Enchanted Islands (20 page)

Once we settled in, it was easy to forget for days at a time our reasons for being in the Galápagos. Each day brought its chores; each evening the wonderful exhaustion of a day of manual labor overtook us. We slept like babies.

The first few weeks we spent constructing a house. We salvaged some timber from the beach (illegally, since any building materials belonged to the “governor's representative,” as Gonzalo would later inform us) and used the corrugated tin we brought from the mainland as our roof. Employing the straightest, longest trees we could find, we made ourselves two chairs and two platforms for beds. At the same time, we had to clear the ground for a garden. The undergrowth was thick, and we only had one machete between us, so that I went around pulling what I could and then Ainslie came behind me to get the larger plants. Then we would both dig with our fingers until we got at the root of the offending weed. Our hands ended up bloody, our fingernails torn.

Once our garden was established, Ainslie and I rarely worked together. His main duties—fetching water, hunting animals—took him away from our home. However great his virtues, Ainslie had equally infuriating personality quirks, one of which was his obsession with neatness. Neatness should not be confused with cleanliness, which is grounded in health and one of my obsessions. Ainslie would eat off of filthy dishes, wear soiled clothing, forget to bathe for days if it weren't for my reminders (and I did wonder how he managed in the forty-odd years before he met me). But he insisted on objects being lined up by size and shape, their corners perfectly parallel. His shirts, stained, were folded military style, and he would frequently stop to adjust something completely innocuous in nature—a flower whose bloom he believed should have been farther to the right, or a leaf blocking his way.

He was engaged, therefore, when not out hunting, with improving Floreana's “roads,” namely the Camino de la Muerte that ran from the beach to our home. A road, in his opinion, needed to be wide enough for a loaded horse. It was a perfectly worthless and insane endeavor, as there were no travelers but ourselves, and there would likely never be any. But I suppose men must spend their time doing something, and God forbid that something should be helping women.

It wasn't uncommon for him to be gone all day on an improvement project. And the projects improved his moods too; I've never seen anyone grumpier in the morning. He left with a scowl and came back whistling.

“Want to show me your progress?” I asked one day, mistakenly in the morning. Before he'd had his coffee even!

“Not until I'm done. You don't ask me to taste the batter, do you?” he growled. I let it drop.

My days were spent on the garden and the house and most of all on making food. First, I had to roast coffee, for this was more important to us even than water. Then every grain of rice or cup of flour had to be inspected for weevils or other
bichos
. After that, I milled the grain, and since I had forgotten this essential instrument, I had to construct a cavewoman's mortar and pestle. The garden needed weeding and watering and the fire needed stoking and the clothes needed washing and the house needed sweeping and the chickens needed tending and…well, the point is I was busy.

The islands were frustrating. No one tells you that. Every task takes twice as long, and often must be repeated after the first attempt fails. And a chore like getting cooking water can take up to two or three hours. Cooking water came from the sea (our only abundant natural resource was salt), but I had to take my jug down to the ocean and wet my feet collecting it. Fresh water had to be fetched from the stream. In dry periods, like the one we suffered through when we first landed, “sweet water,” as it was called in Spanish, was hard to come by.

Despite their monotony, the chores were satisfying in a way that the mind-numbing filing and typing in the Office of Naval Intelligence were not. Everything I did had a direct application to my quality of life. It was all necessary. There would be no bread without milled flour. It was easy to see the connections between actions and their dividends, and I understood why this kind of a life might be attractive to people (Germans) who were put off by the past consumerism of (Weimar) society or the current rise of fascism (Nazism) in Europe.

But you'll never know the satisfaction like that of a completed task on a nearly uninhabited island. Every triumph is yours, and you walk with your chin high, proud of your resourcefulness. Independence was the ultimate compliment that nature could pay you.

Gradually things got easier, though, and I found myself in mid-June with an afternoon free and decided to hike down to the hacienda, the abandoned site of the baroness's homestead, which had looked so homey in the file photos. Foliage waited for no man's return here; the structure was overrun by vines and weeds. The garden had gone to seed, and high palo santos and vines had crowded out the vegetables, or else the animals had eaten them. Except for the poles and the roof, there was little sign that humans had ever improved this land. There was nothing left of the shelves of the “kitchen.” Someone had removed all the cups and plates and then the shelves themselves. Nothing went to waste here in the Galápagos. There were two broken plates and I put them in my satchel—I was sure I could find a use for them as bird-deterrents or drainage for the garden. I sat for a moment on the fireplace. It might have been the end of the world and I the only person left on the planet to negotiate civilization's ruins. I was filled with that feeling of uselessness that pervades our psyches in difficult times. And the feeling spiraled so that I wondered why we were even bothering with any of this in the first place. Why we were working for the government, why government even existed at all…Island living can do this to you. It took a good hour before I snapped out of it and walked briskly back home.

Though our island was not deserted, we rarely saw our neighbors unless we wanted to. But there was a steady stream of strangers at our “door.” Boats, ships, and yachts arrived with relative frequency, both to gawk at the settlers and to get some shore time. This was positive, as it brought us items we couldn't manufacture on Floreana, as well as food, conversation, mail, and news, but it also meant that our daily routines were frequently interrupted. When a boat arrived, announcing itself with a foghorn or a whistle, Gonzalo came to inform us, though we could clearly see the ocean. We had taught each other the English and Spanish for “There's a ship in the harbor.” Gonzalo would say it over and over. I thought about teaching him a second sentence, just to double the power of his tongue, but he was always in such a hurry to get down to the beach that I never bothered.

A quick trip to the beach was a two-hour hike. So by the time we got down there and returned the day was over. The worst was when we headed down to Black Beach and it turned out the ship had sent a launch to Post Office Bay. Then we had to wait in the hope that they'd figure out their mistake and come back for us. Otherwise, they'd do their socializing with whoever came down to the correct beach and leave our portion of the spoils, which were never quite as evenly divided as they should have been.

Visitors came in many flavors. Researchers, following in the footsteps of Darwin, were inevitably pale, burning rather than tanning. Government officials (Ecuadorian, Brazilian, American…) would come inspect the island. What they were looking for, I do not know. In the spring, Norwegian or Canadian fishermen assayed our waters. Summer brought the rich with their luxury yachts (gifting chocolate; why always chocolate?). The publication of various articles about the death of Dr. Ritter and the “disappearance” of the baroness only fueled the fire of morbid curiosity. The rumors of buried treasure, which to my knowledge were invented whole hog, didn't help. People also came in search of the giant tortoises, which had been extinct on Floreana for years thanks to the pigs, goats, and human hunters. They left disappointed on both counts. Winter, though not cold in the Minnesota or Nebraska sense, brought rain and discouraged travelers.

Thus, our days were frequently punctuated by disappointed and uninvited visitors. Then we would be put on display for the amusement of any ladies present, who told me I was so “innovative” and that they loved how I “made do” with so little. They even indulged in a bit of role-playing, tending to my fire while all the time I'm sure thinking of going back to the yacht and having a real shower and a cocktail. Sometimes they asked us to take them on hikes, and then we had to drop what we were doing and spend the day traipsing about. When a storm came through, or it got late, we had overnight visitors, which meant a woman in my bed as I lay sleepless on the dirt floor, trying not to toss and turn and disturb our “guest.”

Ainslie could be melancholy. It was not until we had been on the island awhile, and the newness had worn off, and we bickered sometimes over chores or out of tiredness or boredom, that I realized how much he was like Rosalie in that respect. I walked on eggshells around him, waiting to see what kind of humor he was in before I spoke to him. Mostly he was his usual cheerful self, but sometimes I'd come in from the garden to find him pacing our small shelter and then I'd know the crabs had got him, as we said.

We wrote down the movements of ships, but they did nothing to arouse suspicion. To communicate with “home” we would have to rely on the Galápagos post, which meant waiting until a passing ship anchored and then handing them a letter to post when they arrived on a continent. I wrote frequently to Rosalie though I knew that the letters would go unposted for months. It was possible we would die in the Galápagos, either from an injury or from being discovered, and it struck me as horribly sad that I would never see Rosalie again. She was the person I thought of most on the island, usually while doing something totally unrelated to “regular life.” For instance, I found myself missing her most acutely when I sat peeling skin off a goat that Ainslie had only perfunctorily butchered. Rosalie would have been horrified. I laughed and imagined her laughing with me. I felt a sweet longing for her company. Any company really, but hers in particular.

It would be summer in San Francisco, such as it was, the sky gray and misty. I would calculate the time of day and try to imagine what Rosalie might be doing. She'd be helping Sylvie with her homework, or tying Clarence's bow tie, or planning a menu with her cook. It amused me to think of the contrast between her daily activities and mine.

I began to talk to her during the day to hear the sound of my own voice, when Ainslie was out hunting or exploring or “improving our circumstances,” as he called his busywork. I asked her opinion on my cooking. Was the fire too hot? Was there enough pepper? I told her about the garden I was growing and my mortal enemies the magpies. I talked about my irrational fear of male animals, donkeys and bulls and billy goats, their snorting aggression giving me the all-overs (as Mrs. Keane used to say). Sometimes I cried to her, out of frustration, when I could not get the fire lit, or the misty fog socked me in for the seventeenth straight day and even my tears were soggy.

I spoke to a young Rosalie, as though we were both still girls. I relived our good times, a visit to a municipal swimming pool, a birthday celebration. And experiences that grew amusing now that they had receded: the terrifying train ride, the time we tried on Mrs. Klein's face powder and it turned out I was terribly allergic. Our lives were all in front of us.

Once, I forgot that Ainslie was around, and I began to tell an imaginary Rosalie about my trip to collect rocks for the fireplace. “Who are you talking to?” he asked me.

I must have blushed as crimson as the day we were sunburned on the ship's deck. “The cat,” I answered. We had “adopted” one of the feral cats to help us with our rat problem.

Ainslie seemed not to think this odd. “Which one is it?”