My knuckles were still pasty white from our half hour cab ride to the airport that the driver had whittled down to ten minutes flat. I was sitting in the air-conditioned departure lounge trying to calm my frayed nerves when I saw Ellen coming towards me. Her shoulders were tense - higher on her slender frame than normal. She had the look of a woman filled with self-doubt.
In the months that preceded our trip to Ecuador, Ellen studied the boats of the Galapagos . She knew their physical capacities, speed of travel, types of engines, colours, whether or not they offered scuba diving, and of course their names. But the last-minute travel agent at a dingy office in downtown Quito had been a remarkable salesman.
"It's a brand new boat - first class rating." he said with a 'you better hurry or you'll miss the chance of a life-time' smile. "It sails tomorrow and I can give you a great discount."
As I sat in Quito's Mariscal Sucre International Airport, I smiled grimly to myself and wondered if we had cast common sense to the wind. Months of study and preparation; a two, or was it three inch file on Galapagonian boats, and our choice wasn't even listed on the Internet. And to make things even more ominous its name was the Monseratt, like the Caribbean island that's been all but incinerated by its own volcano.

When Ellen sat down beside me in the waiting lounge I expected moans, or perhaps tears of anxiety. She had been taking our rash decision in choosing the Montserrat far worse than I . But she was under no such torment. Instead she was filled anger. And it wasn't about the boat.

I listened to her intently, smiling throughout - then asked, "The woman was standing behind you. To your right, correct?"
"Yes, pushing right up against me - like a pickpocket." Ellen replied.
"Okay, you should have put your right leg in front of her left leg. Then as you heard the click of the lock, and she began to rush for the stall, you could have casually swept your right arm in a forward motion up under her left arm, all the while leaving your right foot firmly planted. She would have spilled over your knee and landed in a heap on the floor. Then you could have simply stepped over her and walked right in."

I was describing to Ellen how she could have avoided the annoyance of someone butting in line while waiting for the toilet. The WC bandit had been a welcome distraction.

Two hours later, we arrived at San Cristobal Airport in the Galapagos Islands . Surprisingly, a party of about fifty people awaited our plane. A group of young men dressed entirely in white formed two rows. Adjacent to them, stately men and women stood on a raised covered platform. The men were wearing tuxedos and tails; the women wore full-length dresses. A tall, dark haired young woman, wearing a long sparkling golden gown stood with them. A banner was draped from her shoulder to opposite hip. It read 'Miss Ecuador'.
"What a nice surprise." I said to Ellen as I began to walk, hand extended, towards the statuesque Ecuadorian Miss. I hadn't gone five feet before two security officials dressed in combat fatigues steered me away from the welcoming party. As our group was being routed away I looked back. Ten or so formally dressed fellow plane passengers were being greeted by the Ecuadorians.
I heard someone from our not so special bunch say; "That's her in the long green dress - the one with the big hat".
"Who?" I asked aloud, still confused and hurt at being turned away so brusquely.
"The Chinese Ambassador to Ecuador and her entourage" came a reply from somewhere within our group.
Just then, Ellen, who was again hopelessly preoccupied with worry about the Monseratt, grabbed me by the shoulder and said "There she is, over there - the woman in the long green dress and big hat."
"Yes, I know. It's the Ambassador. She's shaking hands with Miss Ecuador."
"I don't care whose hand she's shaking", Ellen replied, "She won't butt in front of me again if she knows what's good for her."