A Four Hour Tour

By Tyrel Nelson for StartBackpacking.com

Guys whistle and gals honk.
           No, I’m not talking about the interactions between Ecuadorian men and women.
           Actually, apart from the ladies’ larger pupils, it is the only way to differentiate the sexes of blue-footed boobies.
           Listening to the males and females identify themselves, I observed a half-dozen of the brown-winged creatures socialize on a nearby cliff. With the blinding Santa Cruz sun searing above, I carefully watched the white-breasted birds move their teal kickers from under the floppy brim of my navy beach hat. I couldn’t believe how vibrant their blue feet really were.
           Feeling the strain on my neck, I eventually spun my head away from the bluff to see that I was drastically outnumbered. There were thirteen Ecuadorian passengers and two Galápagos crewmen in front of me, evenly dispersed on the pair of cushioned benches that practically ran the entire length of the oversized canoe. More specifically, five men, five women, a couple of teenage gals, a duo of small boys, and a little girl were seated closer to the bow. Aside from the aging skipper and his little buddy, the people all seemed to know each other through relation or acquaintance.
           On the other hand, the only person besides me, who represented the gringo camp, had already jumped ship.
           Suddenly, I saw a set of middle-aged parents wave the miniature first mate over and whisper something in his ear.
           “Let’s sing to the fifteen-year-old,” exclaimed the sun-baked tour guide.
           Clammy and closemouthed, I watched the nationals break into Spanish AND English versions of the Birthday Song. I felt bad for not participating, but I just didn’t have it in me. Something was wrong.
           Looking for my missing teammate, I turned around in my seat at the rear of the small boat to see her floating face down in the ocean. Then, without warning, she snapped her head up and looked at me with her aqua eyes.
           “The water’s too murky. I can’t see anything,” my light-skinned girlfriend, Amanda, complained from behind her snorkel mask. “Are you okay?”
           “I feel like crap,” I replied.
           “You took Dramamine, didn’t you,” she asked.
           “Yeah, but it’s not working,” I answered.
           “Geez! You always get seasick,” Amanda griped before ducking under again.
           Sweating profusely, I turned back to the rest of my tour group and desperately took deep breaths. I was in bad shape. Furthermore, the scorching sun only enhanced my misery. I had to get off that floating inferno.

lagoon in equador

Seeing that Amanda was climbing back into the white vessel, our long-haired attendant then told us the agenda for the second half of our morning excursion.
           “Everyone put your shoes back on. The land tour is next,” the dark-featured man informed us.
           “Did he say land tour,” I asked my strawberry-haired girlfriend, who was drying herself with a pink beach towel.
           She nodded.
           “Finally,” I whispered to myself.
           While the bouncy ride seemed to last for an eternity, the narrow craft eventually pulled up to the weathered dock of a rusty-colored refuge.
           “Welcome to the salt mines,” said the scrawny guide as we all climbed onto the wooden walkway.
           Guarding the boat, the graying captain stayed behind and watched Amanda and me tail his friend, as well as the brightly-dressed vacationists, off the planked pathway. I was, in fact, curious as to why we were entering the muggy brushland. Regaining the color in my face, I forgot about my nausea and subsequently examined our route.
           “What’s so special about this place,” I questioned my short girlfriend while scanning the green and tan wasteland.
           After a five-minute walk uphill, our loud-speaking attendant abruptly stopped at a “T” in the trail. Turning around to face us, the Ecuadorian then gave us a choice.
           “Those who want to play at the beach, just follow this path on my left. I’ll come back for you later. The rest of you who want to see the prize at the end of this one, stay with me,” the energetic islander offered, gesturing with his right hand. .
           While half of the parents and kids opted for the beach, six fellow tourists, Amanda, and I trailed our pony-tailed frontman down the mysterious walkway.
           Staying on the gravelly course, our group, now at half-strength, marched behind its bare-footed shepherd. Following his thickly-calloused footsteps for several minutes, we weaved around porous rocks, skirted a handful of shallow lagoons, and skipped across the mucky creeks that snaked their way across our rigid path.
           I was also intrigued by the thick foliage that overwhelmed the bumpy terrain. All over, dark-hued, round-leafed cacti sprang up from the abundant, light green bushes that surrounded them. It was an interesting mix of tall and short vegetation.
           A good twenty minutes had passed before we eventually caught up to our forerunner, who was standing at the edge of a stony hilltop. Below his worn feet, I saw the reason for our hike.
           “At last, we’ve arrived at Las Grietas,” the sweaty guide said with a smile on his face.
           Beckoning us from the bottom of a long and narrow crevice was turquoise water. Somehow, the ocean had trickled its way between these rugged bluffs and formed a pristine pool. Hot and exhausted, everyone immediately climbed into the craggy crack.
           Including our leader, the nine of us swam up and down the skinny seaway, absorbing every inch of the hidden inlet. Although it was very salty, the water was extremely refreshing. It was the perfect escape from the sultry weather. I didn’t want to get out.
           Almost an hour later, our leathery-skinned leader finally climbed out of the soothing liquid and made an announcement.
           “Alright everyone…it’s time to head back,” he yelled.
           "Not the boat again," I thought myself.

Meet the author:

Tyrel Nelson graduated from the University of Minnesota in 2003 with a B.A. in Journalism
and Spanish Studies. He spent 2 years working with Habitat for Humanity and is now currently
teaching English in Ecuador.

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