Monday, July 28, 2008

El Aguajal

I woke at six to the barks and chatters of the Titi monkeys energetic conversations. Grabbing my boxer shorts and blue t-shirt, I walked to breakfast thinking of Tuco’s hot pancakes smothered in the sickly sweet ooze of condensed milk and followed by a bowl of papaya. After breakfast, Will Minehart, an ornithologist studying antbirds, approached me, reminding me of our plans for a trek in the Aguajal.

Donning my polyester pants, wool socks, and tall rubber boots I prepared to trek through the palm swamp. The first trail was wide and we walked abreast listening for mammals wandering through the damp brush of the primary forest. It led to the retired airstrip, which upon entering, blinds the passerby with a sudden inundation of blazing sunlight. Heat waves shimmering over the short grass give the stretch of open air a surreally vast feeling compared to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the verdurous forest; but as soon as you realize that you’ve been walking for 10 minutes and you’re only halfway, it no longer feels so enchantingly dreamlike and pleasantly airy—just uncomfortably hot. Birders frequent the airstrip to admire the blue and gold macaws feeding in fruit trees, turkey vultures circling overhead, and great black hawks gliding royally through the endless sky. Passifloras and purple clitoralis flowers line the well trodden path leading back to the familiar dank humidity of la trocha Huangana.

Blue and Gold Macaws in a Cecropia on the Aerodromo. (photo by Will Minehart)

Turning onto the seldom traveled trail, Mauritia, the path narrowed, traversing down a steep hill over dried creek beds and under thorny trees. We paused to snap photos of a terrestrial orchid and an inch long bullet ant, whose famed bite apparently feels like a gun-shot wound. Not wanting to test the theory, I remained a respectable distance from the menacing pincers while Will impishly directed the savage ant in circles by blowing in its face.

The solid dirt paths spaced loosely with grandiose ficus trees and chirping trogans suddenly gave way to thick marshy grasses and shrieking parrots. Shiny green vanilla vines scaled lichen spotted aguaje palms while cumulous clouds garnished the pool blue sky. Ferns freckling the islands of palms tenaciously grasped nutrient rich dirt and dangled their flighty branches over tea-colored swamp waters. Palms whose tops had fallen provided nesting grounds for parrots. Oropendulas sang drippy songs, clucking to one another and flicking their bright yellow tails as they built hanging nests from palm fronds and small vines. Orchids as small as my pinky nail, a caterpillar resembling a peachy 1970’s shag rug, a neon red, striped mushroom, black and yellow spiked spiders, and fantastic clusters of algae captured our attention, and we often stood for minutes just admiring the untouched beauty of the remote creatures.

Moving slowly without a machete, I blazed a trail across the soft terrain and tested the ground ahead of Will, his reasoning being that ladies should go first. Spotting the bullshit in seconds, I considered his puckish interests of self-preservation pointing out that I would be the one to fall in the hidden swamp holes and serve as anaconda bait. He graciously offered to fight off any attackers. Muchas gracias, amigo.

High hopes of staying dry in this swamp were futile. Only twenty minutes into the trek, we faced the inevitable and began to venture onto the wetter parts of the trail, never sure of its depth until we stopped sinking. Gasping when apparently solid ground gave way to waist deep muck, we would giggle and pull each other from the resolute grip of the mud, sucking our boots from our feet. We lost the trail numerous times, yet getting lost is never a waste of time—it’s a part of the adventure. The numbered orange tags marking the trail are supposedly spaced every 25 meters (75 feet), but the lively forest never fails to exploit free spaces, so many markers are often obscured with leaves or mistaken for colorful flowers. Even after admitting water into our sweaty boots, our trip hardly moved faster. Walking to the next trail marker, even when visible, could take as long as 10 minutes in some spots, in part because we wanted to move quietly and slowly so as not to scare wildlife from our sights, but mostly because we could not move any faster.

Passing a stretch of fallen trees, I looked up to see the New York City of spider webs. The massive cobwebs and intricate rings hung in a thick cloud for 20 feet and rose 4 feet in places. It was nearly impossible to move around the obstacle, so I reached out to carefully pull a visible thread from a branch in order to pass. When I removed the thread, an audible BING reached our ears, just as if I had snapped a piece of fishing line. Impressed by its durability and extreme stickiness, we carefully crept around the cloudy mess of thread and continued to lose and find the trail.

El Aguajal

As we entered a darker portion of the swamp, this time under the cover of some woodier trees, the path became more solid, and our encounters with deep water became less regular (though only a little). Rounding a thorny bush and avoiding a spiny trunked palm, I suddenly saw a yellow and black head jerk at the sight of my movement. I too reacted, but with a shriek, jumping backwards, nearly running into Will. Peering over the shrubs with wide brown eyes, I laughed. I had to. It was a tortoise. Though grinning, Will admitted that he would have jumped too. We gringos can never be too sure of ourselves in an Amazonian swamp. Armed with band aids and rubbing alcohol, we were not exactly prepared to cure the nibble of an unfriendly fer-de-lance or any number of foreign bug bites, so we keep on our toes.

While hiking through the swamp, I was struck with the desire to take a photo so purely swampish that while I’m sitting at a computer killing time in a gray Kentucky January, I will feel like I’m breathing the heavy air of the swamp once again. Six hours and 200 photos later, I could still only hope that I had begun to capture the uncontained rapture I felt for the unique ecosystem. I cannot say for sure, but perhaps my attraction for the swamp stems from my childhood. On hot summer days I would don my favorite purple bathing suit and turn on the hose letting it dribble into the permanent mud puddle in the depression of the sidewalk from my suburban Midwestern home. I would play for hours, content to plop in the mud, covering my skin, and making monstrous faces at passerby’s walking to the park and professors driving to the neighboring University. My love for mud was followed by an interest in frogs and I was later nicknamed “wee toady” by my mother’s boyfriend, Paul, an ecologist. Canoe trips to swamps as a teenager always excited me as much as they unnerved me as I grew more aware of what actually lived in a swamp, but growing through my irrational fear, I find myself slopping through mud and swamps once again.

Caterpillar...1970's shag rug?

Dumping our boots in the ditch next to the laundry line, mud, insects, thorns, sticks, seeds, and a number of unidentifiable objects spilled out, the rest sticking to our pants and socks. We had arrived late for lunch, but covered plates waited patiently on the white and gray flecked tile counters of the cool kitchen and we eagerly plopped on the wooden benches of the comedor to devour the fried yucca, chicken, rice and chicha morada, a refresco made from purple corn. Full, hot, happy, and showered, we settled into our respective cabins to do what one does best during a hot Amazonian afternoon after a long day in the field: take a siesta.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

CM1 and the Miners

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Today started out with rain. Again.

I woke at 8:30 wondering why it was so late and when I turned over to look at my clock, I realized that I had set my alarm, but I had failed to actually turn it on. Thus, any chance of actually working with someone today was out of the question, and I was forbidden to walk alone, so I picked up a new book. Scanning the cover of “The Neotropical Companion” I decided that the thick paperback addressing natural history, flora, and fauna of the Amazon would easily keep me entertained for the morning—and if not entertained, at least educated.

The rain slowed around 10, and by lunch time it had disappeared completely, the sun pouring joyfully from large gaps in the clouds. Everyone was in a good mood. The laundry lines sagged with the weight of 40 peoples clothing drip drying in the humid air and the shouts of “A JUGAAARRRR” came from the cancha. I ran to my cabin to change into my filthy volleyball clothes and began to stir up my slow moving blood stream, jogging to the field. We played for an hour and I ran to the outdoor shower to clean my crawling skin of the collection of bee stings and bug bites with my razor which had accumulated during the game.

Walking back to my cabin, Karina spotted me and asked me to help her track the ocelot. Struggling into my damp, muddy, sweaty field clothes I grabbed my tall rubber boots and met her in the comedor. We set off immediately, walking toward Aerodromo and stopping to pick up faint signals with the GPS. I recorded each signal, it’s strength, location, and time. Using the data, and a trail map, we traversed Perro, Daniela, and Aerodromo, picking up strong signals at the intersection of Daniela and Perro in the woods. After three hours of rough trail slopping, and jogging in clear areas so we would not lose the signal, we called it quits and headed back to camp, the darkening sky chasing our tails.

We arrived in time for a sunset game of fútbol, and I hopped into my OTHER sweaty clothes for a quick game before dinner. The electricity had not been turned on, so there was nothing I could do except play. Sprinting, chasing my offender, and shooting at various intervals, I ran until my legs could go no more. The light had finally receded and I ran to my cabin for my towel. Jogging to the shower hut, I saw Will just ahead and we both raced for the showers, trying to win—the prize being the cleaner shower stall we took this seriously. He had a head start so stopped when he reached the shower and we bet the good shower on the outcome of a vigorous game of rock, paper, scissors. I lost instantly. Grabbing my soap, I headed for the second shower hut and went to dinner.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

I took a photo yesterday. A good one. It was the kind of photo that made me shiver, no, tremble, knowing without having seen it that this photo was important and not just to me. I’ve never felt that way before today. I could be wrong, but everyone has their doubts when they get their hopes up. But when I watch people’s reactions, their gasp, raised eyebrows, Nigel’s questioning “I was there? I didn’t see that!” I know that something happened between my camera and I. I’ve taken some amazing photographs before, but they were different. The beautiful Guatemalan children, intricate Chinese and Mongolian architecture, and drab Turkish bakeries I’ve photographed are stunning—but they served no value other than as an aesthetic recording of my travels and their cultures. This time, it’s different.

Nigel and I walked down the rocky, uneven terrain of Carretera to go visit the mining camp just 40 minutes walking from the station. We were going to talk to them about the hunting that had been going on over the past week, but also so I could take some photographs. Hopefully something will come of this. Hopefully I will gain a purpose other than cheering the ACA website with yawning cayman and ruffled rufescent tiger herons yellow glares. Maybe I can help.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Today I woke at 5:15 for a quick yoga session. I had gone to bed at 8 the night before so I was wide awake and ready for a vigorous, blood pumping session. We worked our abs, held our stretches, and sank low on our thighs, letting our weight drop lower into the Warrior position with each exhalation. Wide awake and ready for my day, I went to breakfast and was greeted with the sights and smells of 30 plates of steaming eggs with squeaky Andean cheese, tomatoes, and green onions and toasted slices of Renata’s homemade bread. Eating enough for 2 ½ people, I gorged on eggs and bread with algarrobina, a fruity molasses from Piura, Diego’s homeland.

I continued to read about the gold mining process and picked up A Neotropical Companion for a quick lesson on rainforest ecology. I continued to edit the photojournalism story on the mining and hunting around CICRA. After lunch, I walked down to the river to cool my overheated body and hopefully catch sight of some white caiman. My eyes, now much more accustomed to spotting the camouflaged fauna of the forest spotted a 2 meter caiman basking in the sunshine 10 meters from the boats, nearly invisible in the pale gray brown sand. Though I have acquired some skill in spotting mammals and reptiles, I still see very little from day to day. Even with the help of another’s trained eyes, it’s still quite difficult to find the wildlife concealed in the foliage.

Black-faced hawk (possibly a hybrid because the black-faced hawk supposedly does not exist in this region...then again to have a hybrid would mean that a full-blooded bird would have to exist as well!).

At four, I returned to the station ready for a nap, as I was still too sticky and hot to do anything else. The comedor was quiet as I walked by, others having my same intentions, but Nigel’s voice called my name from the shadows of a chair in the corner, just out of my sight. He asked me to take Aña and Clark, two ecotourists visiting the station for the next four days, to the tower. Not wanting them to go out just before sunset without someone who knows the trails, I forfeited my nap for the unappealing task of ascending the 60 meter tower in the baking sun. However, I was interested in seeing the sunset from the vista 20 meters above the treetops so I didn’t drag my feet and was ready to go in ten minutes. Harnesses and climbing ropes in hand, we hit the trail at 4:30, setting a brisk pace so as not to miss the 5:30 sunset.

Aña and Clark were both unfamiliar with the anatomy of the harnesses, so I helped each strap, tie, and tighten the harnesses accordingly. Carefully looping safety knots for the steep ascension, I climbed first, reaching the top in about 4 minutes. Clark arrived several minutes later, and Aña was last. Sweaty, bug-bitten, and thirsty, the unfamiliar feeling of a breeze was heaven. The forest floor has no such thing as breezes and bugs are abundant, making sitting or standing in one spot for more than 2 minutes uncomfortably irritating unless one likes the sound of a cloud of mosquitoes whining in their ears.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

I forgot to set my alarm again last night and I woke at 8:30 bathed in a thick pool of sweat. Walking to the bathroom to splash myself down in the cold water pouring from the tap, I began to feel the rumble of hunger echoing through my abdomen. The comedor was busy that morning, people writing papers, reading, and doing research. It was going to be a hot day, and those who were doing field work had already returned, soaking wet and smelly. I helped myself to leftover potatoes and onion sauce with rice. Still hungry, I returned to the kitchen for fruit, Renata’s homemade granola, and strawberry yogurt.

I spent the morning helping Nigel label photographs of birds with their Latin names for the ACA website. Though it was not difficult, it took patience since not all photos were labeled correctly. I was pleased to note that some of the photos were mine—next to the photos of famous photographers.



Road-Side Hawk

After lunch, I returned to my cabin to pack for my trip to CM1. I would be traveling with Claire Salisbury, Will Minehart, and Diego Olaechea to a research station just downriver from CICRA until Friday. We left at 4 and stopped for emergency supplies at Boca Amigos…aka chocolate wafers.

Keeping our eyes open for dusk loving wildlife, and admiring the glowing sunset which turned the murky river water pink, we pulled up to CM1 and climbed the stairs ascending the river bank. The station was just 100 meters from the river’s edge, making it far buggier than CICRA. As CICRA is at the top of a cliff, there are always slight breezes, barely felt, but just enough to keep the mosquito population at a tolerable level. Also the lack of shade around the buildings prevents much wildlife from entering the clearing—which as soon as I arrived at CM1, I realized was something to be appreciated. A prometor led us to the dorm, which was conveniently empty, except for its rumors about being haunted. The boys took a room across the hall from Claire and I, and we chatted loosely, donning more protective clothing and unpacking our bags. Will and Diego, machetes in hand, left to collect bamboo poles for the bird trapping in the morning. The poles would be used to hang the black bird nets.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

We woke at 5:45 and headed to the dining hall. Jerry was in the kitchen preparing eggs, rice, and broccoli for breakfast while Diego and I searched for water. We found two pitchers of liquid in the fridge and pulled them out for a closer inspection. The first was a fruity refresco, but the second was unidentifiable. It had no scent, but was a murky brown color: river water. Yes, golden brown, mercury laden river water is our drinking water here. We opted for refresco.

Diego lindo, de que estas pensando?

After breakfast, we walked to the first trail behind the dining hall and set up a dark net, almost invisible to the passerby and listened for ant birds returning their calls in response to the playback. A lucky morning for us, we caught a male and female in ten minutes. Claire untangled the female from the nets and began recording its size, took blood and feathers, and weighed it. Just as she was finishing, Will finally managed to untangle the male from the nets; however, as he did so, the slippery bird managed to escape from his clutches and our precious friend was lost to the understory. Fortunately, our luck did not wane and we managed to catch 3 more birds in four hours plus two species on accident. What a success! Four birds in a morning is quite lucky, especially since we started 1.5 hours later than we should have. Normally we leave at 5:30 and return by 11:30 since the birds are awake at sunrise and stop moving around 11 due to the baking humidity.

Their work, like that of most biological research, is uneventful, time-consuming, and unrewarding—that is until a goal has been met or another bird has been caught. As we sat and waited for over two hours, hoping that the white-lined antbird or the yellow subflava would indeed decide to defend its territory from the invisible caller, ants bit our thighs and dropped into our shirts from overhanging branches, mosquitoes whined in our ears, rain came and went, and we sweated. Sound appealing? If so, please, join us.

Yet, to be honest, I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Since the birds stop calling at 11, our work was finished, and we hiked back to camp for cold showers, clean (sort of) clothes, and lunch. The camp was quiet since the all the prometores, except Jerry had gone to CM2 and Jerry was planning on going to CICRA for the afternoon. After lunch, we returned to our cabin to read and sleep off the heat. It is 10 degrees hotter at this station as it’s just next to the river, unlike CICRA. The bugs are far more intense too.

As the sky began to darken, we wondered if Jerry was planning to return. It was dark by six and Will went downstairs to turn on the generator so we could go cook dinner. We knew we were supposed to wait for Jerry, but we were unsure of when he was planning to return and we were hungry. If you leave four hard-working researchers to their own devices in a camp, they will take care of themselves. However, just as we were entering the kitchen to do an inventory of the food, Jerry returned and shooed us out of his kitchen, startled at our audacious intention to cook our own dinner. An hour later, steaming plates of spaghetti with meat and tomatoes (no sauce) was ready to eat. We had water….it was translucent this time as someone had taken the time to filter the sand from the pitcher.

After dinner, we returned to our cabin and sprawled on our beds, analyzing bird calls, identifying sub-species of birds we had seen throughout the morning, writing, and reading until lights out at ten. The lights go out late here! However, the generator just died as I typed that last sentence, which means that lights are going out now: 8:00. Early to bed we go!

Thursday, July 17, 2008

We headed out at 6 this morning, but were stranded by a brief rain shower. None of us can work in the rain. I don’t want to risk damaging my camera and the birds hide, making it pointless to try and capture and record them. When it did stop, it was surprisingly cool, yet the birds were not cooperating. We set up nets twice before any success and when we did finally start to catch birds, it was on accident, when we were trying to clean up so we could go eat lunch. Arriving an hour late, Jerry was slightly miffed, but the soup was still hot, and the beans with ham, and avocado with tomatoes and onions hit the spot.

Moon Rising over the Madre de Dios at CM1. Mining camps can be seen in the distance.

The morning rain was starting to make the sunny air muggy, and with full stomachs, we showered and took a siesta. After waking, we read and walked to the benches, layered in clothing to survive the mosquitoes. The moon was full and was rising as the sun was setting creating a pink glow and providing fantastic photo opportunities. I walked away from the group and sat in silence next to the boats, waiting for the moon to reappear from behind the clouds. As soon as it did, a trail of light spilled across the length of the river, illuminating the distant mining shacks and the nearby motorized canoes belonging to the station.

Friday, July 18, 2008

We woke at five this morning, but not because our alarms were beeping frantically. Rain pounded on the roof, dripping off the palms and a slight mist floated silently into the room coating everything in the finest layer of humidity. We could not work in the rain since it would ruin the recordings of the ant bird’s vocalizations and I would risk damaging my camera. Happy that it was raining BEFORE, we dressed for the day’s work, Claire and I rolled over and fell asleep waking as soon as the rain slowed enough to consider working. Diego and Will rose early as usual, shaking the entire house despite their efforts to tiptoe as quietly as possible. Structures are not as solid here as they are at home…then again, this palm-thatched hut is giving my 200-year-old brick home a run for its money in terms of durability.

The rain finally slowed and we started to work, but we were fooled by the “sucker holes” in the clouds, the blue sky shining tantalizingly above the gray rain. Sure enough, we were shooed back under the cover of the kitchens and we waited, drinking coffee and reading to pass the time. At 8, we set foot on the trails and set up nets, but to no avail. Moving and setting up again about a mile from the station, we had much better luck and caught a bird almost immediately. Before we knew it, there were three birds in the net: a subflava, a cinnamon rumped foliage gleaner, and a red billed scythebill (yes, the redundancy is correct). Though we only wanted the first of the three, it was still exciting to catch the other birds as they were unique and curious to admire (and photograph).

White-lined antbird.

Claire and Will set to work measuring the subflava and taking data while Diego and I posed the other two birds for photos in the weak gray light. Just as I finished photographing the second bird, we heard the thunderous sound of a heavy downpour drenching the forest with the force of a fire hose. I ran to cover my book and put away my camera, and not a minute too late. Will and Claire finished recording data, while Diego and I took down the bird nets, carefully wrapping the ropes and fine mesh so that none of it tangled while remaining taught. Packed in minutes, we checked our watches and realized that we were going to be late for lunch—4 hours passes quickly in the field. More than happy to set off as the rain made us feel sluggish from the rising temperature due to the humidity, we quickly strode to the dining hall in 45 minutes and sat down for a hot lunch of rice, beef, and tomatoes.

Re-energized, we admiried a troop of red howler monkeys crawling quietly through the trees next to the kitchen. I began to follow them for a ways into the brush, but changed my mind, opting for a shower. However, just as I returned, I saw them heading near the showers and stopped to watch them still tempted to track them. Just then Will came over and we grinned at each other—time to follow some monkeys. We leapt and crawled carefully into the thick, thorny underbrush until we were under the tree where the great monkeys were feeding. Unable to see anything, Will shook some vines and imitated a hawk’s call in hopes of bringing the monkeys lower. Instead, they hid. We waited for 30 minutes, but to no avail, so we began the slow trek back to the cabin (even though it was only 100 feet away). On the way back, I saw a wonderfully tempting climbing tree lined with vines. Shedding my awkward rubber boots, I scaled them easily for the first 20 feet. Looking down, I realized the stupidity of my actions since there were no prometores at the station at the moment. Claire, Will, Diego, and I had been left to our own devices for the afternoon, so if something happened, we would be in trouble. Descending carefully, but with smiles, we returned to shower and pack.

At three, we walked to the river’s edge to flag down the Friday supply boat which would serve as our ride back to CICRA. The startling sound of an approaching boat interrupted the silence, but it wasn’t a CICRA boat. The boat belonged to a miner and he was landing on CM1’s dock along with two other men. The unknown men scaled the stairs and stood next to us chatting as if it were perfectly normal for a miner to be at a research station. Claire and I stayed quiet while Diego chatted lightly with them, hoping to catch wind of their reason for stopping without being invasive or rude. They asked if anyone was at the station and Diego said no, that we were the only ones—Claire visibly cringed. It was true, but I interrupted quickly, “reminding” him that a few of the men were on the trails near the kitchens. Diego smiled meekly at me and quickly agreed, shaking his head as if he just had a bad memory for details. Next, the men began to admire Diego’s fine birding binoculars and asked him how much they cost. Diego tried to avoid the exact price, saying that it was a gift, but they persisted and he said they were $100 dollars or so. I quietly pushed my camera case into the brush and picked up a machete, playing casually with it…. I didn’t feel threatened, but no one knew who these men were and why they were at CM1.

Awkwardly chatting with the men, everyone fell silent at the sound of a tremendous crashing just 20 meters from where we stood. A majestic 70 foot tree was falling at an epic rate down the steep embankment into the river. We all stood in awe, some of us examining our own surroundings wondering how many other trees would follow suite in this networked grouping of veins holding to each other for dear life. The silence that followed the crash seemed to leave an impression on everyone, and we remained silent, looking at the tree sinking into the water.

Finally we heard the sound of another boat, and peering into his binoculars, Diego delightedly announced the arrival of the CICRA boat. We began to wave at the boat, relieved at the idea that we would no longer have to worry about the miners (except that we didn’t know if we should just leave them at the station). However, Samuel, and the people on the boat just waved back as if delighted that we should come down to say hi. We began to run toward the edge of the shore, but the sweet, dimwitted boat-driver just kept driving. Now what?

So, we did the only thing we could do. Wait. With the anonymous miners.

……………..

An hour later the miners seemed to lose interest in us, the station, or whatever they had come for and left. We never knew what they wanted. They didn’t even seem interested in conversing with us as they kept to themselves for the majority of the time.

Minutes after their departure, we saw the CICRA boat upriver, empty, and heading in our direction. We waved vigorously, but stopped as soon as we saw it was Jerry with Lisseth and Edwin. Jerry had realized that Samuel had left us at CM1, so Lisseth and Edwin joined him for the pleasant boat-ride down to the station. The sun was stunning on the dark river water, shafts of light illuminating portions of the dark green forest. I rolled up my pants, pulled off my long sleeves, let down my hair, sat back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the ride.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

“We’re going to do a necropsy on a huangana,” Mini said. “Would you be willing to help?”

Grinning dryly at the thought of dissecting a rotting three day old peccary, I jumped at the chance—I had yet to see these infamous wild pigs, the same which had bitten the leg of Travis in Old Yeller. Darting down the path to my palm thatched cabin, I collected my knee deep rubber boots, a long-sleeve shirt, my headlamp, and my trusty Nikon. In ten minutes, Susan Cousineau, Mini Watsa and I hit the trail for Cocha Lobo, a nearby oxbow lake where the dead huangana had been spotted. Setting a brisk pace down Carretera, we stopped cold, but just for a minute, at the sound of two thundering shots fired in the direction of our destination. Hunters.

Looking each other in the eye, we took a deep breath and continued our trek down the rocky hill, reaching the peccary in 30 minutes. It lay ten meters off the trail, hidden from sight but not from smell. Susan, quoting a Tom Robbin’s novel, broke out a small container of cinnamon, claiming that the scent was opposite that of death and coated our blue face masks with the light brown powder—as it turned out, neither she or Tom Robbins is completely crazy because I forgot about the horrid decay and instead confused my senses with a mix of dead peccary, sweat, cinnamon, and baby powder scented masks. Slicing through the thick skin and fat with the scalpel for blood, lung, and cervical samples proved to be difficult, so we ditched the small sharp blade for the brutish blade of the machete. Most of the blood had congealed and the spinal cord samples were poor as well, but this was not a problem as its cause of death was obvious. Unfortunately, we still needed to retrieve the samples.

Shot holes sprinkled over a stretch of intestine lining the pig’s side, and though we could not find the cold, man-made killers lodged in the mammal, nothing else could have made the multitude of perfect circles exposing the innards of the pig. I perked my ears to the sound of approaching footsteps, wondering who in the world had any desire to help us dissect the carcass. The footsteps stopped, but I could just make out a figure peering at us through the thick underbrush wondering who we were. “Hóla,” I called and a gruff voice responded. The man decided the three girls were harmless and he strode boldly past. As he did, Mini and Susan became aware of his presence and stood up just in time to see him laboring under the weight of a large huangana and an awkward shotgun. Mini, a petite Indian woman, displayed her spunk, clenching her fists in a death grip and turning red at the sight of the hunter. So intimidated by Mini’s well founded anger (for she could very easily be mistaken for a huangana while tracking her Tamarin monkeys), I forgot about the hunter. No one spoke for several minutes as we finished our work and returned to the station with photos, samples, and stories.

My first days at the station were full of the sights and sounds of young children performing traditional Peruvian dances, a 24 foot anaconda basking in the marshy reeds of a tea-colored pozo, researchers diligently tracking Tamarin monkeys and ant-birds, and fútbol games every day at 5. It’s a haven here at CICRA, but even the most isolated oasis cannot escape social and economic adversity. A flock of batty scientists mindlessly crashing through the thick brush at ungodly hours of the day could easily be mistaken for the tasty flesh of a peccary, creating a preventable danger in addition to the perilous flora and fauna of the shadowy jungle.

Several days later, Nigel Pitman, CICRA’s research coordinator, and I visited the neighboring mining camp where the hunters resided, just 30 minutes from our doorstep at CICRA. The camp consisted mostly of Cusqueños, men from the Inca capital, Cusco, who flock to Amazonian havens such as the Río Madre de Díos to mine for the alluvial gold blended discreetly in the sandy banks of the river and forest soils. Miners such as Juan, leave Cusco for four months each year to work in the mining camps and provide a supplementary income to their businesses. We met Juan as he was gently mixing mercury with the sandy particles of gold in a small tin bowl and he explained the steps he was taking to finalize the extraction process. His dark skin contrasted with his bright red soccer shorts, rubber boots, and simple watch. A baseball cap obscured his eyes, but he looked to the sky and light shone on his face when speaking with Nigel as he towered over him. Smiling as he chatted with us, he explained that he had been mining in the Madre de Dios for 28 years.

As we broke through the cover of the secondary forest, we were greeted with a stirring view, more reminiscent of a World War II battle scene than the pristine verdure of the jungle lining the river. Forty foot pits carved into the skin of the earth yawned widely at the anxious knots forming on our brows. Smoke drifted casually from the edge of the forest where three laborers were clear cutting the grand ficus and rubber trees. Not wanting to arouse suspicion from the men, we began a slow trek over the fallen trees and around the spiny palms toward the camp. Nigel’s long legs leapt easily over the thick branches and tree trunks while I stumbled and climbed clumsily, panting to keep up, running into various spines and wasps along the way. I finally reached his side as we looped around the last pit filled with water pumps for knocking the gray soil loose from the steep banks of the hole. Smoke filled the pits and I turned to snap a photo before a new sight distracted my darting eyes. Feeling a sudden chill as I looked through my viewfinder, I knew this photograph would be significant.


Hydraulic pumps are used to excavate and loosen soil in the first part of the mining process.


Tiptoeing across a fallen tree used as a bridge between the village and the mining pits, we entered the camp. It consisted of small 14 by 14 ft. (5 by 5 meters) shacks whose walls consisted of blue tarps that blocked the eyes of the passerby from the activity under the palm-thatched roofs. Approaching a group of men devouring lentils with red onions and rice, crammed on a rickety wooden table under the watchful eyes of a mothering wife (or perhaps just an industrious cook), we greeted them with smiling eyes and “Buenos tardes”. Some, mouths full, only grunted and nodded, acknowledging our presence, while others seemed to know Nigel and came to shake his hand, returning the greeting. Nigel’s voice, soft spoken and unhurried, commanded a certain degree of respect among the Peruvian workers, and wrinkling his eyes, he asked (not for the first time) that the men hunt outside of the CICRA concession. Everyone listened, knowing that if others spoke he would not be heard over the din of another conversation. Even the dogs stopped their vociferous barking. Despite the appearance of their unhesitant “claro” and “sí” responses delivered in Nigel’s presence, we can only hope that the message will be conveyed and the men will stop hunting on CICRA land as they agreed to do so serenely each time under Nigel’s paternal gaze.

He asked if we could walk around the camp, and one man, apparently a leader, though only in a naturally acquired sense, nodded. We thanked them and set off, walking to the edge of the camp, winding around the piles of gravel back toward the cavernous pits. Just as we reached the edge of camp, four dogs came bounding after us, and the largest of the four leapt and wrapped his solid jaws around my calf. Just before he broke skin, I landed a swift kick on his jaw. Snarling once again at my retreating back, he stood his ground, but did not advance, feeling my bold decision of using my sturdy hiking boots to defend myself. Nigel, smiling grimly, said that the dogs were a necessary precaution for the miners. The price of gold is soaring, and miners are pouring into the region to collect the lucrative flecks of metal from the sands of the Madre de Díos. Bandits rob the mining camps hoping to make a profit off the tired backs of the slaving miners. Thus, the aggressive dogs (such as the pit bull in the next camp and the muzzled Rottweiler in Boca Amigos) show that both the miners and the bandits mean business.

Along the river banks of the Madre de Dios, one can observe ingenio, the simple 2-6 man mining process favored in this region. Men dump wheelbarrows of rocky, gold-containing sediment into sluices lined with deposition cloth. Gold sticks to the cloth while diesel water pumps wash the unwanted debris off the sluice. Placing the cloth in barrels, mercury is added, and the miners stomp vigorously on the thick fabric to loosen the heavy metals. “Mercury amalgamates the gold, that is, binds to it but leaves most other metals and impurities behind” (Goulding 45). The mercury is then separated from the gold by heating it, evaporating the substance and releasing noxious fumes. The gold, ready to sell or trade, is readily accepted at banks in exchange for money, general stores for gasoline and equipment, and unfortunately, at bars in exchange for Cusqueñas, a nationally popular, low-cost beer.

As Nigel and I looped around the barbaric excavation, we neared the smoldering piles of ash and fallen trees where the men were clear-cutting. Nigel cringed, and with a melancholy look, pointed to the remains of a research trail buried under accumulating soot. The men were cutting directly into the concession of protected land yet there is little Nigel can do from his post in the rainforest except to beg the miners to go elsewhere. Though CICRA owns the land, the miners have “underground rights”. Despite the fact that every inch of life 25 meters above and below ground (not to mention what’s downstream) is destroyed to obtain the gold, the Peruvian government avoids confronting this discrepancy in its natural resources policy. CICRA and the Amazon Rainforest need a new policy which faces this concern at both local and national levels in order to avoid future annihilation; harder yet, the need for resources to enforce this change is in demand as well. Being 5-6 hours by boat from the nearest small town and 3 hours from any police, the station is forced to take matters into its own hands (though with considerable tact). This very week, the regional capital building of Puerto Maldonado was stormed and burned by 5,000 Peruvians during a 6 day strike—the majority of the strikers were miners. Yet, it would be unfair to call these men dangerous. They are like any other man, raising a family or leading an independent life, but with few resources and taxing conditions. Miners cannot be blamed for resorting to destructive practices to bring home bread. Unfortunately, a lack of man-power and resources to address these issues and advocate for change at a governmental level makes this emotionally charged topic extremely difficult to undertake.

Leaving the mining camp to return to CICRA for lunch, Nigel spotted bananas ready for harvesting and made a note to tell Jorge to fetch them as we had forgotten a machete. Two hours later, intending to retrieve the bananas, Jorge encountered a hunter from the mining village pursuing the distant sound of barking huanganas….

Goulding, Michael, et al. Amazon Headwaters: Rivers, Wildlife, and Conservation in Southeastern Peru”. Lima: Amazon Conservation Association, 2003.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat%27s_claw

This grows all over the place. It's a plant called cat's claw and it's valued for its medicinal properties. Ethnobotanists go wild over this stuff.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Flor de Alaconia



Insecto Extrano cerca del Torre

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

I woke at 5 for an hour long yoga session. It was chilly and damp from yesterday’s rain, so the systematic stretching and flexing of muscles allowed me to quickly fight off the oncoming chill that hoped to settle in my bones. It proved to warm me quite a bit as I’ve been sitting and reading in shorts for three hours while everyone else is wearing wool sweaters and pants.

It’s pouring again, so there’s no sense in taking photos. Alas..another reading day.



Plant with Dew...5:30 a.m.


Mariposa on Carretera! By the way..I've seen over 20 Morpho butterflies, but they're impossible to photograph since they move quickly and close their wings when they do land.

Monday, July 07, 2008

This morning I woke at 4:30 in a cold sweat and couldn’t fall back asleep. I crawled out of bed searching for my headlamp to scan the floor before I touched my bare feet to its surface. Slipping into my linen pants and cotton shirt, I went to the classroom and began to take deep breaths, beginning my day with a vigorous yoga session. After working for an hour, feeling energized yet relaxed, I strode into the comedor and ate a quick bowl of granola and yogurt before grabbing my camera and walking to the mirador to watch the light change with the coming of day. Cautiously treading the path of brazil nuts, I turned on my headlamp and stepped off the path so as not to wake the people in the cabins lining the trail. As soon as I arrived at the mirador, I switched off my headlamp and covered myself in my sarong and jacket from head to toe to protect my skin from the cloud of accumulating mosquitoes. The howler monkeys roared from a short distance, perhaps near Plataforma, and I quietly listened to them call to the sun. Oropendulas swung from branch to branch, emitting their chaotic variety of vocalizations, from the sound of water dripping to a shrill twitter that travels for miles waking all at the camp.
Pluma and Jesus at Boca Amigo

Tired of being bitten by mosquitoes, I tiptoed into the library and began to write. Nigel asked me to write a story relating to the hunting and disease concerns around the huanganas, so as soon as I felt a sudden urge to write, I knew I had to start immediately, or I would lose the feeling in minutes. Sure enough, I began to tap my keys furiously, my hands barely keeping up with my train of thought. Thirty minutes later, I stopped dead—in part because my laptop battery had died and also because I could smell Don Pascual and Raúl cooking eggs for breakfast. Walking downstairs just as the serving window opened, I received my steaming plate of fried eggs and Renata’s homemade bread with a mandarin orange.


At 10, Brian and I decided to wander to Segunda Mirador for a 3 hour hike to search for birds. Walking quietly, and conversing in low tones, we had no such luck. At the mirador, we looked down upon Cocha Raya and watched a white heron and two horned screamers (birds) tiptoe through the mud flats of the nearly dry oxbow lake. Turning back to camp, we meandered across Sobrevuelo to Aerodromo. In the open air of the retired landing strip, we took deep breaths and looked at the trees on the other side of the strip that took 10 minutes to walk to.Devouring a platter of lentils and stuffed chile peppers, I wandered to the dam to take an outdoor shower in the jungle and then back to my cabin for an afternoon siesta. Waking to the sounds of an aggressive volleyball game, I climbed out of bed and wandered into the comedor for a snack and started to read more about the gold mining process undertaken by the local miners. I was curious to learn more since Nigel plans to take me to a mining village tomorrow morning. There we will speak with the miners about their hunting habits and I’ll hopefully be able to take some photos.



Phantom Hands (Woodland Creeper)

After reading for two hours, I caught a strong whiff of fresh rain and was surprised to see the clouds dumping buckets of rain on our heads. It has not rained in two weeks, so the rain smelled immensely refreshing. As soon as the rain stopped, Will and I put on our walking shoes, grabbed a headlamp and went on a late afternoon walk to primer mirador to watch for birds and caiman. It was late dusk by the time we arrived at the mirador and we sat for a few minutes, observing the river in utter silence. Alas, we saw nothing apart from the general beauty of the forest after a fresh rain. Sitting on a log, it was easy to remain still in hopes of catching sight of movement both near and far, but something took a large bite of my upper thigh causing me to leap up and yelp in pain. We decided to return back to the station, walking as far as we could without using a headlamp in order to conserve batteries and observe the bats swooping centimeters from our noses. We walked in darkness for about 15 minutes, but it became too dark to function without risking stepping on snakes or breaking our ankles on loose roots, so I reluctantly turned on my headlamp and we returned just in time for the first course: hot soup.


Black Caiman, Cocha Lobo (Oxbow Lake)

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

No one had a full night’s rest last night. Rain came at 2 a.m. and again at 4, roaring through the dense tree cover as heavily as a falling tree. Even the heaviest sleeper (i.e. me) could not ignore such a sensation of fresh air inundating the peaceful cabaña. Mosquito net flapping in the heavy wind, I curled under my sheet to avoid the spray of fresh water that filtered through the dusty screens of my cabaña.

Waking on my own at 5:30, I crawled from my bed and put my shoes and warm clothes in my backpack, and walked barefoot to the library in the dribbling rain. The sky had an eerie orange tinge and the old anecdote, “red sky in morning” popped into my head as it did whenever I saw such a sky. The classic phrase held true to its word because no sooner than I had stepped foot into the library, than the sky began dumping buckets of rain which would have soaked me in seconds. We will not go to the mining village today…maybe Friday if it’s sunny. Hopefully the sun will coincide with Nigel’s schedule.



"Friendly" doing a traditional dance at Boca Amigo...yes, her name is Friendly..there's also a girl named Blanca (white), Negra (black), and Chinita (little Chinese girl). I don't know.

I joined a group of students traveling with a program called “Where there be Dragon’s” to go search for orchids on a fallen tree near Yuguntoro. We had no luck finding orchids, but we did run into a family of 10 saddleback tamarins. The students went ballistic, taking photos and whispering excitedly at their first sight of a mammal in the Amazon. The guide, though well versed in Amazonian flora and fauna, was not familiar with the CICRA trails so I led them back on a new trail for some different sights other than those on primer mirador.

After lunch, I put on my boots and did a 2 hour loop by myself, walking from Carrizo to Jean to Perro and then to Aerodromo…at least that was the plan. Despite the fact that I can read a map and despite my strong sense of direction, whenever I’m alone I always end up somewhere other than where I had intended to go. I don’t actually get lost and it still takes me the amount of time to hike that I predicted, but I just end up in random places.

Monday, July 7, 2008







Juvenile Rufescent Tiger Heron at Cocha Lobo (Oxbow lake)

Friday, June 27, 2008

Today was the first day that we’ve had sun in 6 days. Early morning was cloudy, but by the time I returned from a hike with students studying medicinal plants, the sun was blazing in the bright blue sky. I hurried back to my cabin and collected the pile of clothes I had accumulated over the week. Washing them in the deep concrete sinks with vigorous strokes and a rough plastic brush, I did my best to scrub the grime from my clothing. No matter how many times I rinsed them, the water turned a murky color from the dirt, sweat, and humidity which had permeated every fiber of every shirt and sock. Wringing the water from each thread, I hung the sopping clothes to drip-dry in the blazing sun knowing perfectly well that even though it was only 11 a.m., they would still not dry in this humid climate. Becoming accustomed to wearing damp, musty, moldy clothes is just another fact of life in the Amazon. I do not mind washing my clothes…if only they could dry.

Andes to the Amazon with wild ducks

I helped Antonio this afternoon, serving as a guide’s assistant. The group of students studying medicinal plants was eager to explore the trail system and examine the various properties of the plants, testing Antonio’s knowledge of the cultural and medicinal uses of the plants and trees in the jungle. Walking to Pozo Don Pedro, we hoped to catch sight of the anacondas inhabiting the small cocha. Since it was the first sunny day in a week, our chances were good. I steered the catamaran (two canoes connected with platform in the middle) around the cocha while Antonio stood on his tiptoes trying to spot the smooth, dark scales of an anaconda ensconced in the grasses. We could clearly make out its normal sun spot as the grasses were flattened to an area the size of a double bed, but alas, no anacondas were in sight.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

This morning I woke with sunshine streaming through the screen walls of my cabin. I woke without an alarm just in time for breakfast and dressed, putting on my green linen pants and a soft merino wool shirt. After eating pancakes with honey, I sat in the sunshine on the porch with Mini. A fly had laid larvae into her finger and she needed someone to remove the creatures from her skin. Susan retrieved her insect dissecting kit and I carefully pulled away the skin from her fingertips to remove the minute larvae. Though they were quite deep, the skin of the hands, especially of the fingertips is fairly thick, so she was not in any particular pain. Susan was less lucky last week—Lisseth dug a larva from her back with her dissecting kit and the pressure from her fingernails.

Later Mini began to demonstrate Indian dances for Oli and Pepi, turning our beautiful sun shiney morning into a dance class. We danced for an hour, showing each other dances that we knew. I showed them a bit of salsa and tango, telling them about my experiences in Costa Rica and living with Andrea (my Spanish exchange student).

After lunch, Mini approached me and asked if I could help her and Susan do an autopsy on a huangana (wild peccary) found that morning near Cocha Lobo. I was more than willing to help decapitate a wild pig and check out its innards, so was ready in minutes. Just as we were leaving, Susan realized that she forgot her headlamp (a necessary safety precaution in case we find ourselves out after dark) and ran back to camp to retrieve it from her cabin. As I was sitting in the grass waiting for her and Mini to return, I heard two distinct gun shots coming from Cocha Lobo…. I informed them of my observations as soon as they returned and we proceeded as planned, but with wide eyes.

Shot Gun Wound, Huangana (Peccary)

The land around CICRA is protected, making hunting illegal. It’s simply a matter of safety—scientists and hunters in the same field do not mix well. So far no one’s been hurt, but we hope to never reach that point. The hunters are generally local gold miners who frequent the bars and do not hesitate to hunt while drinking or drunk. For this reason, Nigel and Renata have forbidden me to walk alone in case I encounter a miner on the path. A lonely miner who finds a young girl in the middle of the jungle would have no reason to turn the opportunity down and I prefer not to intentionally walk into such a situation.

After 30 minutes of walking, we finally found the huangana sprawled dramatically in the brush 10 meters from the trail. We set up the dissection supplies and I was given instructions on what supplies to give and when. We did not want to contaminate our packs with the huangana’s bacteria, not knowing what it could be carrying and what we could spread or contract as a result. I began recording the location of the pig and its current condition with my camera. After recording its original location, Mini and Susan dragged the heavy pig (50-60 lbs?) to a spot that Susan cleared with a machete where we could sit and work. We planned to collect samples of blood, spinal fluid, and pulmonary fluid assuming the lungs had not collapsed.

Just as we began to do the autopsy, I heard a sound on the trail just 10 meters from the peccary. Absorbed in a deep discussion involving the location of the first cut, Mini and Susan were unaware of the approaching footsteps. My first thought was that Emeterio must have decided to help the three tough jungle girls, re-obtaining his manhood by volunteering for the gruesome task at hand. However I knew Emeterio would not stand and peer at us suspiciously through the thick undergrowth as if he did not want to be seen, just as this man was doing. Hunched over, he crouched lower upon realizing that I was aware of his presence and we cautiously observed each other. I couldn’t see his expression or if he had a weapon, but I did know that he was a local miner, the source of the gunshots heard 5 minutes before our departure. Abruptly, he stood and started walking. Startled by his sudden change, I called out “Hola!” receiving a muffled greeting in reply, as if out of breath. Seconds later I understood why, and Susan, Mini, and I watched in a nervous trance as the man


Cutting through the skin to retrieve pulmonary fluid, we had no success—the lungs had collapsed (either from the gunshot wounds or being dead for 2 days). Every move we made stirred up the hundreds of flies and bees that laid so thick, the huangana’s skin crawled to life. The smell was worse, almost nauseating, but thanks to a Tom Robbins novel, we were inspired to coat our face masks in cinnamon, a smell opposite that of death and decay. Granted, we couldn’t stop sneezing, but the permeating smell of rotting corpse became bearable and we eventually forgot about the odor. Walking back to camp, our confused noses sorted through the collage of smells: sweat and cinnamon, rotting corpse and humid forest air. Upon returning, I quickly stripped myself of my putrid clothing, throwing it onto my front porch as soon as possible to prevent any lingering odors from making themselves at home in my room.

Sunday

Today was a relaxed day at the station. It’s quite hot and humid and time for me to organize photos. I have taken several hundred already, and keeping them organized is tedious and mind numbing. I have to be careful not to delete things until I have stored them both on my laptop and my external hard drive and even then, am careful to know WHICH drive I am sending things to and if I have already sent them or not. Dull, yes, but necessary.

After organizing photos for 3 hours, my computer battery died and I had to change my plans. The electricity is turned off during the day to conserve power for cooking and light in the evening. It isn’t irritating to realize that I can’t sit in front of my computer anymore—not because I dread the work and count down the seconds till I’ve finished but because there is no reason anybody should be sitting in front of a plastic lighted screen when living in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

After lunch, we played an aggressive game of volleyball, spiking, jumping, and digging, doing our best to keep the red and blue ball on the other side of the net. Diego and I worked together, me setting him up and him spiking after blocking the bumps and spikes from the other side. Drenched in sweat, covered in sand, and sore from bee stings, Diego, Susan, Lisseth, Edgar, and I raced down the 236 stairs to the river banks, splashing loudly as we approached knee deep water to scare away the rays and caiman lurking beneath the surface. Diego chucked a handful of sand at me and I responded instantly, chasing him up and around the river bank. Just as I was about to reach him, we both started breaking through a layer of misleadingly solid sand to the depths of a hot mud bath. Delighted by our discovery, we started rolling around, breaking the top layer of sand and exposing the warm, smooth mud and silt. We all covered ourselves in mud to protect ourselves from the ravaging bug bites on the water’s edge, rubbing it in each other’s hair and faces. I had mud in my nose, ears, eyes, and mouth and ran to wash myself in the muddy river water.

Monday, June 31

Today is Mini Watsa’s second to last day and she was determined to see the anaconda before she left. Eight of us put on our boots and covered our bare arms in deet. Thirty minutes later we reached Pozo Don Pedro and jumped atop the catamaran, spacing ourselves so it wouldn’t flip. We began the slow, gentle paddle around the lake, keeping our eyes open for a thick trunk the size of a football players thighs or a head the size of a football, but to no avail. Just as we were ready to turn back, someone cried in surprise at the sight of the abominably huge reptile basking directly in front of the boat. Except for the feeling that we were being carefully watched, the giant made no move. Paddling closer, we drifted within 8 feet of its glistening scales, some of us holding our breath and others chattering nervously. The only person who was not remotely scared was Brian. Chuckling mischievously, he began to back the boat within 1.5 meters from its elegant head. Arrogantly chatting away with a coquettish grin on his face despite our adamant protests he leaned closer to death, smiling cheerfully at the prospect of the anaconda exposing the two rows of teeth just under the charcoal diamond patterned scales. Mini grimly told me at that point that anacondas have a special tube to breath with when they swallow prey. Trembling and grinning at his idiocy, we took over the boat and moved away from the lazy creature and back to CICRA.

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

This morning we said our goodbyes to Antonio, Megan, and Mini as they set off for their respective homes in India and Boston. Hugging and hoping to see one another again as is custom to saying goodbye (whether it’s true or not—but true in this case), we continued with our day knowing that though we loved Mini, there would always be someone new.

The hard drive on my laptop is about to explode with the inundation of photographs and music from the past three weeks. Though I brought an external hard drive, I use it as a backup and don’t want to have all the information from my photographs in just one place. So this means I need to clear old programs, documents, photos, and music that I don’t listen to in order to keep downloading an average of 60 photos per day. I spent most of my morning organizing old folders and making new ones in order to START deleting information. As there is not generally any electricity during the day, I only had three hours to work, but completed a significant amount of much procrastinated work.

At 10, Brian Phillips and I took a walk down Carrizo, Yugonturo, Otorongo, and back via Primer Mirador in hopes of catching sight of the toucan that had been calling all morning. We walked slowly, stopping at every noise in hopes of catching a rare sight of a mammal or exotic bird. We did not find the toucan, but did come across the Saki monkeys that Dara and Gordon are studying. Noting their location and the time at which we saw them (in order to tell Dara), we watched them courageously leap from tree to tree, liberally calling and chirping to one another. Just as Brian started to explain that Saki’s enjoy urinating on observers from their 20 meter perches, he felt some warm drips hit his glasses and collar from an unnoticed Saki sitting just above us. Groaning and giggling, we both ran out of range, turning onto primer mirador.

Halfway back to camp, we could see two figures sitting cross legged on the ground, taking measurements and notes of an object invisible to our eyes. Will and Claire had called in an ant bird and were tagging, measuring, and taking blood samples of the innocent, wide-eyed creature trembling in their warm hands. I quietly snapped a couple of photos, not wanting to stress the bird or annoy the workers as a previous photographer had done, invasively leering into the bird’s dark eyes as its heart beat to a bursting point. They showed us the path where they had set up the bird nets and we tiptoed toward it in hopes of seeing more birds. Sure enough, a small wood creeper had severely entangled itself in the invisible black netting and I called for help. Will jumped up to help while Claire finished the notes on the bird they had intentionally caught. It seemed that the bird was hopelessly tangled, but Will quietly set to work, his large but deft hands weaving the weightless creature in and out of loops, removing it from the phantom hand who had so suddenly taken away the glorious dignity of flight.

After lunch, I played a quick game of volleyball and had a quick siesta. Following my new ritual, I collected my water bottle and camera at five and went to sit in the sandy outcrop to listen to the drippy call of the ORIPENDULA (Sp?) and watch the raging red sunset.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

I’m looking forward to traveling with mom at the end of the trip. We are hoping to travel in the highlands in the area of Huancayo or Huaraz. If we go, she'll either have to bring me some clothes or I'll have to buy some stuff. It looks cold as hell. However, I want her to bring me some clothes anyway (specifically underwear...I haven't worn any in days since it's all moldy and I don't want to risk a UTI) haha. Plus a nice CLEAN DRY shirt. ahhh...I've forgotten what it's like to have nice smelling clothes. We're so out of touch in the US.

Today was positively baking. I walked with Brian, a 55 year old Welsch man who has the body of a 65 year old but the attitude and cheer of a 20 year old, and we changed insect traps around the oxbow lakes. Brian is incredibly goofy and always up for a laugh. He's in the process of getting out of a rocky marriage, so at times you can sense a slight tension in him (which stands out since the Amazon isn't generally a stressful place) but otherwise he's kept around for a constant stream of conversation and laughs. He says exactly what he thinks, which is generally reasonable and a bit stubborn too.

This afternoon I moved into Mini's old cabin just off the main campus in the forest. It's a small platform cabaña with a palm roof and screens all the way around, affording no privacy except for the dense brush cover. I don't have electricity in my 10x10 cabin, nor running water, which I actually find quite appealing. The bathroom is just 20 meters down the path, but I have several water bottles in my room which I use to brush my teeth. Even though I can’t claim to be roughing it, I feel much more at peace in my private cabin. My home will follow closely with the dynamics of the woodland light and air since it's entirely open to the elements except for screens and a palm roof. Before, I felt much more sheltered and less homey in my shared cabin. Now that I have a place to call my own, I'll never want to leave. :)


As soon as I unpacked and organized everything, I made my bed and lay down enjoying the sounds of the birds and the distant giggles of Nigel's daughters as they played in the sandy pathway that led to the cabins. Asleep in minutes, I awoke to the last rays of sunshine streaming through the dusty cabin screens and walked down the path to the bathroom. Just as I was walking back, I heard the tinkle of a nylon stringed guitar and stopped to listen to Will pass the time with music. Walking quietly, but still making him aware of my presence, I sat on the steps of his porch and listened for a while, losing myself in my thoughts. After listening for 30 minutes I returned to my cabin, read another chapter of The Count of Monte Cristo and went to the comedor at 6 to work on my photos now that the electricity had been turned on for the evening.

Friday, July 04, 2008

Ahhh, it's so beautiful today and I LOVE my little cabin. It's the first one on the left just as you leave the soccer field. So not only is it close, but it's quiet and private. What a treat after living in a dorm all year! When I go back to school I'll never be able to sleep since I'll miss the peace (yet noisiness) of the jungle. I can't stop thinking about how this place is just so ALIVE. The sounds, movements, people, thoughts, animals, whatever! This is my kind of city. People know each other, learn from each other, and are still free to be themselves in a beautiful, mostly stress free, sunny environment.

I HAVE 82 BUG BITES AND 2 TICKS. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA….I NEED NEW SKIN!

Today I pulled a stack of books from the library shelves to start reading about the geology, geography, natural history, culture, biology and ecology of the Amazon. I’m starting with a beautifully photographed book called “El Paraíso Amazonico del Perú: MANU Parque nacional y Reserva de la Biosfera”. Though I’m not actually in Manu, I’m just downstream and can see the same flora and fauna—just not as abundantly.

The Manu area was industrialized in the 1830’s by the rubber boom. The industry abandoned by the 1960’s converted to the harvest of hard woods such as tropical cedar and mahogany for the making of fine furniture and cabinets. Biologist Celestino Kalinowski was raised in the forest by his father who had escaped the Russian jail by convincing the Czar to allow him one chance to prove himself—which he did by shooting and stuffing a giant polar bear in the attack position. The elder Kalinowski moved to Peru where he raised his son in the jungle, giving him a lifetime experience in biology and natural history. This empowered Celestino to recognize the particular beauty of Manu as he was one of few who recognized the rarity of the abundance of large mammals which had otherwise been overhunted for their skins. So, during the beginning of the lumber boom in the 60’s, he lobbied to protect the forest and succeeded. Manu was first named as a state park, then as a national park. Finally, UNESCO named it a world heritage site, a position held by only 200 places in 55 countries (64).

Tropical rainforests cover less than 7% of the earth’s surface, but host over 50% of the world’s species. Manu, extending from 13,786 to 1,200 feet contains more species of plants and animals than any other reserve of equal size on the earth (71).

Medicinal plants: 25% of all drugs found in modern pharmacies are derived or copied from those found in the rainforest. (77)

Giant otters (lobos del río): The otters actually hunt caiman 5 feet and under by attacking their soft underbellies, then eating their head, body, and tail. The otters grow up to 6 feet in length and a full grown male eats an average of 10 lbs. of fish each day. They are extremely rare from overhunting for their precious skins (as well as the black caiman). (86)

Epiphytes: plants that live on other plants and take their nutrients and moisture from their surroundings and not the ground.

Saturday, July 05, 2008

I woke this morning feeling nauseous. Eating cautiously, I drank plenty of water, had a vitamin C, and lay on the couch reading about the natives of Peru in the Manu region. It was hot by 8 a.m. so I did not feel much better as the day went on, but I didn’t get worse either. After lunch, I feel asleep on the couch and woke an hour later feeling refreshed like the beginning of a new day. Giving Karina Salas a quick lesson on conversation after my nap, we chatted about her plans here at CICRA and what she has been learning in her English classes. We plan to have 20-30 minute conversation each day covering every tense and as much vocabulary as possible. Karina is intelligent and prepared to speak English, but she needs to build confidence and learn how much she already knows.

Nigel, Susan, and I went to Boca, a 10 family community just downstream of CICRA and witnessed the melancholy beauty of the Boca Amigos mining village. It was both interesting and sad to see the immense destruction of the land rendering it entirely useless. Here, they dug a 40 foot pit and continuously eroded the soil to loosen it and filter the minute flecks of gold from the clumps of dirt. The roar of the generator amongst the fallen trees and clear cut soil gave a sense of destruction which only seems to describe a battle scene--but a battle waged against Mother Nature.

The children of Boca Amigos showed us the mining strip as if it were nothing—and to them it is just another aspect of their backyard. As we strolled slowly back to the village, practicing our Spanish with the endless chatter of several 9 year old girls and 2 small boys, we passed a cemetery whose dirt was freshly piled on the grave of Pedro. We stopped to pay our respects, holding hands in a semi circle in a passive silence that never seems to exist in children except in confusion—and in this case, death.

Back at the village general store, I picked up chocolate, candles, and a lighter for my new cabin…no electricity, so everything after 5 is done by candle-light. Arriving at CICRA just as it was becoming dark, we spotted two white caiman sitting on the sandy beach by the boat launch. Mouths drooping open as if expecting their prey to just trip over the sand bar and fall inside, they remained frozen as we observed them laying camouflaged in the sand.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

This morning was a maintenance day. I shaved Will’s head, letting the hair float away in the gentle breeze. Then I decided to get a trim myself, so I asked Susan to cut my hair. Her mom runs a dog grooming business so I assumed Susan might know something about hair cutting (I just hoped I wouldn't end up looking like a poodle). Snipping away, she managed to do a nice job, and my head and neck feel much cooler and lighter.

Afterwards, I picked up my book and continued to search and identify flora and fauna I had been observing in the forest. This is not easy since there is such an overwhelming abundance of flora and fauna that it’s difficult to know where or what to start with. The thick brush makes it difficult to spot fauna (ex: When walking to my cabin, I walked past a group of monkeys that were 4 feet from my head at eye level), and the plants grow in such numbers of species and subspecies that the only thing that I am able to see is the Triplaris plant (which I helped Adriana collect for her thesis) and various wild red ginger flowers.

I’ve nearly finished clearing old photos off my hard drive…which means I need to delete my music next. This is such a painful chore since I need to be careful (especially with the photos) to not delete anything special. Plus the electricity is so dodgy that as soon as I get on a roll, the power goes out and I have to find something else to do—not that I mind, really, but it’s hard to complete anything.