March 25, 2001

Life Is Not Without Irony

La Paz, Mexico

Normally our articles are written in the third person. Since all of us in Fermata travel, we have chosen to describe our adventures as being shared rather than individual. I am breaking this unwritten rule with this report. My views are so intertwined with my recent travels that it doesn’t seem right or honest to bury them in third-person garb.

21 Mar 2001

At the moment I am somewhere between Chihuahua and Los Mochis, ever so gradually bouncing my way to La Paz. Aerolitoral is a route carrier in Mexico, and for most of this day Virginia and I have been in their hands. This milk run (four segments each way) began in San Antonio, and since noon we have been (or will be) to Monterrey, Chihuahua, and Los Mochis before finally arriving in La Paz. If not for the ever-present haze that cloaks this country we would have enjoyed an eagle’s view of Barranca Cobre (Copper Canyon) and much of northern Mexico.

By La Paz we will have invested a full day to air travel. For my grandparents such an expenditure of travel time would have been expected, even if only carrying the kids to Galveston from McKinney on the interurban. Yet in our bejetted world this flight is a slow boat to China, and for many contemporary travelers the commitment would overshadow the reward.

Travel to much of the world still requires an effort. Nature travel is even more demanding of time, labor, and money. The train through Copper Canyon begins (or ends, depending on your perspective) at Los Mochis. The Sea of Cortez is reached from La Paz. La Cienega is still a topsy-turvy drive from Monterrey. Yet if you want to see Gray Whales, Maroon-fronted Parrots, or Military Macaws, you still have to ante up.

Access is a two-edged sword in our business. On one edge, nature travelers would like to easily access remote and isolated destinations. The other edge (surely you see this one coming) is that once a secluded location becomes accessible it is, by definition, no longer "remote and isolated."

The balance between the two is delicate. Access is the doorway to economic expansion, but at what cost to local people? Social disruption? Communal annihilation? Cultural homogeneity? Financial subjugation? Environmental degradation?

Nature tourism development demands a heightened sensitivity to this issue. The limits of acceptable change should be derived from social and ecological thresholds for tolerance, not displacement. Nature tourism should be invited, not imposed.

Access has allowed us, as nature travelers, to go where we are not expected. Absent the planning necessary to insure the equitable access to (rather than guarantee of) tourism benefits, community interests are often swamped in a tsunami of visitors. Without the management tools required to protect ecological sanctity, the resources upon which the industry is founded are threatened.

24 Mar 2001

Our meeting in La Paz debated these very issues. Although placed with the context of marine tourism (in particular, whale watching), our group, in truth, deliberated matters that transcended interests or borders.

Sponsored by the NACEC (the North American Commission for Environmental Cooperation), representatives from the three NAFTA countries met in La Paz to consider sustainable tourism as practiced in marine ecosystems. Whale watching is the most studied of these pursuits, and with our location (La Paz borders the Sea of Cortez and with its wintering Gray Whales) we focused upon cetaceans and the tourism that flows from their presence. Whether in the St. Lawrence River, or off Point Reyes, or in the Sea of Cortez near La Paz, Gray Whales generate public interest wherever they wander.

For two days we discussed whale biology, whale-watching economics, whale management, whale politics, whale interpretation and education, whale-watching etiquette, and whale protection. Canadians, Americans, and Mexicans all contributed to the conference, and in the end I felt as though I had been through a whale-watching boot camp. The level of expertise in the room at any given time impressed even a jaded conference goer like me. That we know a great deal about whales and their watchers is the lesson I learned.

Yet even with shelves of studies, reports, and research, we seem to know very little about the business of whale watching and how it may be used to further conservation and social improvement. Just who are these whale watchers? How do they make their travel decisions? How may nature travel contribute to resource conservation? What should La Paz do (as the local example) to benefit from these nature travelers?

An article in a local Baja newspaper, the Gringo Gazette, highlighted this last point. Quoting from the newspaper:

According to the official publication Profile of Tourism, La Paz received 167,500 tourists during the period 1999-2000. But a full 84% of these hopped off the plane and jetted out of Dodge: 140,068 visitors left without even spending as much as one night, preferring to go to Todos Santos and Los Cabos.

So how has ease of access benefited La Paz?

My impression is that La Paz still struggles to effectively promote, market, and manage the sustainable use of its natural resources. Amidst Baja’s extraordinary biological wealth, local whale watching operators still fight to survive during the extended eight-month summer. With the season limited to a four-month window, local guides simply cannot survive from whale watching alone.

But what about wildlife other than whales? What about the squadrons of Magnificent Frigatebirds that circled our hotel? What about the forests of saguaro-like cardon that prickled the mountainsides? If not a Gray Whale, why not a Gray Thrasher?

These questions trump boundaries and language. In some form, virtually all of the communities where we work are struggling with these same issues. The challenge we face is in providing responses to these questions. After La Paz I wonder how much longer we must wait for the answers.

Postscript/Postmortem

As Morpheus said in The Matrix, "life, it seems, is not without a sense of irony." As we taxied to the runway for our eighth flight of the trip, the pilot suddenly whipped the plane around and headed back to the terminal. Coming to a halt well away from the building, the stewardess pushed open the door and unfolded the stairs to the ground. The copilot grabbed his hat, his papers, and bailed.

Within a few minutes the pilot announced that we had a "bad instrument," and that we would be underway in about five minutes. We sat unattended on the tarmac, waiting patiently for our "bad instrument" to be replaced.

Within several minutes another plane pulled along side, and one of their pilots sprang out and ran over to us. Carrying an armload of coat, luggage, and papers, he settled into our absent copilot’s slot and frantically readied the plane for departure. We taxied back to the runway, and began the final segment to San Antonio.

As we later learned, our "bad instrument," of course, was the original copilot. Apparently he had eaten seafood in Mazatlan the night before and now suffered from food poisoning. The dish? Marlin, a sport fish with a catch-and-release value far exceeding the prices demanded by fishmongers. The flight had been delayed in the hope that he would recover, and only as we had neared our take off had the futility of that wish become obvious. He departed, another copilot had been drafted, and we all had a good chuckle.

25 Mar 2001

Within 24 hours I experienced the U.S. version of airline madness. Returning from Mexico on Saturday night, I exchanged clothing and continued my travels toward Baltimore. Arriving in Houston early Sunday morning, I boarded Continental for the next leg of my flight. Upon reaching the runway for our departure, a depressingly familiar refrain began to echo in my ears.

"Folks, we are experiencing difficulties with our flaps, and we are returning to the gate to allow maintenance to look after the problem."

Uh oh. The "bad instrument" shtick.

Maintenance decided that the flap could not be repaired, and we would need to deplane and shift to another flight. Three hours later we finally left for Baltimore, my fellow planemates and I forced to sustain ourselves on the Wheaties, banana, reduced fat milk, and carrot muffin breakfasts that had been transferred along with our luggage from the gimpy plane.

Throughout this fiasco, the Continental staff maintained a stiff upper lip and a company smile. Throughout the salmonella caper in Monterrey, the staff had acted with a similar wooden detachment. Both airlines seemed to believe that engagement with their customers would only throw gas on the fire. Why tell me that the plane had a "bad instrument" when any fool could see our copilot pitch out of the door? Why insult my intelligence by serving breakfast on an afternoon flight? Did Continental believe that the airline haute cuisine would entice me to forget the time of day?

Travel is experienced, not fabricated. In their rush to industrial-grade efficiency (even missing that mark) airlines have forgotten that travel is defined by the human condition. As stated in a recent edition of Fast Company (April 2001), "Airlines don’t think of themselves as service organizations. Airlines think of themselves as factories that manufacture revenue-seat miles. Airlines have been tuned in to the efficiency of their manufacturing operations, not to the quality of the journey that they provide." Ease of access has brought us airline travel without grace or charm.

Life is not without its sense of irony, and ease of access (in the form of a seafood restaurant in Mazatlan or a bum flap in Houston) is not without cost.

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