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.

VALLE DE CAUCA, Colombia – When Alicia Calle, an environmental scientist with Yale’s Environmental Leadership and Training Initiative, first told me of El Hatico Nature Reserve, her face lit up for the first time since I’d met her an hour ago. We’d been talking about the state of the environment in Colombia, a subject with much to lament, given the spread of mining operations, cattle ranching, vast monocultures of sugarcane and African palm and coca, deforestation, water contamination, the same story throughout the Americas.

What is it that gives you hope, I asked her, as I do in every interview. It was then that she pulled out a booklet and started showing me photos of El Hatico.

“Let me be clear: I don’t like cattle farming; I think it’s created terrible environmental problems and social inequalities throughout its development in Latin America. But this is a place I’d really like you to see, a place that’s turned a major problem into a part of the solution.”

I looked at the photograph and thought I was seeing my grandfather’s farm in the Missouri Ozarks: clusters of russet-colored cattle peacefully grazing among shady forests of mature trees. Nothing like the razed expanses that stretched to the horizons, cattle farms I’d seen throughout the Guatemalan Peten, the Argentine Chaco, in rural Mexico and Paraguay.

Cattle farmers have cleared millions of acres of rainforest and tropical dry forest to create fields for cattle, releasing untold tons of carbon into a steadily heating atmosphere, causing a wave of droughts and erosion, eliminating wildlife habitat and degrading the rivers that flow through. An estimated 27 percent of Colombian land is now used for cattle production, and deforestation continues at the aggressive rate of 300,000 hectares a year, according to an article coauthored by Calle and others published this month in the prestigious professional journal Forest Ecology and Management.

El Hatico, a nine-generation family farm that has become an oasis of biodiversity among the sugarcane deserts of the Cauca Valley in Southwest Colombia, chose a different path, and finally, industry and government leaders are beginning to take notice. Now, according to Calle, the El Hatico model is being replicated around the country through a new government program, and other countries are watching to see the results.

That’s how I found myself riding shotgun with Alicia’s sister, Zoraida, making our way through miles of sugarcane fields as she told me a bit of El Hatico’s history.

“We’re at a very exciting moment in the development of this system,” Zoraida was telling me. As a specialist in ecological restoration with CIPAV (Center for the Investigation of Sustainable Agropecuarial Systems), she sees Hatico and its Intensive Silvopastoral Systems approach to cattle farming as a key component in the restoration of tropical forests. She has dedicated 19 years to this project, and has never seen the receptivity that has opened up in the past year.

“Every week we’re receiving visits from two or three Mexican producers; we’re seeing farmers from Nicaragua, Panama, Brazil, Cuba and Argentina. They want to see how it’s possible to do what they are doing.”

Conventional cattle farming requires the application of 80 to 100 kilograms of urea fertilizer per hectare per year, costly imported fossil fuel-based fertilizers that create runoff into regional streams, degrading water quality and suppressing the fish populations. The tropical forests that once stretched the length and breadth of the Cauca Valley were felled more than a century ago for lumber and many hectares were converted to cattle farms; since then, the more lucrative business of sugar has supplanted most of the cattle, with even greater environmental impacts because of widespread herbicide and pesticide use.

Finally we are leaving the monochromatic landscape of cane and entering a promenade of graceful saman trees. An enormous bird swoops across the road in front of us, as if to welcome us to its world – a garrapatero, or tick-eater, Zoraida tells me, English word here – “These birds are almost extinct in the Cauca Valley – but here they have a home.”

A flock of black ibises with their curving red beaks flutters by and lands on the lush grass in the forest at our left. A cluster of white cattle egrets alights amid the roan-colored cattle to our right.

“Oh, look, it’s a cocli,” exclaims Zoraida as a huge and magnificent pair of birds lands in a field along the way. These birds are also nearly extinct in the region.

We have arrived in El Hatico.

We pull up to an elegant iron gate and Carlos Molina is there to greet us, the eldest of eight brothers who tend the heritage of their grandfathers and serve as agroforestry educators, agronomists and entrepreneurs. A tall, handsome man with an easy smile under his broad-brimmed straw hat, he’s delighted to learn of my grandfather, the agroforestry pioneer, and my mother, the organic farmer, and we connect immediately.
My grandfather passed away in April, and since then I have felt his presence with me strongly – especially on this day, as I invited him along for the ride. I think he was pleased with what he saw.

Carlos showed us around the house first, a graceful relic from the late 1700s whose terra cotta tile roof had survived its 230 years with little damage, but some of the beams were beginning to bow, and workmen were carefully disassembling it, replacing the bowed segments and marveling at the integrity of the original structure.
“Look at this piece of palm,” Carlos said, shaking his head in wonder. “Just as strong as it was 200 years ago.”
The same could be said for this family and its farm, which has held together through two centuries of revolution and armed conflict, drug wars and economic crises and climate crises, an oasis amid the storms.

Soon we were joined by another of the Molina brothers, the equally charismatic Enrique, along with an agronomist and an environmental educator from Costa Rica who had come to tour the farm as well.
“The problem of the defense of the forests is of anguishing seriousness and the most terrible threat to the future of the region,” wrote Enrique and Carlos’ grandfather, Ciro Molina Garcés, in 1937.

By 1942, vast expanses throughout the region had been cleared by logging and cattle operations, as we see in the aerial photos that begin our presentation. By 1986, the landscape had been converted to a patchwork cane farms. Only the dark patch of Hatico remained as forest.

Today El Hatico is a mixed-use farming operation; 32 percent is organic sugar cane; only 5.5 percent is pure hardwood forest, but another nearly 9 percent is native bamboo forest, while 12.7 percent is under what is called SSPI, Intensive Silvopastoral System by its Spanish acronym, and this is the part that is being closely watched by industry leaders.

“When we talk to agricultural producers, they look around and say, oh, this isn’t good. Our fathers and grandfathers taught us you have to cut the trees down,” Carlos said. “But I tell them, look around; see for yourselves. We have 80 percent canopy cover here, and look at the quality and quantity of this grass. And this is with zero chemical inputs. Conservation and production do not compete; they work together.”

In terms of cost, the El Hatico balance sheet comes out shining. Due in part to improved production and in part to a greatly decreased cost in inputs – zero agrochemicals, zero soy supplements for the animals because of the higher nutritional value of their grazing plants, and greatly reduced irrigation costs and the associated electricity bill – El Hatico shows that conservation is good business.

In addition, the Molinas are positioning themselves to receive payments for the environmental goods and services they are providing, should such payments ever become available: carbon fixation, oxygen production, hydrogen cycle regulation, productive capacity of the soil and conservation of biodiversity.

But what really captured the attention of industry leaders was the production at El Hatico during the drought of 2009-2010, brought on by El Niño, which devastated producers throughout Latin America. In 2009, El Hatico actually had higher production than the year before – a result that was virtually unheard of throughout the industry. “And this was without irrigation,” emphasized Carlos.

Now it was time for the tour. Carlos and Enrique led us out the cast-iron gate and down the shady lane, where a pair of magnificent coclis were grazing in the tall grasses nearby. Enrique spoke of the challenge of transferring the family’s values to each new generation in an era when most young people leave the farm for other opportunities in the cities.

Here at El Hatico, each child on his or her third birthday is placed on a horse for their first horseback ride. The horse continues to be a tool to connect the children with the farm, and on their first communion they are presented with a small mare.

“It creates a sort of an addiction,” Enrique explained, “but a healthy addiction – it sensitizes them to the family heritage. These three elements – equine, human and natural environment – are a supremely beautiful way to provide environmental education for the children.”

Indeed, the tour of the entire farm is a supremely beautiful educational approach for all of us. The next stop is the under the enormous spreading branches of the grandfather saman tree that Carlos and Enrique’s father planted 70 years ago and has become a symbol of the farm.

Much of the resistance to agroforestry for grazing comes from the idea that broadleaf plants are a weed and must be eliminated, Carlos explains. In fact, shade eliminates the most problematic broadleaf plants, and the native plants provide good, high-protein forage – “so the ‘maleza’ becomes a ‘bueneza,’” he jokes, using a play on the Spanish word for weed (maleza = weed, mal = bad, Buen = good).

Back on the lane to the highway, a flock of fulvous whistling ducks takes flight and the visitors grab for their cameras. I realize I’ve seen more birds here at El Hatico than I’ve seen on several birdwatching expeditions during my journey.

I learn many things on this tour; one is that mesquite is actually excellent cattle forage, especially as it’s drought-resistant – a fact that could prove quite useful in Texas.

Another is that organic sugarcane can be just as profitable as its chemical-assisted counterparts, and can be companion-planted with other crops. Part of the Molinas’ sugarcane work crew was hard at work when we arrived: a flock of sheep, grazing on the weeds that grow up between the rows, eliminating the need for herbicides. When they first began experimenting with the sheep as a means to control weeds, they were very careful to use moveable fences to protect the fledgling cane plants from the animals. One day, however, the fence got knocked down, and the pastor observed, to his surprise, that the sheep didn’t touch the cane – only the broadleaf plants around and between the rows.

In the beginning, the neighbors worried that the sheep would escape and create havoc in their fields. Now, Enrique says, they’re getting a different type of phone call from the neighbors, who want to borrow the sheep for weed removal in their own parcels: “’Send in the contractors!’ they say.”

Perhaps more importantly is the Molina’s alternative to the slash-and-burn approach to waste management that predominates throughout the industry. At the end of each growing season, most cane producers burn their fields, leading to air pollution, vast amounts of carbon pouring into the atmosphere, and destruction of healthy soil ecology, requiring more chemical inputs for the next crop.

Instead of burning, the Molinas use their cane waste to produce a ground-protecting mulch that is returned to the soil with each new season. This biomass is laid between rows and protects the soil moisture, drastically cutting down on the need for irrigation, Carlos explains. He picks up a handful of the brown grassy mass in the irrigation ditch and wrings a stream of water from it to demonstrate its capacity to hold water.

“This was the system we used until the 1960s, when they started burning – because that’s what they used in California and Hawaii,” he explained.

Under normal conditions, it costs a cane grower $300,000 per hectare per year to irrigate, Carlos said. The Molinas were able to irrigate their fields for much less.

Nowadays, Carlos says, visitors to the farm leave enthusiastic about making a transition on their own farms. “People no longer see us as romantics,” he says. “They see us as pragmatics.”

The sun sets quickly here in the tropics, and the insects and treefrogs sing a farewell chorus as we reached the old homestead. Carlos and Enrique shared a farewell song with us as well, one that was written for El Hatico by a friend who is a songwriter.

The Molinas shared with us a sumptuous buffet of typical Colombian cuisine, including fresh orange juice and crispy fried plantains from their own farm, and saw us off with hugs and an invitation to come back soon. As we walked to our car, I looked up and saw a cloud passing the moon. Somewhere out there, I thought, Grandpa was smiling.

El Hatico is open for agroecology tours. It’s less than an hour from Cali and is well worth the trip. Contact CIPAV at rnhatico@cipav.org.co for more information. Meanwhile, here’s the virtual tour.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

PARACAS, Peru – The pungent scent of the sea washes over the landscape like the rhythmic waves, and I contemplate the pleasure of lingering here in the peaceful beauty of the Paracas Hotel and enjoying a sumptuous breakfast buffet. But I’m scheduled for the first boat to the Ballestas Isles, and the penguins await.
I gather sweater and sunglasses and hat and head for the pier, where 22 people are buckling up with lifejackets and taking their seat aboard our skiff.

As if to see us off, a line of four Peruvian pelicans sails by just over the sparkling surface of the water in search of prey.

I sat next to Jose, one of the pilots from Tikariy Tours, and asked him what we were likely to see. We had been told from the start that, because it’s wintertime here in Peru, we won’t see the spectacle of the masses of breeding sea lions, as they’ve migrated for the season to an island that’s off-limits for conservation reasons. Our guide, Ana de la Cruz, is busy with a family in the back, so I ask Juan what we’re likely to see in the off season.

He pulls out a handy birding guide and begins to point out the highlights: the Inca tern, with its bright red feet and winsome white facial decorations; the endangered Humboldt penguin, at just over 2 feet tall when full-grown; three different types of cormorants and two types of oystercatchers; and the Peruvian booby, whose more famous blue-footed relative can be seen here in the summer months, but not today.

Our boat speeds past the silky golden dunes of Paracas National Reserve toward the islands, slamming periodically against the water in such a way I’m glad I held off on the buffet. Suddenly it slows down and as I look landward, I see an amazing sight: a 700-foot image resembling a candelabra etched into the side of the dune.

Ana tells us there are many theories as to the origins of this mysterious geoglyph, but nobody really knows. Some believe it to be the work of the Paracas people who originally inhabited this region and used it as a navigational device. Others think represents the sacred cactus of the Nazcas, whose mysterious Nazca Lines lie in a direct line south. Still others believe it’s the more recent creation of the José de San Martin expedition. San Martin is considered the liberator of Peru and passed by here the year before the war for independence from Spain. Proponents of this theory like to point to the triangular figure incorporated in the design and say it’s a Masonic symbol, since San Martin was a follower of the Freemasons.

Whatever its origins, the fact that the geoglyph has withstood the centuries is in itself a story worth telling. Its position on the side of the dune mostly protects it from the fierce winds, or paracas, that sweep this region. Even the occasional winds that reach it only reinforce the lines by blowing more sand up onto their calcified surface, Ana explains. Its resilience was dramatically illustrated a few years ago when a pair of young vandals decided to slide down the hills and left tracks in the ancient design. The wind eventually removed most traces of their tracks and restored the design.

Our boat once again heads southward and soon the ruggedly picturesque form of the first island emerges into view. The rocks have been worn away by centuries of the battering waves to create arches and bridges and fantastical shapes. Soon an amazing sight greets our eyes – those crags are alive with the squawking, restless forms of birds. We begin to make out their forms and Jose points them out to me – “look, a neotropical cormorant! Those over there are Inca terns – see the eye marking?”

Finally the boat pulled into a small cove and silenced the engine. Here, in a little recess of jagged stone, were the stars of the show, descending from their nests: a family of Humboldt penguins, waddling winsomely down the slope to find some dinner.

Something about a penguin truly warms the heart, and these were no exception. Their numbers have taken a steep decline in recent years, however, as have to a lesser degree the marine life in general in the region. Part of the problem has been overfishing and water contamination from nearby fishmeal factories, visitors and residents. Also, the area has been buffeted by El Niño, a series of climate phenomena that raised the water temperature to unprecedented highs and decimated the fish that the birds count on to survive.

Nonetheless, the vast numbers continue to impress; the islands are literally bristling with their birdy forms. Today we were able to observe the languid forms of the wrinkle-faced Sothern sea lions basking on the warm sunny rocks, but in the summer months from December through March, they provide a much more lively spectacle as they gather by the thousands on the beaches here and raise their young.

The two-hour tour was over before we knew it, and it was time for that hearty buffet. I also got an unexpected tour of Paracas Hotel’s extensive collection of antiquities from the Paracas and Nazca sites, including two thousand-year-old textiles, beautifully painted pottery and a horrifyingly distorted trophy head, the actual head of a defeated warrior with eyes removed and lips sealed with cactus needles in the traditional way.

These heads were carried about on a warrior’s belt, perhaps to convey the vanquished foe’s enemy to his victor, explained Raul Pino, a hotel staffer who, as son of historian and guide Raul Pino of Pino Tours, is a fount of fascinating information about the ancient cultures of Peru. He showed me examples of Paracas pottery that depicted a trophy head in the hand of a warrior, gripped by the hair. Indeed, one of the images of the mysterious Nazca Lines includes an image that appears elsewhere in the pottery: a whale with one fin or hand gripping what appears to be a trophy head.

My two-day stay at the sparkling new Paracas Hotel was all too short; I toured the beautiful grounds and watched the windsurfers from the seaside bar; spent not nearly enough time in the beautiful spa with its sauna, heated pool and Jacuzzi and fully equipped gym, not to mention a full menu of delicious massage treatments.

I did, however, partake of the gourmet cuisine prepared by two chefs, one specializing in traditional criollo or native Peruvian cuisine, the other taking those traditional ingredients and giving them an avant garde twist. Creations like the traditional classic causa rellena, rendered in miniature and topped with octopus, shrimp and clam; asparagus veloute with whipped cream and crispy quinoa; and desserts like the three stages of grape, an elaborate confection containing fresh sliced grapes, a scoop of wine sorbet and a pisco-encrusted biscotti will not soon be forgotten.

Best of all, I didn’t feel guilty – because the Paracas Hotel, as part of the Libertador hotel group and the Starwood Luxury Collection, has been constructed with an eye toward conservation, utilizing local materials and low-impact construction methods, energy- and water-saving technology and built according to LEED certification standards. The effort has paid off in a hotel that feels as good as it looks, on an ethical level as well as a purely luxurious physical level. The Paracas Hotel, for me, deserves every star in the ranking.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

COATEPEQUE LAKE, El Salvador – The palms are swaying restlessly in the electric darkness, waiting for the storm to arrive. Lightning flashes over Santa Ana Volcano on the far side of the lake; just a few minutes ago I was walking along the shore with Elmer, catching the last bits of sunset over the lake.

He sensed the storm coming before I did. “Ya viene el agua,” he said. Literally, “Now the water is coming.” The timing couldn’t have been more perfect; rainy season notwithstanding, El Salvador gifted me with a blue sky my first full day in the country, perfect for visiting the pyramids of Tazumal and Casa Blanca, then catching a bus to this sparkling expanse of blue amid the volcanoes.

Yesterday, my first afternoon, the shower passed quickly to a glorious sunset over the gothic cathedral in Santa Ana’s central plaza, and I enjoyed the national symphony in Santa Ana’s spectacular theater before a short walk back to my hotel, La Libertad.

I left Guatemala City around 10 a.m. yesterday and arrived in Santa Ana, El Salvador’s second city, at around 2. The terminal was in the southwest part of the city and as I tried to get my bearings, a genial Salvadoran Archie Bunker type approached. “Taxi?”

It was hot and my pack was heavy. “Sure,” I said.

“Just a minute,” he rushed off and shortly pulled up with a yellow car, meticulously hand-painted with the word “Taxi” in black and red. The inside was just as quirky, with every square inch of the dashboard decorated with something – a Tasmanian devil, a leopard-skin cloth and coins from around the world.

Ismael was his name, and he was friendly and engaging, but not cheap. Our roundabout search for a hotel set me back $15. Getting used to the dollar again wasn’t going to be easy, I realized.

Ismael offered to take me to Lake Coatepeque for $75 – which he insisted was the going rate. Later I checked with another driver and it seemed to be true. So I decided to stick with public transport, and for less than a dollar, the ruins of Chalchuapa and this spectacular crater lake were mine.

Granted, the accommodations weren’t the most luxe – the hikes to the bus stops and the waits with my 40-pound pack being the biggest deterrent – but they weren’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. The routes were long and winding, but there were no chickens this time, and the buses here were not as cram-packed with humanity as the ones in Guatemala had been. In fact, after the Guatemalan chicken buses, they were downright comfortable.
The food service was excellent, with locals coming aboard to vend everything from fresh fruit to “yuquitas” – corn-wrapped yucca balls. And the stern-looking young man driving the bus down into Coatepeque, the same one that had wired his bus for maximum sound and was blasting Central American rap music when I boarded, surprised me by switching to a gentler tune as we approached the lake and stopping the bus every time I stood to shoot a photo.

At first I thought it was just because of the tumulos, the monstrous tubes of concrete that are used as speed bumps here. But after the fourth or fifth time, I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw him looking at me. This serious young man was proud of his beautiful country, I realized, and he wanted me to capture it well.
The bus was full when I boarded, and most eyes were averted to avoid having to deal with me and my monster backpack. A young man with a friendly face smiled at me, and that was all I needed. “Here, let me help,” he said, and held my pack on his lap.

Manuel was his name, and he was 26. He was trying to figure out how to get back home to Honduras after being deported from Mexico. He’d been trying to make his way north, but his luck had been bad. He’d nearly drowned crossing the Rio Grande, and had been deported from Las Vegas and San Antonio. Now he had been deported to the border of El Salvador, penniless, a five-day walk from the Honduras border. His pantomime of the terrifying river crossing was comical, and he smiled through most of his story, as if he were talking about a movie with a happy ending.

Why didn’t he just stay home? I asked him.

“What will I do there? There are no jobs,” he said, and smiled his charming, little boy smile. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, I discovered, so I fished out my emergency stash of nuts from my backpack and handed them over. I paid his bus fare and found a $10 bill I could spare, and tucked it in his hand before he left.

The driver dropped me off right in front of Torre Molinos, the hotel I’d read about in the guidebook, and I was overjoyed at the prospect of a few hours of relaxation with a swimming pool and a lakeside view. The hotel has a decadent charm, and after a long run of backpacker-style hotels at $12 a night, I decided it was ok to splurge.

I ordered mojarra a la plancha, grilled tilapia, and was savoring the meal along with the sunset out on the balcony overlooking the lake, when Elmer, one of the employees, dropped by to make conversation.
America is the land of opportunity, he told me – that’s why an estimated 4 million Salvadorans live there, more than half the 7 million who live here. There’s just no opportunity here, he said.

“But you have a good job here at Torre Molina, no?” I asked, naively.

Elmer laughed and shook his head. “Six dollars a day,” he said. “For that I can rent a room. I can’t have a house. I can’t get married or have kids. Why would I want to bring children into the world when I can’t support them? Why would I want to marry a woman and make her miserable?”

“Oh, that’s so sad, Elmer,” I said.

“Oh, but it’s not so bad. Here at least I meet interesting people – and in the restaurant, they give me food,” he said.

“Oh! That’s good…. Like, mojarra?”

“No,” he smiled. “Never! Like, tortillas and beans.”

I looked down at my flaky white tilapia, my salad with slices of avocado and lime, my hand-made tortillas and fresh pineapple licuado. It had been a splurge at $12 – two days’ salary for Elmer.

“That’s why we keep coming to your country, no matter how many times you throw us out,” he was telling me, laughing. “I’m one of the lucky ones – at least I have a job. Those who work at the fincas have it much worse; they earn $50 every 15 days.”

The sunset was vanishing rapidly, as was my appetite. Fortunately, I had enjoyed most of my meal before Elmer arrived.

“Speaking of work, I have to do mine,” I said, changing the subject. “Where can I get the best photos of the sunset?”

So Elmer shifted into tour guide mode, showing me the path along the lake, the national flower – izote – and the presidential quinta. The shore of the lake was lighting up now that the sun was gone, and Elmer explained to me that most of the lights belonged to quintas, or private vacation homes of the wealthy. Lake Coatepeque, unlike Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, is mainly the preserve of the rich. Which, in this context, I am, despite my meager earnings as a freelance writer.

Elmer promised to wake at 5:30 to shoot the sunrise with me, and he says goodnight. Relieved, I order a coffee and a sorbet. Another $1.80. The coffee is Nescafe, but the sorbet is exquisite. The rain patters satisfyingly around me, an occasional bolt lighting up the volcano beyond this quinta’s arched window. I sigh.
It would all be so much more enjoyable, I think, if the world were just a bit more fair.

Photos from Santa Ana, El Salvador’s second-largest city and the capital of the department of Santa Ana:

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

From Tazumal, Casa Blanca and the town where they are found, Chalchuapa:

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

From the spectacular Lago Coatepeque and Parque Nacional Los Volcanes, including a climb of Cerro Verde and then Volcan Santa Ana, with views of Volcan Izalco:

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

We all know and understand that to reduce any environmental impact we might have when we travel we have to change the way we travel as whole. However, it’s a misconception that in order to partake of sustainable travel, one must make many a sacrifice.

Sustainable travel doesn’t have to mean abstain-able travel. You don’t have to forego things in their entirety; rather, you just have to give it careful consideration and maybe go about travel with a different mindset.

Perhaps the most important thing to remember when embarking on a venture (or adventure) would be to first of all remember to travel with an attitude that is geared towards sustainable travel. It’s all well and good if you start a journey with a mind to travel in a sustainable fashion, but it’s a person’s attitude and ethic that will carry them through and aid them in making the right decisions.

A good – and easy – way to do this is to just not do anything unnecessary. Avoid paper by booking your travel plans and subsequent tickets online; e-tickets are a great way forwards. Support not only the indigenous culture of your destination, but support efforts that promote sustainable tourism and stay in hotels or residential facilities that also promote a sustainable way of life.

As the sayings go, “it’s easy when you know how” and “practice makes perfect”, so with this in mind, you have to understand that it might not come naturally to you, but with practice and help you too can become a sustainable travel guru. The most damaging thing you can do is to just not care, so start caring today and if you already cared, then care more!

For more travel tips and vacation inspiration, check out the Tripbase
Travel Blog / Tripbase site.

About Tripbase:

Tripbase eliminates the time-consuming and frustrating online search
process by providing travelers with personalized travel
recommendations for their next trip.

Tripbase was named Top Travel Website for Destination Ideas by Travel
and Leisure magazine in November 2008.
www.tripbase.com

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.”

There are many calculators online that help you to figure out how much carbon you’ve generated and where you should donate it. Carbon Footprint is a nice flexible one that lets you calculate individual aspects of your life as opposed to doing a whole audit – both can be good, but since I’m on the road, my lifestyle doesn’t easily fit into many of these calculators. Since my main impact is travel, I figured my mileage and multiplied the air travel by 1.9 to account for the increased impact airplane emissions have (the amount used by Carbon Footprint). It then lets you select from a variety of worthy projects from Kenya to Central America.

Critics compare this system with the Catholic Church’s system of indulgences in Medieval times – a system that allowed people to “buy” forgiveness for their sins by making donations to the Church. They argue that there’s a wide variance among carbon offsetting groups, none of them are regulated and there’s no way to know for sure that the trees you’re paying to plant wouldn’t be planted anyway.

Now I’m not interested in buying forgiveness or polishing my image, and I don’t really care if the amount of carbon I’m generating is translated precisely into the right number of trees. I am, however, interested in minimizing my impact while promoting social change. So when I learned that The Farm in Tennessee had set up a system allowing donations to be used to plant trees at the Marda Permaculture Farm, I decided to go that route. I trust the judgment of the folks at The Farm, which has been a leader in promoting sustainable living around the globe for decades; and I also know quite a bit about the Marda project.

Although I don’t know them directly, I have a personal relationship the Marda Permaculture Farm because my sister Tami Brunk is a co-founder. She worked with founder Murad Alkufash to establish the organization, eventually traveling to Marda. She has shared with me much about the group’s work over the years, not just in terms of supplying much-needed food security but in building resilience and hope in the Palestinian territories, where those elusive qualities are so desperately needed.

So, having decided on where I wanted to put my money, I did my own calculations with the help of The Farm’s Trees for Airmiles page and
Geobyte’s City Distance Tool to calculate my mileage: Flying from St. Louis to Mexico City via Dallas racked up 1,481 miles; multiply that by 1.9 as Carbon Footprint suggests and you get 2,813 miles. Then I did a rough calculation of what I think the next two months will look like: Mexico City to Guadalajara to Nayarit to Guadalajara to Mexico City, then down to Cuernavaca, Guerrero, Oaxaca, Chiapas and Quintana Roo before heading over into Belize. All of that comes, very roughly, to about 2,793 miles.

Put it all together, and that comes to about 5,606 miles for the two months or so that I’ll need for Mexico. Using The Farm’s calculation of 1 tree per 5,000 for plane travel, and 1 tree per 1,100 miles for car travel (though I’ll mostly be traveling by bus, which should have a considerably lower impact), and I figured I’m more than covered at $10 a month, which will plant 30 trees this year.

I don’t know if it’s enough or too much. But at least I’m trying – and so are the folks in Marda. As I see it, that can only be a good thing.

What are your thoughts and experiences on the subject of carbon offsets? Please share in the comment section below.

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.