Heart Isle

"27 dollars?" I repeated the slender woman's words incredulously, wondering how many days worth of food that would be for John and me. "That's really expensive. Isn't there a way to go and visit the island more cheaply?"

The woman looked up from the magazine she had returned to flipping through and tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder. "No." Her voice was flat and her face unsmiling. "You are sure to get lost if you are not from Bahía de Caraquez. You will need a guide."

I sighed heavily. Same old story, different place. It seemed as though that going on your own anywhere in Ecuador was impossibility. I was positive there had to be a cheaper way to see the Mangroves, the only question was how.

"Psst," I heard from behind me and turned to find a young, unshaven man sitting at the small round table on the other side of the travel agency's office. "You can go on your own," he continue whispering out of one side of his mouth, "I know how." He winked and then stood to address the woman reading the magazine about his own travel adventures.

I nodded and sat listening to the two of them discuss the dry forest that grew in the area, flipping through the binder displaying the various tours offered in English by the agency, all at prices that could feed a family of four for a month in this small coastal town. He extended his had to shake the woman's and I stood smiling my good bye, unsure if this was someone to be trusted.

Outside on the sidewalk, my new friend Javier from Alicante, Spain, explained to me that at his hostal, Coco Bongo, the owners, Suzi and Tony had given him explicit instructions on how to visit la Isla Corazon, the land of the mangroves, independently. We agreed to meet back up in two hours time and went our separate ways.

Later that morning, John was quiet as we sat on the benches at the end of the pier waiting for Javi to arrive. "Javi seemed really nice John. I am sure he'll show and we'll find the mangroves." "No, I'm fine," he assured me, "it's not Javi. It's my stomach. Something is strange in my stomach." Concerned, I began to ask him exactly what was wrong with his stomach, but before I had time to inquire further, there was Javi and we were off, donning our life jackets, paying our 30 cent fare and boarding a small motorboat/taxi bound for the other side of the bay.

Across the bay in San Vicente, nothing much had changed. Like Bahía, San Vicente's run down buildings, bicycle cabs and street vendors completed the dusty scene. We stood chatting on the side of the road, waiting for our bus, "Es que aquí, no hay paradas," Javier muttered as we watched a bus about half a mile down the road pull over three times before reaching where we stood. He was right, busses stopped wherever there were people to get on or off. Unfortunately, this one was not our bus.

After fending off a soldier, an elderly woman, two small boys and a man with one leg all in need of our money, we finally boarded an overcrowded bus bound for Chone. We squeezed ourselves into the masses of humanity, bags of potatoes and wicker baskets, wedging parts of our bodies between the people, seats and window ledges to prevent ourselves from flying forward when, inevitably, the bus stopped short.

The bus whizzed by shrimp farms, former sites of thousands of mangroves along the river Chone. The destruction of these amazing trees, designed as a natural water filter and habitat to thousands of species of local birds was incomprehensible. Like so many places, the shrimp farmers had destroyed thousands of hectares of mangroves in exchange for the profit of the shrimping industry. What remained . . . a mere fraction of the graceful mazelike trees and the black and white frigate birds that made the mangroves their homes.

The bus dropped us at the beginning of a dirt driveway leading up to two small houses, one a short squat structure next to a dock along the river bank, the other built high above us, a wooden staircase leading up to what looked like an oversized tree house. As we stood on the banks of the Chone, a green island in the shape of a heart was clearly visible, la isla corazón.

We quickly found Francisco, the recommended guide for the tour, and after some negotiations and explanation of our current financial situation due to the recent pick pocketing events, we were able to settle with the town's president what we felt was a reasonable price: $20 for the three of us.

"Hurry up," Francisco yelled down to the three mostly naked boys that had stopped splashing around in the water and were now bailing out what I could only assume to be our mode of transport to the island. One, around ten years of age, disappeared inside the house, came out in a t-shirt and shorts and placed small wooden chairs with seat cushions inside the rickety canoe. He motioned for us to come closer and one by one, we hiked up our pant legs and sat ourselves in the inch of water still on the boat's floor. The now dressed boy positioned himself at the bow of the canoe, thick paddle in hand and Francisco pushed us off into the murky waters of the Chone, toward the island. "Too bad you didn't come an hour ago,” he mused, "tide would have been higher then. Easier to navigate. Don't worry. We'll manage."

We weren't worried. We were entranced. As Francisco and the young boy paddled, Javi, John and I sat in awe, snapping pictures as we listened to Francisco's descriptions of the reforestation of the island in front of us. We moved slowly toward the island watching as fish jumped around us and frigate birds, pelicans and cormorants dove for their lunch on either side of the canoe.

Javi, a marine biologist in Spain, was dumbfounded by the beauty, his incessant questions keeping Francisco on his toes. "How long had the mangroves been reforested? Who did the reforestation? Did the shrimping industry still destroy the mangroves? Did they need help to plant more?" On and on until we reached the edge of the island.

As we entered the first tunnel of mangroves, a hush fell upon the group as we looked. . .left, right and then up -- the branches, leaves and roots of the mangroves forming a roof over our heads. "Wow. . ." I heard John sigh behind me, stomach ache monetarily forgotten. "Amazing."

Francisco indicated the three types of mangroves, the white with small delicate flowers, the black with long dark leaves and the red, the most resilient of the bunch that accounted for over 90 percent of the trees on the island. He showed us how some of the trees breathe through their roots stuck up to 10 feet deep in the mud of the island, while others took in oxygen through their leaves. All around us, trees intertwined, own swirling around another until it was impossible to distinguish one from the next. Bright, red crabs scurried along the branches as floated down the canal into a section where the water very quickly became un-rowable mud.

"It's the tide," explained Francisco hopping down off the boat and indicating that the boy in front should do the same, "Would have been easier an hour ago. But don't worry, we'll make it." I had my doubts as our young friend sunk to his thighs in mud and began to push with all of his might to propel the canoe forward.

As we came around the corner, mud once again gave way to water and grabbing their paddles, Francisco and son steered us deftly out of the old growth and into the reforested section of mangroves, haven to hundreds of thousands of frigates. Long slender birds with curved feet swarmed the trees overhead, the air lit up with their mating songs.

"See the male birds?" Francisco inquired indicating the scarlet, pouch protruding from some of the birds' throats. "That's how he entices his female companions. Up to four a day feed and spoil him, vying for his affection, but only one wins his courtship. The rest build their nests and protect their egg alone. How's you'd like to be a frigate Javi?" Francisco laughed from the back of the boat and I rolled my eyes at John, knowing he too would find the joke un poco machista.

We continued around the lake, mesmerized by the elegance of the pure white ibis, the skill of the pelican with his large fish trapping beak, watching as cormorants lazed on top branches sunning themselves to dry their wet feathers before taking flight once again. Fish jumped playfully around the edges of the boat as we reached a wooden dock with a small foot path that would take us deep inside the enchanted mangrove forest.

Surrounded on all sides by giant mangroves, Francisco leaned down to pick up mangrove seeds that lay strewn on our wooden footpath. "See this tip?" He scoops up the long slender branch to shop us a small brown edge in the shape of an arrow. "This tells the mangrove how far to throw its seed. It's a detector. Watch!" He walked to the railing leaned over and let the seed plummet to the ground 8 feet below us. The seed stuck upright in the mud, a young mangrove planted. Javi, John and I planted three more, watching them as they each took root in the island.

Standing among the beauty and wonder of the magnificent trees, the magnitude of this island with its natural water filtration system, thousands of species of shellfish, birds, fish, plants all around us, it is difficult to imagine wanting to destroy any of it, even for the inevitable profit the shrimping industry will bring. Francisco agrees and explains how after years and years of watching the precious mangroves disappear; he and a group of local fisherman became fed up with the destruction. Feeling the power of a group, they banded together and began to replant the trees in danger of disappearing from the River Chone completely.

He sighs deeply, content with what he sees all around him, "Six years ago, this island was but a dream in our minds. Now it is a reality."

A quiet, reflective trip back in our makeshift canoe, now filled with significantly more water than when we started four hours earlier that day, gives time for reflection on the efforts of a few determined individuals, determined to make a difference in the world. We float by two barebacked teenagers, one fishing rod made of sticks, a small handmade net tossed out into the sea, creating waves that ripple out toward our boat. They wave as we go by, a slow friendly salute.

The island gets smaller and smaller as we approach the shore, and I turn around to take one more look at the island, reminded of how each and every one of us can truly make a difference.