BECOMING GREEN - Overbooked: The Exploding Business of Travel and Tourism - page 179

then tell us not only the name of the bird but its mating habits, favorite food and where it
fit in the life of the rainforest. After a day's adventure—hiking through the jungle, swim-
ming in the bay or touring the islands in our zodiac boats—we would catch our breath,
change into dry clothes, and gather for informal discussion led by Salas or one of the other
naturalists. With slides and movies, postings of the birds and fishes, they would review
what we'd seen and experienced that day and preview what was in store the next. It was
somewhere between an exquisite hike and a sweaty classroom, at least what I wish my sci-
ence classes had been like.
We crossed into the Panama Canal our first night of the voyage, our ship a bathtub-
size toy boat compared to the mighty tankers and freighters that surrounded us. Each step
up the watery ladder of the canal's locks was masterfully climbed as the ships rose to the
height of a man-made lake created when the United States dug the canal bridging the At-
lantic and Pacific oceans in 1914. The next morning we crossed that lake and docked at
an island called Barro Colorado, a rare wilderness officially managed by the Smithsonian
Tropical Research Institute. We would hike up the side of one of the hills with guides who
are scientists at the institute. They told us that the island is normally off-limits to visitors;
Lindblad is the only organization permitted to bring tourists to the island—another bene-
fit of signing on to the Sea Lion.
That first hike was a stretch, getting our legs accustomed to climbing trails in the trop-
ical heat while showing enthusiasm for small wonders like the ants crossing our trail in
single file, each holding a corner of a green leaf that waved in the heat like a geisha's fan.
Even with the thick canopy of trees we were literally dripping with sweat. Then, when I
felt like fainting, we heard our first troop of howler monkeys. Two adults and two children
perched on the highest branches of a tree swung into action at the sound of our footsteps,
answering our arrival with their deep-throated howls that flooded the woods.
That night we passed through the canal, and in the morning we were on the Pacific
Ocean, taking slow Zodiac boat rides around rugged rock islands in the Las Perlas Ar-
chipelago, where fishermen once dove for pearls. Now these desolate outposts are nesting
homes to thousands of frigatebirds, pelicans and brown and blue-footed boobies. Against
the clear blue skies off the Pacheca and Pachequilla islands, they swarmed in search of
food and mates. When the males weren't vying for the attention of females with aerial ac-
robatics or deep dives into the sea, the birds were engaged in aerial combat. The elegant
black frigates maneuvered like cocky fighter-jet pilots encircling the slow-moving brown
pelicans until the frightened pelicans dropped the food from their pouches and the frig-
ates swooped in to steal the fish.
That night we watched the sole movie shown during our trip: David McCullough nar-
rating a PBS special based on his book about the building of the Panama Canal. I felt
like I was part of a New Yorker cartoon about politically correct travel. Yet the three teen-
agers aboard stayed until the very end. After dinner the passengers walked on the deck and