Punta de Lobos, Chile. Though the beach
is windy, it’s ideal for walking along the shore where incoming waves wash up
little crabs, who then tumble back to the deep again. Our son leads our group
of six on a trail he discovered along the cliff tops away from the beach crowds.
The only sign of human activity are the ropes of seaweed laid out to dry by the
local collectors. The landscape is barren, dry and windswept, a stark contrast
to the Point Lobos State Park we visited in California just two months ago that
teemed with a rich variety of plants adapted to ocean clifftops. Why the
difference I wonder? It’s the same ocean, similar latitude. Climate? State
protection? Geography? Precipitation? Below us, stretches a long, unpopulated
beach. Someone comments that soon the land facing the beach will fill up with
summer houses.
Days later we
head north for an apartment we’ve rented in Marbella, an exclusive community of
white houses and condominiums stretching along ocean hilltops. Most of our
group is anxious to hit the beach, lather on sun screen and stretch out on
their towels. I can’t expose my fair skin to long bouts of sun so keep clothes
over my swim suit and seek cover under an umbrella, while the others work on their
tans. I feel like a white whale surrounded by lean, bronzed figures.
Walking along
the wet shore is one of my beach pleasures, breathing in that energizing air
sweeping off the ocean. One morning I wander the streets of this community of
beach homes, admiring their gleaming facades and neat gardens. But, then, a
disturbing thought interrupts my admiration. All these houses and apartments
are second homes and possess all the
comforts and space of city homes. I
suddenly think of those who have no home: recent victims of a tsunami in
Malaysia, war refugees living for years in temporary camps, all around the
globe. The inequality and injustice rattle my vacation tranquility.
Back at the
apartment, I voice my thoughts.
“Don’t spoil our
vacation,” says my husband.
“That’s not my
intention. Just sharing my ruminations.”
A member of our group relates how she
devotes her time to the needy and that her husband is very generous with his
money.
“That’s fine” I
say. “I do the same … but it’s- just- not- enough.” No one has an answer for
that. I’m thinking of the need for drastic changes in life styles and strong
government measures.
We drive north
to visit one of my favorite and long-missed beaches and walk a trail carved
into the rocky shore. From there we spot sea otters. I point out wild flowers
growing in that sandy soil. This is more like California’s Point Lobos.
We are not alone
on the trail. January is the height of the summer season and our favorite spots
have been discovered by others. We’re shocked to see the tiny beach in a hidden
cove cupping turquoise waters teeming with people from the nearby town. The
time has arrived to share.
On our way home
I notice rows of new condominiums built on once grassy hillsides overlooking
the ocean. Again I’m dismayed, this carving up the land to accommodate the very
few. I know these gloomy thoughts have something to do with the book I’m
reading, “The Overstory”, which reveals the age-old wisdom of trees and sounds
the alarm about the massive destruction of forests worldwide. A call to arms.
Not the typical summer vacation reading.
I’m left
ruminating.
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