my pending residency, there had been a bit of controversy because the grandmothers had not been notified and proper procedure had not been followed. My letter had not been delivered due to a miscommunication, and now the grandmothers must be persuaded. Francisco was working on that, on my behalf, but I’d have to meet them and talk with them and let them know of my intentions.

* Teopantli Kalpulli: We met Francisco on the outskirts of Guadalajara at the gas station closest to Teopantli, Mexico’s first ecovillage, about 40 minutes outside of the city, and together we made our way through the tiny town of San Isidro Mazatepec and down 7 kilometers of dusty roads to the community itself. Francisco advised that we quickly unload the vehicles while there was still light, and then meet with the grandmothers. Tara and I busied ourselves sweeping the floor and Francisco found us some lovely neighbors – Raul and Cuautli – who helped us unload our furniture as the sun set over the mountains.

I then met the grandmothers and one of the grandfathers, explained to them my purpose and listened as Francisco assured them of my respectability. They seemed somewhat mollified but the real test will come this Thursday, when I make my case at a community meeting. (”It will be fine, you’ll see – once they see you and meet you, find out what you’re about, hear the way you laugh… they will love you,” my friend Levi reassured me.) The abuelas were on their way to a meeting so they dismissed me, but not before Abuela Villafaña poked her head out the car window and whispered, “Don’t worry – no pasa nada! You are going to be very, very happy here. Bienvenida!”

I then headed with a smile down to the bakery, where Jose Luis and Angelica shared fresh bread and yogurt and honey and savory vegetable patties. Tara and I savored the treats and made quick work of organizing the tiny house and then spent a delicious first night listening to the sounds of the crickets and cicadas in the trees outside. We awoke to a fresh, sweet scent in the air, the crowing of a rooster and the first rays of morning touching the pyramid at the edge of my backyard.

We spent a little time organizing things and taking photos, then made a beeline for the beach.

Mi casita

* Pacific Coast: We made it to Chacala, the closest beach from Guadalajara, just before sunset and made our nest at Las Brisas, the prettiest hotel on the tiniest beach town on this stretch of the coast. It was cozy, beautiful and right on the beach; the restaurant was fabulous, the price was right and we couldn’t have been happier.

We had a leisurely morning watching whales and soaking up the sun, then wandered our way down the coast, exploring surfy Guayabitos, ultra-natural Lo de Marcos, sweet little San Pancho and bohemian Sayulita before finally ending up, once again just before sunset, at Posada Lily in downtown Puerta Vallarta, just half a block from the beach. The price, once again, was right; we were lucky girls.

We wandered our way down the Malecon (sea wall) to our hearts’ content, watched mimes and clowns and jugglers and performance artists, listened to live music and admired the sand scupltures and bronze sculptures, everything from mermaids to sphinxes in a joyful, beautiful celebration of life. Over daiquiris and a coco loco, we watched the waves roll in and vowed to return when we’d have time to luxuriate in the warm sand and sun.

* Tlaquepaque: Tara had a plane to catch and we would be up before dawn, so our last evening I opted to take her to this charming colonial village on the outskirts of Guadalajara. Tlaquepaque captures the colonial ambience, the festive air and the intimacy of Guadalajara before it became a megacity, and the mariachis still wander the streets with their guitars and big hats and play for pesos as you drink your margaritas and enjoy fine traditional Mexican food. As usual, we arrived late – and Tara was exhausted and still had to re-pack to make a space for her Aztec blanket and other mercado finds – so we just settled for a nice dinner at El Nahual restaurant just down the street from our hotel, Posada Media Luna.

Up at 5 and off to the airport… A long day of travel for Tara, and back to work for me.

Here’s my photo collection – not too much of my new casita yet, but Tara took bunches of them, so you can find those on her Facebook page.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

COLUMBIA, Missouri – A shooting star snaked across the blackness of the night sky as we pulled out onto I-70 in our pickup truck, utility trailer in tow, a brilliant blessing on our journey. Some 2,000 miles of road beckoned, with a new home in Guadalajara on the other end. But for now, one last lingering visit with family at my brother’s house in Kansas.

It’s been a long, long journey since I launched the Esperanza Project a year ago, taking me as far south as Buenos Aires and full circle to the place that, Lord willing, will be my new home in Mexico. I found a casita for rent in the ecovillage Teopantli Kalpulli – the oldest ecovillage in Mexico and the subject of a story I recently wrote for Ecovillage News http://www.ecovillagenews.org/wiki/index.php/Indigenous_Past,_Ecovillage_Future. I was deeply impressed with the community when I wrote about it in January, and when my friend Levi told me about a house for rent there that cost less than my storage locker in Houston (truly!!!) I took it as a sign.

I’ve always thought that I would end up living in Mexico someday – not so soon, but finances are telling me, it’s almost time to renew my storage locker and after so much movement, I’m feeling the need to stop for a moment, plant some seeds, do some thinking and some writing, and build a solid base to launch my travels from. Teopantli seemed just the place.

My life has come full circle in a way this year. It was in Guadalajara that I connected with the group at Teopantli and also an indigenous rights group called AJAGI that works with the Huicholes. Long story short, as I was looking for guidance on the direction of The Esperanza Project, I was drawn back to Guadalajara where I will be working on freelance and book projects for the first part of the year and also be volunteering part-time with AJAGI and the Huicholes as I document their struggle to save their most sacred site, as I wrote at www.theesperanzaproject.org.

So just a couple of weeks ago I landed in Missouri and with the help of my amazing father found a truck and a trailer to haul my things. Many twists and turns along that trail, beginning with a bad transmission in the first vehicle, but all is working its way out. My daughter Tara has agreed to accompany me on this journey, and Saturday we drove to Houston to unpack my storage locker, sort out what I wanted to take with me to Mexico, visit with friends – Mona Metzger of Houston Green Scene and Lise Olsen of the Houston Chronicle and head on to San Antonio, to spend the night at the home of Audrey Lee, the dear friend who has backed me up on this journey more than anyone, receiving my mail, dealing with my emergencies and serving as a sounding board and emotional support. Yesterday we did much a much needed shopping trip, and now we are preparing to make our crossing. We decided to splurge our last night in the USA and got a room at La Posada, recently named the No. 1 hotel in Texas by Expedia – and it’s easy to see why.

The second part of the year I will resume my travels with a special focus on indigenous struggles to save their land and cuture.

I will be writing much more about all of this in the months ahead. Meanwhile I continue to pray for guidance and support as I chart my course and share the stories of those who are tending the fires hope from south of the border.

XELA, Guatemala – At 4:45 a.m. on Saturday, eight sleepy people from five different countries showed up at Casa Argentina, bracing themselves for the adventure ahead: a two-day trek up Volcan Tajumulco, the highest point in Central America. I was among them.

The three volunteer guides from Quetzaltrekkers were going over the final details. Yesterday we had already met for a briefing and gone over the checklist for the trip. Below-zero sleeping bags? Check. Headlamps? Check. Down jackets and fleeces? Check. Rain gear, gloves, hats, thermal underwear?

Wait, I said, this was Central America, not the Andes!

Yes, but it was rainy season and our destination was 4,000 meters above sea level, where wintry conditions prevailed, especially at night and in the pre-dawn hours when we would hike to the summit of the old volcano.

I had heard about this group, Quetzaltrekkers, from a Guatemalan journalist who volunteers for the local Escuela de la Calle, the school for street children that it supports. For 15 years, the guides who come from all over the world donate three months of their lives to not only guide the treks but also run the organization, so that all the proceeds go to support the school and an affiliated shelter for the kids.

Later I would go visit the school and the shelter and learn more about the program. For now, I wanted to experience one of the treks for myself.

I had chosen this one because of the stunning vistas it offered in all directions: to the south, it overlooked the lava-spewing Santiaguito Volcano, and to the north, sleepy Tacaná Volcano and the south of Mexico. On a clear day, you could see to the Pacific Coast. The rainy season had just begun, and the mornings recently had tended to be brilliant and sunny, with the rains arriving later in the afternoon, so I decided to take a chance.

That’s how I found myself clinging to the edge of the seat in a crammed chicken bus, bracing myself on the switchbacks to avoid being flung to the floor or into the lap of the young Guatemalan man next to me.

The foggy drizzle of the wee hours had given way to bright blue skies. By 10 a.m. we had breakfasted heartily in a restaurant along the way and endured two hour-long seat-gripping rides before the fuming bus screeched to a halt in a tiny pueblo in the middle of nowhere.

“Tajumulco!” shouted the driver, and the compacted mass of people somehow parted to let us pass. Our packs were quickly passed down to us from the roof, and we saddled up and setting forth.

It had been 15 years since I strapped on a pack and made my way up a mountainside into the backcountry, and my body had forgotten the excruciating pain-laced exhilaration that one earns at the top of a mountain. I had just passed my mid-century point a month earlier, and I was eager to prove my mettle. But I was teamed up with a group of 20-somethings from Israel, the Netherlands and South Korea; the only hiker approaching my age was the indefatigable Sara, a 39-year-old beach volleyball-playing dentist from England who had trekked extensively in the Andes and Central America. Regrettably, I had lost my workout routine on the road and was already feeling the burn, just a few minutes into the climb.

Had I made a mistake? My shoulders, then my legs protested mightily, and I struggled to catch my breath in the altitude.

“My legs are really feeling this!” One of the Israeli girls exclaimed next to me. Both Israeli girls were named Mor, the name of a common flower in the region. “It’s a very popular name in Israel,” one of the Mors explained to me. “That’s why we are two.”

I was heartened to know that I was not alone in my pain, and as we settled into a rhythm, it abated and I began to enjoy the view. A cottony mass of clouds settled into the blue valley on our right, right below a patchwork of verdant green fields rising up the hill. Above it all loomed the stony, foreboding peak of Tajumulco, our ultimate goal.

Dave, our laconic guide from Wales, took up the lead, flanked by Sara and Suki, an amiable young photographer from Seoul, and Guy, the third Israeli. Yvonne and Martin, the blue-eyed Hollanders, followed up with Dara, the guide who was designated as the “floater.” I accepted with due humility my place in the rear with the Mors and Alexa, the guide at the rear. I consoled myself with the conviction that my place in the line was due to my lack of conditioning, not my age – and time bore me out, thankfully, as the young Mors straggled behind.

I looked up and saw a line of trekkers working their way up against the rich black of the volcanic soil, a Maya woman in colorful traditional dress striding past with ease, an enormous bundle on her head and another on her back. Corn milpas and potato fields dotted the landscape, along with the occasional cow.

Soon we took a left off the road and began picking our way through the mossy green landscape, laced with a network of pitch-black trails. Some gentle footpaths had evolved into deep ravines, making the patchwork a treacherous obstacle course. We were spreading out, with one of the Mors lagging far behind, and the other Mor and I puzzling our way through this maze alone. My shoulders ached from the exertion and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it, but I pressed on.

Finally we reached the others, sprawled happily across a flower-strewn pasture, and rejoiced at the chance to unburden ourselves. Suki and I tested our macro lenses on the strange pointy red-and-yellow flowers bursting from the grass. We gorged ourselves on trail mix and headed on.

Soon, however, I regretted the trail mix, as the altitude began to affect my stomach. Now my attention shifted from my aching muscles to my inner body, which began protesting in annoying ways, and I wondered again if I had made a mistake. Was I really up for this?

I looked up and caught my breath: the landscape spread out around us magnificently. Purple mountains silhouetted in the distance, valleys filled with dense clouds, smoky wisps of vapor wafting across the trail. We were literally walking among the clouds.

We made our way up into a rare alpine pine forest, where a man was gearing up to head down the hill, strapping the load of leña or firewood on his back and supporting it with a strap across his forehead in the way his Maya ancestors had done for centuries. Suddenly, with my back aching from all the weight, this strategy made a good deal of sense to me. I asked if I could take his photo, and he obliged and sent me on my way with a buen viaje.
We stopped for a repast of vegetarian gourmet, complements of the Quetzaltrekkers volunteers, and the wisps became an enveloping mist. Sara’s feet were covered in blisters, but her outlook hadn’t dimmed.

“It doesn’t hurt when I stop,” she said brightly.

Soon the booming we had heard in the distance became a steady drizzle, and we scrambled for our rain gear. Fortunately it soon subsided and we shouldered our packs and soldiered on.

I had left the Mors behind and was now trekking alone, moving along silently in the misty landscape, and suddenly I saw a familiar shape emerging from the fog: blue lupines, just like the ones I’d seen in the Rockies, but these loomed shoulder-high. They were everywhere, and little white alpine daisies and bright yellow flowers dotted the grass. The scarlet of what we’d call back home an Indian paintbrush splashed across my view.

Then I was amazed to see a bright red Lewis Carroll-style toadstool dotted in white, and I laughed at myself as I looked for a hookah-smoking caterpillar. Amanita muscaria, my old friend. I was transported to my first breathtaking trek in the Rockies, two decades ago. Had it really been so long? It felt like only yesterday – and, honestly, my bones were protesting no more today than they had back then.

My stomach, however, was another matter, and shortly I discovered I was not alone. Martijn was apparently suffering more than I was and looking rather peaked when I caught up him and a worried Yvonne resting on a fallen log, waiting for Dara to bring the first aid packet.

“I think it’s the altitude sickness – he’s really feeling awful,” reported Yvonne.

I rested with them a bit, then headed on up the next slope. I couldn’t think of climbing a whole mountain anymore, but I could go ten steps, then I’d take a break to catch my breath. Ten more steps, then a break.

This strategy took me to a sheer jumble of stones, where a nimble pair of youths from the nearby village scrambled past. I watched their ascent, trying to follow suit, grabbing handholds and footholds where they had. Now they sat on a ledge above me, quietly observing my struggle.

“Where are you headed?” I asked them, conversationally. “To the volcano.” “Oh – just going for a walk?” “No, collecting firewood.” “Oh, of course!” I said, laughing at myself. “You are much harder workers than we tourists… you must think we are all crazy.” They laughed. “Just a little,” said the boy.

Now I was at the sheer rock face they sat upon.

“Aquí?” I asked the boy, “Here?” pointing to a place where the path diverged. He nodded his assent. I studied the rocks, trying to figure out the best way to negotiate them without the weight of my pack pulling me backward down the slope. Seeing my dilemma, the boy stood. “I’m coming down to help you,” he said. Just then I figured it out, but my water bottle slipped out in the process and went rolling down the hill. He clambered down and quickly retrieved it, and handed it back to me at the top of the hill with a quiet smile.

Yvonne and Martjin caught up to me at some point, and we began to travel together. Yvonne stopped to wait as I lagged, dividing her words of encouragement between me and a pale Martjin.

I arrived at the campsite, a flat outcropping at the base of the final ascent, with a “totally knackered” Sara, just ahead of the rain. We had climbed 1,000 meters in a little over seven hours, and the next morning we would wake before dawn to climb 200 meters more to the peak. The radiant flow from the restless Santiaguito in the sunrise would be our reward.

Unable to move, we watched the Quetzaltrekkers, Suki and Guy set up camp. When the littlest Mor finally arrived, she confessed she was dreaming of curling up in her sleeping bag and never moving again.

“The truth is, I haven’t exercised more than three times in my life,” she admitted.

“What on Earth made you decide to climb the highest peak in Central America?” I wanted to know, fumbling for the zipper of my sleeping bag.

But she was already asleep.

Four a.m. came around far too early; Alexa was outside our tent. “It’s time,” she announced cheerily through the drizzle. We staggered to our feet in the blackness, donned shoes, gloves, down jackets and headlamps. Twenty yards down the trail, I realized I’d left my camera behind, and got lost going back for it. Dara came back to retrieve me.

It took an hour and a half of steady clambering, punctuated by a couple of ridges, then a slope of soft grey ash emerging in the foggy dawn. Guy took my water bottle to free my hands, and I was grateful.

My head was pounding, and my legs and stomach were screaming. I called on every spirit I had ever known, and some that I didn’t – my pioneer great-grandmother, my tough-as-nails grandfather, the ancestors of these lands. I drew strength from the crystalline drops of rain that studded the tips of the grasses, reflecting my headlamp in shattered bits of light, and I drew it from the deepest part of me.

We emerged at the top to find ourselves enveloped in mist. No dramatic sunrise; no lava. For a moment the mists parted to give us a glimpse of the neighboring volcano, Tacaná, and the rim of the crater – and a tinge of pink in the direction of the sun – then they closed.

We celebrated our arrival with the best cheer possible, took our photos and headed back. Somehow, I still felt elated. I had just climbed the highest peak in Central America. I wouldn’t have traded this experience for anyone’s.

“It’s ok,” said Guy as we made our way down through the lupines, the pines and the brightening mist. “We didn’t do it for the view. We did it for the mountain.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

We still had nearly three hours to go before we reached Bancos, but meanwhile, a group of comuneros from Buenos Aires awaited a ride in the back of his pickup truck. Chávez jumped out from behind the wheel he’d manned since 10 p.m. the night before, greeting a shivering cluster of men with good cheer and a round of hearty handshakes. A breakfast invitation followed, and Nora, Cristian and Yaser, three other AJAGI members, joined us as we were led through what looked like a refugee camp. Nora and Cristian had passed the night in the back of the truck; Yaser was less fortunate, having passed the stormy night in Buenos Aires.

A bitter windstorm had ripped through the village, stripping the tin roofs from many of the mud-brick homes in the middle of the night as the residents slept. The unrelenting rains and near-freezing temperatures compounded the misery as residents tried to piece their lives back together.

Nonetheless, a visit from Carlos Chávez and the folks from AJAGI was more than reason enough for a gathering. One family with a sheltered outdoor kitchen still in good working order invited us to huddle together underneath as the rains began again, and steaming freshly ground tortillas came off the grill one by one to envelop home-grown scrambled eggs and savory pork-seasoned beans and potatoes. Family members clustered around to beam at us and urge us to eat more as we wolfed down what was likely their sole daily portion. But to decline would have been an insult, so we obliged.

The strange winds, the unseasonable rains, and the unthinkable snowstorm of two weeks prior were recurring themes in our visit. The summer rains didn’t come in time to water the harvest, and much of the corn crop dried on the stalk. Of what survived, much succumbed to fungus when the rains arrived late. And then, month upon month of winter rains – and now the tornado-like windstorm that has just descended upon them, the likes of which they’ve never seen.

Climate change is not a theory for the Wixaritari, the tribal people named Huichol by the Spaniards for easier pronunciation. They are convinced that they are living it every day, and they are seeing it in shorter growing seasons and strange weather patterns. They don’t know the reasons, but it worries them.

There’s no time to dwell on it, however. There’s firewood to be gathered, roofs to fix, children to feed – and, for some, a regional assembly to attend down in the valley in Bancos.

Attorney Santos De La Cruz Carillo, technical advisors Yaser Ventura and Cristian Chávez, and community members Don Jesús and Prudencio, left to right - and still enough room for me.

Spirits were high as we clambered into the back of Chávez’ well-worn and mud-caked Toyota pickup truck. Bancos is in a sheltered valley, and considerably warmer than Buenos Aires, up in the mountaintops some 7,000 feet above sea level. Also, most of these families originally lived in Bancos. The residents of Buenos Aires are modern-day pioneers engaged in the act of resettling and at the same time reforesting the land ravaged by timber poachers from the neighboring mestizo communities.

The resettlement is all a part of a larger strategy, devised by Huichol community leaders hand-in-hand with Carlos and the rest of the AJAGI team, which has provided legal and technical assistance for nearly two decades, helping the community reclaim 55,000 hectares of land that had been annexed away from their territory and encroached upon over the years. An estimated 140,000 acres are at stake, including a 10,720-acre swath separating Bancos from its core community of San Andres Cohamiata in the neighboring state of Jalisco. In a groundbreaking decision in 1998, the International Labor Organization ruled that the Huichol people had a right to the land based on ancestral ownership, even though they don’t hold legal titles – a ruling the Mexican government has thus far failed to acknowledge. Repeated pronouncements from the international agency received no response until last year, when the Mexican government finally ruled in Bancos’ favor – but with a catch. It failed to recognize the ancestral rights outlined in a key document called Convention 169, and so the case remains in litigation.

“The case of Bancos at one point was once described by the current director of the United Nations Forum on Indigenous Peoples as probably the most important case in the world” with respect to indigenous land rights, said Chávez. “If the case is resolved in the community’s favor, it will be of benefit to all indigenous people in the world.”

But this is only one of many strategies, one layer of the many layers of stories to be told about the Wixaritari people. I was fortunate to hear many of them in the past week, and I will be sharing them as time permits. Meanwhile, here are some images from the enormously resilient little community of Bancos.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Carlos with his collection of miniature bicycles and a photo of his father, an avid bicyclist.

This intrepid group of biking photographers is dedicated to promoting biking in a variety of ways. Besides their weekly outings, which traverse a variety of rural terrains around Guadalajara and further afield, they’ve organized get-out-the-vote campaigns, children’s outings, first aid workshops, bicycle repair workshops, and a fundraiser for Haiti – all aboard the seat of a bicycle.

(Haiti Benefit Ride – Photos by Carlos Ibarra)

Founded by Carlos and other local photographers about two years ago, the group has grown to include non-photographers, as well, and works to initiate beginners into the biker’s life.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re a beginner, or a child, or even if you’ve never been on a bicycle,” Ibarra said. “The idea is to get out there and start pedaling, and we want to help with that. We’ve even had some riders who want to go faster, and they’ve gone on to form their own groups because we’re too slow – that’s ok. There’s room for everybody.”

That said, the group does some pretty heavy trekking, by a beginner’s standards. A recent fundraising ride for Haiti went 100 kilometers. And the off-trail mountain biking in Jalisco’s rugged countryside can be a challenge, especially when a storm comes up – as it did on a recent campout in Juan Rulfo country, from San Gabriel to Tapalpa.

“It was cool,” Ibarra enthused, showing photographs of dripping, smiling bikers. “It was an adventure.”

And indeed, this must be the most documented biking group of all time, with as many photographers as there are among its ranks. Here’s a slide show of the highlights from the group’s last two years.

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

The group provides plenty of fun for the younger set, as well. A recent bicycle fiesta for the children, neices, nephews and young friends of Camara Rodante featured piñatas in the shape of cars.

“We were playing a little with the idea: Get rid of the cars!” said Ibarra, chuckling. “que no son muchos. It was something symbolic, and the kids loved it. Others didn’t want to because they liked the little car. But we were reinforcing the idea of using the bike – that it’s good for your health, that it doesn’t pollute, that you can move yourself quickly and easily.”

I’ve made my list and checked it a million times; selected and reselected my gear; said my goodbyes and received good wishes and safe travel blessings from near and far. I’ve left my car keys, my smart phone and my GPS behind. I’ll be making my way by foot now and by mass transit; everything I’ll need is either in my pack or shoulder bag, or it’s something I’ll have to find along the way, or live without.

I’ve been on multiple deadlines for weeks, with barely a moment to linger over a cup of tea with a loved one. Now the last loved one has pulled away from the curb, I’ve checked my backpack and I’ve made my way through security with an hour to spare, and there’ll be lingering aplenty.

Today, the only thing on my list is Mexico City.

There in the Mexican megalopolis, people are still rushing to make appointments – and I will too, tomorrow. But this afternoon I’ll greet a climate 40 degrees warmer and a mindset to match. I’ll slow down and take time to think; to read a book; to chat with the people I meet along the way. I’ll take time to breathe and look around.

“Are you excited?” my daughter texted me last night as I checked my list for the millionth time.

“Not yet,” I responded. “Just a little panicky: Have I forgotten something? Will I miss my flight? Do I have everything I need?”

Now, however, as the coffee does its work and boarding time approaches, I have a moment to reflect on the year ahead. Yes, I’m excited. Also apprehensive – and curious – and a little bit sleepy. But mostly I’m grateful.

In the year ahead, my plan is to travel the length of Latin America, from Mexico to Patagonia, documenting the Latin American environmental movement all along the way for The Esperanza Project and other publications. I hope you will follow my journey on both sites. The Esperanza Project will be focused on telling the stories of protagonists in the sustainability movement in the Americas; Roads Less Traveled will be about my personal experience, part travel narrative, part advice for a new generation of digital nomads. At the end, I’ll have a book to write and perhaps a documentary to put together, as I will be shooting video as well.

Not many people have the opportunity to take a year to follow their dream. I am hoping that I can do something bigger with this trip – to do what all dreamers hope to do, to make a difference, for myself, for others and for the planet. But even if I don’t, it’s the adventure of a lifetime, and with that, I’m satisfied.

For those of you who have offered your support, your prayers and your ideas and suggestions, I thank you. Thanks most of all for reading, and check this spot soon, and also The Esperanza Project. You can subscribe by e-mail or RSS feed from both of the sites, and/or you can follow me on Facebook (both as a fan of The Esperanza Project and as a friend of ME – And also on Twitter, @esperanzaprojec and @thirstyboots07.

I don’t know how this story will end any more than you do. But won’t it be fun to find out?

Location Independent
Digital nomads redefine the office

by Tracy L. Barnett, contributing writer

Last spring, I was handed an amazing opportunity. But at first it seemed like a disaster.
Like millions of others in this recession, I lost my job. It was especially unsettling, as I had moved to Houston not so long ago to take that job.

Nonetheless, I took stock of my situation and realized it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. My daughter was grown and nearing completion of her education; I had no mortgage, no debt, no health problems and a little bit of savings. I had a marketable skill set, and no urgent need to make a lot of money.

This might just be the moment to follow my dreams, I said to myself.

Most of my life I’d worked for someone else: Newspaper corporations, nonprofit organizations, a university. I had always wanted to see what I could do working for myself. And I’d always wanted to take a year for travel.
I spent hours surfing the web, seeking a way to make it happen, and I found that I was far from alone. In fact, an international community has emerged to share ideas and support each other in what is being called the location-independent lifestyle.

Some of these folks are digital nomads, whose virtual office spans the globe. Some are just as happy to work from their bedroom or the neighborhood coffeehouse. Some want to spend time with their family; others want to leave the rat race and strike out on their own.

All are engaging in a fundamental reassessment of work and its role in their lives, a concept called lifestyle design – the notion that you can design your life to live according to your priorities.

As I write, I am preparing for a yearlong journey through Latin America. I’m creating a new media web initiative, a book and a documentary, and while I hope to land a nice grant proposal to support myself, I’m not counting on it. I’m counting on making money through location-independent jobs.

As a travel writer, this may be easier for me than for, say, an insurance salesman or a school counselor. There are certain professions that lend themselves to portability, and most of them involve the internet. Nowadays you can get a signal almost anywhere, as cybercafés and hotspots have popped up all over the world.

Location-independent professionals – or as they call themselves, LIPs – can be Web designers, marketing consultants, editors, content providers, virtual assistants, e-bay sellers, bloggers, lifestyle coaches or something entirely new that hasn’t yet been invented.

I think of my former colleagues, battling traffic as they head to the newsroom each day, as I consider my to-do list: Rent storage locker; line up mover; make arrangements for my mail (my most trusted friend), my cat (my sister), my car (my dad). Research so many things. Which camera? Which backpack? Should I buy a Kindle for all my guidebooks and background reading? (Actually, it turns out I can download a reader for my ipod for free.)

The countdown has begun, and these days as I see my cat curled up in a ball, I take a few seconds to bend down and kiss her furry head. I spend a little more time with leisurely phone conversations with family and friends – I’m asking them to install Skype on their computers so we can talk, but still, a year is a long time to see your daughter’s face only in photographs and webcam.

She knows it’s my lifelong dream to hit the road, head south and keep on going, and now, as a grown woman with her own family and her own acupuncture practice, she supports me fully. But the gravity of the situation hit us both recently when I handed her the folder with my life insurance policy, my living will and my retirement accounts.

She fixed those beautiful brown eyes on me steadily. “I know you have to do this, Mom,” she said. “But please, don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

“I won’t,” I promise, and the moment passes.

Now I am making appointments in Mexico City and Guadalajara and the Yucatan; seek corporate sponsors and affiliate advertisers for my website. Oh, and keep on reporting and turning in freelance assignments all the while.

I think of the words of another friend who was laid off at around the same time and is also going it alone: “I’m twice as happy on half the money.

Now I think I can live with that.

For more information, see www.locationindependent.com and, for job listings, www.freelanceswitch.com.

Here it is:

First-time climber conquers fears at Enchanted Rock