The last golden rays of 2011 slipped away gloriously yesterday, lingering across the chalky face of the Pinnacles, an ancient towering limestone formation in the north of Boone County, Missouri – one of the places on this planet I will always call home.

The unseasonable warmth had us removing layers as we scrambled up to catch a glimpse of the world from on high. Another climatic oddity in a year that was full of them. Change is in the air, for those with eyes to see: We are closing the book on a year that saw vast swaths of the American Southwest go up in smoke, millions of dollars of hurricane damage in Vermont, a monster tornado that erased big chunks of Joplin, massive flooding in Australia, the Phillippines and Southeast Asia and record-breaking heat waves in Europe and much of the United States.

My mother’s garden in the Missouri countryside was cooked before it could be harvested. Where I live, in Mexico, widespread crop failure due to extended drought pushed more subsistence farmers to leave the land for the traffic-choked cities or for a desperate, life-threatening dash for El Norte, the forbidden promise of employment across the northern border. But today, on this balmy December day, global warming seems a welcome respite from the bone-chilling cold that usually accompanies us at this time of year. So I won’t complain.

Much has been written about this turning of the ages; no place on Earth is more excited about the Mayan prophecies than Mexico, birthplace of the Mayan calendar that ends this year. To me, it’s impossible not to link this prophecy with the profound changes we are facing. I’m not speaking of Armageddon – rather, a time of reckoning as we end a cycle of industrial excess. The Mayan people I have spoken with are laughing at the notion that the end of the calendar means the end of the world. It’s simply the end of a cycle, and the beginning of a new one, they reassure anyone who asks. But in more serious conversations, they shared with me their hope, as fervent as my own, that a long-awaited shift is pending, and in fact has already begun.

“After five centuries of oppression, we’re ready for a change,” Rony, a Mayan friend from Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, told me. “It’s the only hope we have.”

We in the global North have a much different perspective than a poor Guatemalan. But like Rony, I stand convinced that a shift in our paradigm – our way of structuring the world, and indeed, our way of thinking – is long overdue. It could well be that 2012 will be just another blip in the ongoing march of human events: Like the much-ballyhooed Y2K, which many feared would leave the world in the dark, we might wake up the morning after and laugh.

But an irrevocable shift has already begun, and the Earth is rumbling beneath our feet. Our climate is changing around us, and the petroleum and other carbon-based fuels we’ve based our civilization upon is rapidly disappearing. Those twin crises are feeding a third, more visible one: the financial crisis that has the global economy hanging by a thread.

What better moment to reflect on the possibilities that the transition ahead might offer us. Rather than wait until crisis is staring us in the face, let’s confront it together and plan a gradual reduction in our dependence on oil. Transition Town movements and other grassroots groups around the world are not waiting for their governments to do it; they are already immersed in the work of creating and implementing energy descent plans, reconstructing webs of relationships in their communities, strengthening local economies and building resilience into their local communities. They are envisioning a future less dependent on consumerism and more dependent on each other.

Like Rony, I don’t claim to know what the end of the Mayan calendar really means. But like him, I stand in the fervent hope that the noblest instincts of the human spirit will prevail in the transition that faces us this year and in the years to come.

I close with words of wisdom from my friend Holger Hieronimi, a Mexican-German permaculture teacher and designer:

“The change is happening today, here and now. It’s like the transformation of a voracious and predatory caterpillar, into a butterfly of many colors. It’s happening on every level, throughout the entire system, within us, and beyond us as well. It means the redesign of landscapes internal and external. It means leaving the comfortable place of security, and preparing oneself for times of insecurity, uncertainty, even convulsions, and a total reorganization of the system.

It is a change of a society of industrial growth toward a new culture that sustains life.

Instead of resisting the change, we can be creative participants and protagonists in this process, supporting our families and communities in this difficult process of transformation.”

(Read the entire essay in Spanish on his website, here.)

Happy 2012. Let’s embrace the new and let go of the old with love, hope and light. Bring on the butterflies.

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.”

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The sound of running spring water and the night noises of the jungle surround me, the toil and trouble of the city far behind.

This long-anticipated journey with my parents – their first to Mexico, and the first stamp on their brand-new passports – had gotten off to an admittedly bumpy start, what with a raucus all-night party in our hotel on the first night, getting lost in the chaos of the city’s Centro Historico, a virulent case of bronchitis for their driver and guide – yours truly – and too many other complications to mention. Had I made a mistake? My ailing father was exhausted – and this trip had been planned as a healing retreat for him.

But as we passed through the colorful towns on the outskirts of Merida and entered the ornate iron gate into the shady front courtyard of Hacienda Petac, I felt the tension dissolve. Marlene, one of more than a dozen Mayan women who attended to our every need during our stay, materialized from one of the three graceful arches of the hacienda with a traditionally embroidered dress, a beautiful smile and a tray of tempting red drinks.

My heart sank – I was sure they coudn’t be on my father’s diet. They almost certainly had sugar in them, and would be another disappointment. But there was Colleen, greeting us with a hug and a rundown of the ingredients: hibiscus tea and orange juice. Pure, simple and delicious. Dad reached for it and downed it, delighted.

It was the first surprise of many that were to unfold in the three days ahead. The two of them shook their heads in amazement as Colleen, the hacienda’s manager, led them on a brief tour of the property and to their choice of rooms, each of them ample and beautiful spaces, filled with atmosphere and lovingly decorated with exquisite fresh flower arrangements everywhere – from the beds to the sinks to the floors to the tiny pockets at front of the bathrobes.

The hacienda itself was a page out of the past, with its graceful arches, leather-backed chairs, lush gardens, antique brick oven and vintage tile floors. The sound of running water that served as a calming backdrop came from a fountain made of a giant chimney. Colleen explained a bit of the history here as my parents admired the crystal spring water falling into the pool below the chimney; this had been a hennequin plantation, and this oven had been used to fuel the fires that processed the hennequin, or sisal, for rope that made so many fortunes in this corner of the world until the rise of the plastics industry rendered it obsolete.

The hacienda had operated at reduced capacity until the ’70s, and lay in ruins for several decades until Houstonians Dev and Chuck Stern discovered its fallen walls and decade columns and envisioned what it could be. Together, and with the help of a Mexican architect and construction crew, they brought it back to glorious life.

“Just amazing,” said Dad.

“It’s just too beautiful to believe,” said Mom.

The death sentence handed down by my fathers’ doctors months ago at the cancer center far behind, they leaned back, looked into each others’ eyes and smiled. It seemed that anything was possible.

A cacaphony of bird calls surrounded us as the sun began to descend, and my parents got settled in their picture-perfect suite as the Mayan ladies prepared a delicious vegan guacamole to enjoy on the terrace until dinner. My parents sampled it and relaxed as the sun went down, rejoicing in their good fortune.

“Is everything ok?” Colleen dropped by to find out.

“More than ok,” said Dad. “I think you’ve got yourself a little piece of Eden here on Earth.”

***

Back in the classic talavera-tiled Mexican kitchen, a crew of Mayan women, immaculate in their white embroidered huipiles, bustled about preparing dinner. Here again, the staff did not disappoint: a vegan version of tortilla soup, followed by a Yucatecan favorite, pok chuk. Usually made with pork, Colleen had come up with an ingenious substitute – roasted shitake mushrooms, swathed in a savory chiltomate sauce, sprinkled with roasted red onions and wrapped in warm, fresh corn tortillas straight from the comal.

My father kept shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

That night, the Mayan ladies led them through the gardens down a candle-lined walkway to the spa to soak in the jacuzzi, two childhood sweethearts who had never tired of each other.

The next day was one surprise after another, beginning with breakfast by the pool, vegan huevos rancheros on a flower-bedecked table.

My father had the first pedicure of his life, and was a bit taken aback by it all but delighted to find out how good it felt.

That was followed by a sumptuous vegetable soup and a dreamy massage under the magical hands of Mayan masseuse Maryeli. Then the evening commenced with a command performance by Los Tres Yucatecos, one of the most beloved trova trios on the Yucatan Peninsula all for the three of us.

Melodies and harmonies of regional and national favorites echoed from the ancient stones and classic arches as I quietly translated bits and pieces of romantic ballads for my parents.

Dinner was a spread fit for a king: a flaky, moist filleted sea bass served with roast vegetables and a dessert of baked apples stuffed with maple-drizzled apple, spice and nut filling. For my father, denied a season of desserts, it was heaven. His diet forbade sugar but allowed an occasional low-fructose natural sweetener, like maple, and Colleen had taken it and run with it.

The next day, sadly, was our last. Not to let a moment escape, Colleen learned that my mother is an avid birder and lined us up with an excellent bilingual birding guide, Miguel Mendez, who brought the jungle to life for us. His uncanny birdcalls brought the avian life to us and his sharp eye helped us distinguish them from the branches and leaves.

After another generous breakfast, it was finally time to head off to Chichen Itza and the Caribbean coast – Cancun and the Riviera Maya beckoned. But it was with reluctance that we bade our farewells to each of the lovely faces that had become so familiar. Hacienda Petac had made its mark on us all – and one that we would never forget.

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By Tracy L. Barnett
Magis Magazine
October 2011

“Fierce winds ripped huge branches off the thousand-year-old redwood, sending them crashing to the ground two hundred feet below. The upper platform, where I lived, rested in branches about 180 feet in the air … As the tree branches whipped around, they shredded the tarp that served as my shelter. Sleet and hail sliced through the tattered pieces of what used to be my roof and walls. Every new gust flipped the platform up into the air, threatening to hurl me over the edge.”
— Julia “Butterfly” Hill, The Legacy of Luna

It’s hard to say what was the most dramatic moment in that 738 days that Julia “Butterfly” Hill spent atop that platform in a redwood tree named Luna. Perhaps it was the day of that bitter storm and many others that ensued. Perhaps it was the day that a massive helicopter buzzed her tree and nearly blew her to her death with the 300 mph winds created by its updrafts. Perhaps it was the day that a fellow tree sitter had the rope he was standing on cut out from under him by “Climber Dan,” a logger hired by the timber companies to antagonize and remove intransigent activists from the trees they were trying to save from the loggers’ blades.

The full text of this article is currently only available in Spanish. I am currently seeking a publisher for the English version; please contact me at tracy@tracybarnettonline.com if you are interested.

To read the rest of the article click here:

JuliaButterflyHill-in-Magis(oct-nov2011

On Day Two of our Panama adventure, we climbed 1,800 feet to the Valle de Anton to see the world’s second-largest volcanic crater – second only to the Ngorogoro in Tanzania. We were met by Ivan Hoyos of Ancon Expeditions, Panama’s only Virtuoso tour provider and a conservation-oriented company linked with one of Panama’s oldest conservation groups. Ivan, who is cited in Lonely Planet, is a lively interpreter of the country’s history, culture, ecology, and almost anything that might interest a traveler.

Panama, Ivan was quick to tell us, is an ecotourism rival to Costa Rica that in many ways exceeds the superlatives of its northern neighbor. “Panama actually has more bird species than Costa Rica, and it also has more protected area,” he said. “What Costa Rica has is fantastic marketing.” Panama derives the lion’s share of its GNP from canal-related commerce, making tourism a secondary, but increasingly appreciated, source of revenue.

The Valle of Anton was our main destination for the day, ending back in Panama City for two days of urban exploration.

Nestled among the cloud-draped peaks of the Cordillera Central, the central mountain range that runs like a spine down the middle of the country, the community of the Valle sparkles in the morning sun with terra-cotta roofs and colorful storefronts and houses.

After our stay on the beach, an hour’s drive up into the mountains took us into an entirely different world. We curved up and up through huge stands of rainforest, stopping to gasp at the occasional vistas of dramatic, bright green peaks against the blue sky. One series of peaks, La India Dormida (the sleeping Indian woman), has a poignant story behind it, which Ivan related as we made out her reclining profile along the skyline.

Our first stop, after the mirador with its dramatic spreading vista, was at the Chorro Macho, a 85-foot waterfall at the heart of a private jungle reserve that is open to the public, offering trails and canopy tours. Massive strangler figs competed for space with dozens of rainforest trees, hanging with enormous and lush philodendron vines. A cacaphony of marvelous birdsong enveloped us as we made our way down to the rushing river below, stopping to watch the birds flit from tree to tree.

After our steep climb back to the human world of cars and pavement, we were more than ready to indulge our human appetites in a sumptuous spread at the Casa de Lourdes, a charming restauarant and B&B set in a colonial-style home with a breathaking view of the misty Cerro Gaitan and surrounding gardens from its collonaded terrace.

Lourdes Fabrega de Ward, founder of the famed Golosinas restaurant in Panama City, was unfortunately not there to greet us, but her husband, the crisp British retired diplomat Edmund Ward, did the honors. He told the story of how Lourdes, a graduate of the national university who went to London for her master’s in foreign relations, decided to open a restaurant. “She couldn’t even boil water when she started,” he said with a laugh.

These days, with a first-rate staff to bring her creative menus to life, she has no need to boil water. We lingered happily over the result, a delightful repast of seafood cocktail, corvina (sea bass) with tamarind sauce and a maracuyá (passion fruit) mousse not soon to be forgotten.

Fully satiated, we headed off to explore the local market. I had some gift shopping to do, so I perused a fine assortment of molas – an art form originated by the indigenous Kuna people who live in the islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama – and for my comadre Maite’s birthday, I ended up selecting one made by a beautiful Kuna woman in her traditional costume, a beautiful black bag adorned with an appliquéd toucan amid a background of brightly colored geometric designs.

Other typical craft items included framed feathers painted with delicate depictions of Panamanian birds; slices of tropical trees painted with the regional landscapes; ceramic depictions of the Panamanian golden frog, now so critically endangered that there may be none left in the wild; and a wide assortment of other novelties.

We ended the day back in Panama City with an unforgettable tasting menu at Barrandas, the signature restaurant of Chef Cuquita Arias, called the “Martha Stewart of Panama” – indeed, Cuquita studied under Martha Stewart, but it’s hard to imagine the American homemaking icon matching Cuquita’s warmth and color.

Round after round of carefully crafted delicacies, each of them a tiny work of culinary art, were presented on long, colorful wooden display panels for our inspection and consumption. Cuquita came out to explain the story behind each of them – recipes that reveled in her love of Panamanian tradition.

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It’s been a long commute from the time my alarm rang at 4 am until my taxi driver deposited me at the glistening lobby of the Bristol Buenaventura at 9 pm. There were times when I asked myself if I was crazy to take this assignment. Now that I’m here, I see that it would have been crazy not to.

I arrived so late that all I’ve seen is the view from my balcony and the menu – and it’s enough to convince me. I was greeted with a bowl of fresh fruit and orchids, chocolate truffles and a coconut lemonade to die for. The view is like a movie set: a romantic, made-for-TV cattail-fringed lake with a thatched-roof shelter overhanging it and a palm-flanked pool lit up in the darkness as if suspended over the lake. This is my view as I dine on the roasted vegetables and polenta with poached egg that I ordered from my specially prepared vegetarian menu. The sound of tree frogs and rushing water lull me into a restful serenity.

Tomorrow it’s a run on the beach that lies beyond the darkness, followed by breakfast and an adventure of some sort – hobie cat sailing? a drive through the jungle? Not sure, but whatever happens, I’m sure it will be worth the wait.

Our day at the Bristol Buenaventura passed all too quickly, playing in the waves on a jet ski, sinking into pure luxury with a heavenly massage at the Corotú Spa, and swimming laps in the lovely pool. I swam up to the swim-up bar and ordered a caipirinha, and I swam under the bridges and to the outdoor jacuzzi, where I let the warm jets pick up where the massage left off – working away the stress of the past weeks.

There was, of course, work to do as well – a tour of the grounds, including the Jack Nicklaus 18-hole golf course, with the first nine holes to open in November and the last nine in February, with sweeping vistas of the sea. A clubhouse called the 19th Hole is also underway, with a pro shop, a bar, and a restaurant called Prime 19.

The grounds themselves are immaculate, with 114 rooms and 15 villas to choose from. Rooms look out onto a Disneyland-perfect blue lake, fringed with reeds and a thatch-roofed palapa for special events. On the other side of the lake lie a world of things to explore: bridges arching over the meandering blue ofa series of pools, including the infinity pool lined with palms; the poolhouse and restauarant; and the sinewy figures of Los Amantes, the lovers, a bronze sculpture by Manuel Carbonell, the last of the great Cuban Master Sculptors.

Beyond the poolhouse, a landscaped brick path winds its way though the villas toward the sea, past the tennis courts and beach volleyball net and on to the charming Faro, or lighthouse, another delightful venue of the resort. Here the guest can dine or order drinks to sip while watching the waves from the chaise lounges or yet another infinity pool, or wander down to play in the waves.

Twice we began our day with an invigorating run along the beach, feeling the fresh moist air against our faces.

The hotel’s cuisine left nothing to be desired, with a full lineup of gourmet delights in the Tamarindo Restaurant and the Tagua Grill. A grilled peach salad with goat cheese croquets, a chilled avocado soup, roasted vegetables with polenta satisfied this vegetarian, but a wide range ofseafood and meat options pack the creative and varied menu.

Our last night was magical with a boat ride from the lake and down a lazy river to the dock at the Faro, where we enjoyed a nighttime barbecue under the stars, a spread we shared on the deck overlooking the crashing waves. For some reason the electricity had gone down for awhile, and backup generators kept the resort humming, but lucky for us, the stars shone especially brightly for the minimal lighting. After dinner we walked along the waves and to our amazement spotted the pulsing sparkles of mysterious phosphorescent creatures that inhabit the waters under the surf.

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Meet Dave and Anna, the Permacyclists.

She was a corporate lawyer from Brussels; he was a sociologist from New York. Neither of them was happy with their chosen profession, and after a great deal of soul searching, they decided to do what many dream of but few actually do: They quit their jobs, studied permaculture, bought bicycles and headed off across Africa, pedaling and working their way through 12 countries, 12,000 kilometers and 16 months from organic farm to organic farm, sharing what they’d learned along the way.

Now they’ve landed in Mexico and are launching a Phase 2 of their journey, but with a difference. This time they’re bringing a video camera and sound equipment, and documenting the stories of people working on solutions to the many environmental problems they have learned about in their travels. Their goal is to make it to the Earth Summit in Rio in June 2012. And this time they’re going by bus, instead of bike, to give them time to do reporting, writing and producing for their blog.

I was inspired by their story and by their plan, since in some ways it parallels my own – so we got together and shared stories. Here’s a little bit of theirs.

The cheery young couple quickly turn sober when they contemplate the ravaged landscape they encountered in Africa – not because of war and famine, the typical scenarios associated with Africa, but because of severe environmental degradation. Soil erosion, deforestation, desertification, invasive species taking over and killing out what’s left of the local ecosystems. “We were biking through all those problems for 16 months,” said Annabelle. “And yes, we have seen some amazing tropical forests, but you could be sure as soon as you left that little national park you would see not a single tree.”

Climate change was a big topic of conversation wherever they went: New York, Belgium, all throughout Africa, and now in Mexico. In Mozambique, they biked along a coast through miles and miles of former rice fields ruined by the saltwater that had flooded them during a tsunami. At Mount Kilimanjaro, they compared historic photos of the ice-capped mountain with its dwindling patch of white.

“How can we deny climate change is happening? People are talking about it everywhere,” said Anna. “They talk about how the rainy season hasn’t come and how its really weird because it’s too wet but not at the right time, and how things have changed.

“But people are acting on this, and that’s the good news.”

That’s how their project evolved to focus on sustainability efforts throughout the continent.

“I find myself much happier when I’m working with people who are working on solutions, rather than those who are saying we are all going to die,” said Annabelle. “To keep saying we’re going to die is not helping, it’s not moving people to action.”

Their families were not happy about their decision to take off across Africa on their bikes. Both mothers, independently of each other, notified them that when they were kidnapped – “not if, but when” – they would not be responsible for the ransom, Dave said. “They took a picture that was a profile of the ear so they could identify us when they found the corpse,” he laughs when he recalls the moment.

And then there was the reaction to Annabelle’s decision to leave her career as a successful lawyer. “It was like: You studied for six years and you have a practice and you’re going to throw it away for what? to go biking?”

There were some actual dangers – they were mock-chargd by a gorilla in Uganda and a hippo in Botswana. “Believe me, when you have that thing of 1.5 tons running toward you in the water, where it’s strongest, and you’e in a little plastic boat…. it’s quite humbling,” Anna recalls.

But the dangers were not at all what the family and friends were worried about. “The image of Africa in the West is just not fair and it’s racist in a lot of ways,” said Dave. Of course, he added, most Westerners haven’t been there, except for a handful who go on safaris, and given the conditions reported by most of the media coverage, it’s a pretty scary place. But the Permacyclists found Africa to be filled with people who were kind, caring and generous.

In Nairobi, he recalled – which has earned the moniker “Nairobbery” – the pair kept a low profile. “We were totally intimidated. We didn’t take a chance, didn’t try to meet local people.” On the last day, nervous at the prospect that they’d have to cross the scary shantytown area, they were surprised to see all the people smiling and waving as they cycled by.

“That same day we met a great guy who ran three kilometers across an open field to tell us we were going the wrong way,” he said. “People were looking out for us, and we didn’t even realize.”

Finally, after many months and many miles, the family came around.

“They saw that we were happy,” said Annabelle.

“And that we didn’t die,” said Dave.

“Let’s face it – some of it’s luck,” said Anna. “Bad things happen – I was a criminal lawyer, so I know. You can get robbed, but you can get robbed in Brussels, too, or New York. So let’s stop being scared. Let’s throw the TV out the window, and let’s get out and meet people. That’s where it’s happening.”

The pair’s second tour of duty started with a three-week natural building class in North Carolina. From there they headed to Houston, where they ran into the folks from Transition Houston, a dynamic part of the Transition Towns movement – who put them in touch with me. Their first video project was about that group and its projects. Here it is.

#1 Transition Houston from Permacyclists on Vimeo.

So far, they say, they’ve been blessed with enthusiastic support everywhere they’ve gone.

“It’s like we’ve stumbled across this underground world of people who are doing amazing things, and now here we are in Guadalajara and we have six interviews lined up and a place to sleep,” said Dave.

To Anna, that response serves to underscore a valuable lesson that their journeys have taught them.

“You know you’re nothing alone – but together, we’re something quite powerful. It’s about the power of groups, the power of community – you’re not alone in this world. Get out and do something, talk to people. It’s really magical.”

Follow the Permacyclists on their blog and on Facebook and Twitter. And check out the trailer for their upcoming movie!

The planning had taken a long time, and the date had been postponed three days in a row – rain, problems with the tractor, but Friday night, the word went out: The next morning would be the Siembra de Mujeres.

There had been collective plantings before, but it was the first time at Teopantli Kalpulli that the women joined to plant their own milpa, the traditional planting of corn, beans and squash. I have never planted a milpa before, and I was excited to join them. At 7:30 I was waiting in front of the temple, my brand new coa in hand (the coa, I had learned from these women, is a beautiful and ancient agricultural tool that opens the ground easily and smoothly for the insertion of a few seeds, without the planter needing to bend down).

The morning was fresh and bright, with a veil of clouds draped around the crowns of the mountains in the distance. The sun shone on an aromatic earth abundant with the rains of the previous week, but dry enough to crumble easily in the hands. It was indeed a good day to plant.


Abuela Esperanza, elegantly attired for the occasion in purple, has a disability that makes it hard for her to walk very far, but she drove her truck up to the site and supervised, sharing advice and tidbits of wisdom. She, Bety and Luz Vertila took a look at the way the land was sloping and decided to make semicircular furrows to deter erosion and hold the water in place when it rains. Bety took my coa and a piece of red yarn, tied on one end to the edge of the field, and traced the semicircle in the dirt.

We had support from a few of our menfolk – most importantly, Rodolfo, with the tractor, but also Lukas, Fernando and David. Rodolfo brought the tractor around and followed Bety’s semicircle but the dried grass left over from last year kept getting caught in the tines. It also piled up in big clumps along the furrows, making it hard to figure out where to plant. It was all quite complicated but eventually the women devised a way to pile the grasses between the furrows and the planting resumed.

Here is where the teamwork came in, and I discovered the beauty of collective planting. Every foot and a half, a woman would drop three grains of corn; halfway in between, the woman behind would drop one or two beans, and every 20 paces, a squash. A third woman followed, tossing in a handful of composted manure for fertilizer, and closed the furrow with a well-placed flick of the foot.

I worked for awhile with a lovely mother-daughter team, Claudia and Daimara. An hour into our work we had the rhythm down, and some began to sing their thanks to the Mother Earth and the Great Spirit that is Father to us all. At the center of our field, Abuela Amanda created an altar with a cazuela of grains and squash blossoms as an offering. And at each of the points of the four directions and at the center, our textile artist Sofi dug a hole, inserted the bamboo pole and raised a flag, a different, carefully crafted design for each of the cardinal points.

I brought a container of cut papaya and a bag of peanuts to share, and midway through the siembra I delivered the treats to each of the women to keep their energy up. Sofi and Fernando came later with agua de jamaica, ice-cold red hibiscus tea, that refreshed us all.

We finished our task by mid-afternoon and each of us went home to bathe and rest. That night, each of us in our own homes, awoke to the the satisfying patter of rain on our roofs – a blessing on the maiz and on each of its sembradoras.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Travel to Colombia has doubled in the past five years, and the number of U.S. travelers has increased noticeably, as well according to Colombia’s Ministry of Commerce, Export and Tourism. Colombia has the world’s highest number of bird species; the second highest number of varieties of amphibians and plants; and is third in the diversity of its reptiles. Because of its environmental diversity and history, Colombia is home to some of the world’s most distinctive cultures and traditions, reported Maria Claudia Lacouture, president of ProExport, Colombia’s tourism agency.

Here’s my story featured in the June edition of National Geographic Traveler en Español, which is distributed all over Latin America and the U.S. I can vouch for the truth in its title – “Colombia Moves You.”

Here’s the link to the whole story, if you’d like to read it. Cali te Mueve

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.