“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.