tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56380170455148820852024-02-19T04:54:44.043-08:00Frances and the AnacondasFranceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-49730325929005794242008-08-10T14:05:00.001-07:002012-04-20T19:30:16.197-07:00Homeward BoundFriday, August 08, 2008<br /><br />My trip started with a bang—and what would be the point if it didn’t end with a bang, eh? My mother and I landed in Washington DC, grabbed our car and hit I-66, raring to go home. It happened so suddenly, I only had time to react, let alone time to think. Driving peacefully up the hill, the engine suddenly wined, then screamed like metal scraping metal and the car began to buck as if I were a new driver trying to put the car into reverse while going 60. Ignoring Mom’s hiss of tension as she grabbed the “Oh, shit bar” on the door and checking my mirrors, I flicked on my emergency blinkers to warn the cars traveling 75 mph flanking my little blue car of this sudden change in plans. The car bucked so violently as I coasted to a stop that I consciously thanked whoever it was that invented seatbelts despite my occupied train of thought. <br /><br />Climbing out to check the oil and tires, we were instantly greeted with warm red brake lights of a car plated from West Virginia. It was our lucky day since the white-collar D.C. workers zipping by in their 2007 Lincolns and Mercedes would never know how to identify the problem even if they had the time to stop. My first sight of our rescuer was of white wiry hair resembling that of someone who enjoyed wetting his hands and sticking his fingers in electrical sockets. A half-buttoned plaid shirt spotted with grease stains hung loosely over the man’s large stomach, matching his comfortable work jeans. I smiled at the sight, feeling closer to home despite the fact that I was only minutes from Washington D.C. “What seems to be the problem har?” the man asked in his thick, muffled accent. We explained what had happened and the man scratched his head, quiet for a minute and set to work checking the car’s fluids, wiping the greasy sticks on his plaid cotton shirt. Mom clicked her tongue disapprovingly for not using the rag she had handed him, but he chuckled, his wide Santa belly shaking, and explained that he was a mechanic. <br />He wanted to drive the car for a bit to run a couple of minor tests and we agreed. He suggested that we drive his car, so I walked over to the navy blue sedan and peering through its yawning windows, shook my head in wonder at the open whiskey bottle shoved hastily between the driver and passenger seats. Yes, I was certainly back in the South. <br /><br />“It’s the axle, ma’am” he said confidently. Grabbing the AAA card from the glovebox, I called the road-side assistance and asked for a tow truck while Mom chatted with our altruistic helper. AAA returned my call twenty minutes later and announced that a tow truck was on its way. Announcing the news to Mom and the older man, and he said that he must be getting on his way. Later, it occurred to me that we never thought to ask his name. It didn’t matter though. He had helped us with no intention other than to make sure that we were okay, caring for nothing in return—not even the tantalizing chocolate peanut butter cups I had offered him. It’s good to be home. <br /><br />Yellow lights flashing in my rearview mirror an hour later declared the arrival of our tow truck. An older man, in his 70’s perhaps, climbed from the cab, greeted us with a knowing smile and hooked the car to his truck in 5 minutes. Driving down the road to Parker’s Truckers, we told him about the diagnosis offered by the kind West Virginian and Delbert, our tow trucker, agreed wholeheartedly. “If the car’s parking brake is on and it rolls without the emergency brake then the transmission is not communicating with the front axles—yup, you’ve got a bad axle.” <br /><br />Waiting in Parker’s Truckers unlit lot, we listened to two men conversing in the typical Front Royal fashion. The red-faced man in the blaze orange shirt that said “I only date MILFS” gave a big belly laugh and told Joe to come on down to have a Jack burn at the river trailer on the 30th. “It’s gonna be a good one man,” he said, rubbing the exposed skin peeking out from under his XXX Large t-shirt. “Al-rawt,” Joe said. “I’ll be sure to bring my wife, if you don’t mind.” Saying goodnight to each other, they cordially walked over to our car and wished us luck with the rest of our evening. Leaning my head out the window, I asked “What’s a Jack burn?” Joe laughed, not knowing what I was asking about. “A Jack burn?” I asked. “What’s a Jack burn?” The other man let out another hearty laugh, and corrected me: “Honey, I think you’re talking about a Jap burn.” Looking at my wide eyes, he chuckled knowingly, and said “See we like to burn Japanese motorcycles on top of fars as big as your car there. If the fire’s big enough, they’s reduced to nuttin’ but a pile a snot.” I looked at Mom, slightly speechless, but grinning at my revelation of this modernized form of Southern entertainment, naturally tinged with racism, however good-humored it may be.<br /> <br />Paul arrived at midnight and I drove us home in our little red pick-up truck, Mom’s leg always in the way of the gear shift as we hurtled down the dark interstate, sandwiched with tractor trailer trucks. Crashing in bed with my kitty as soon as I arrived home, I woke at 11 a.m. to Mom’s shouts. Realizing she was shouting at me to get up and grab my camera, I rolled out of bed with a tired moan and stumbled down the stairs, camera in hand. Paul was standing on the front porch holding a female copperhead, fat with pregnancy and eyes gray from molting. I raised my eyebrows, snapped some photos and returned inside to fry our fresh farm-eggs in a cast-iron skillet. Later, unpacking the army bag which housed the alpaca skin I bought in the highlands, I stepped in a pair of rubber boots so I could hang them outside. Shrieking loudly, I realized there was a wolf spider in the boot and kicked it off as quickly as possible. And I thought I left the jungle behind. Coming in a few minutes later to check my email, I turned on the computer only to realize that it was not working. Back to civilization? I guess it just depends how you think about it. But it’s good to be home.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-68931349868648989592008-08-07T10:30:00.000-07:002008-08-07T10:35:50.726-07:00Peruvian Highlands (Huancayo)<p class="MsoNormal">Sunday, August 03, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have been in Huancayo for 2 days now.<span style=""> </span>I arrived on Friday night feeling sick and tired due to the 8 hour bus ride in the last row of the bus and the altitude change.<span style=""> </span>Huancayo is only around 4,000 meters, but we passed other towns at 5,000 meters or higher, which made me sick.<span style=""> </span>Light-headed and nauseous, I stumbled off the bus at 10 p.m. to stumble happily into my Mom’s arms.<span style=""> </span>She had been waiting at the bus station for me for the past hour or so even though we had planned to meet at the hostel.<span style=""> </span>Grabbing a taxi, we rode to the hostel known as La Casa de La Abuela which was an ancient house with wood floors and antiques covering every corner and cranny.<span style=""> </span>There was no water that evening, as there is every evening in Huancayo so the prospect of a shower was out…as it is, it was quite cold in the highlands and I was not incredibly keen on exposing myself to the elements.<span style=""> </span>Water is only available in Huancayo from early morning to lunch time.<span style=""> </span>The water supply is low and the city has no water from early afternoon to the wee hours of the morning.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This morning, we woke at the leisurely hour of 10 a.m. and I sat bundled in 5 wool blankets reading The Count of Monte Cristo, enjoying the luxury of relaxing under the weight of warm covers.<span style=""> </span>Even though I’ve been here since Friday night, my altitude sickness is only just wearing off.<span style=""> </span>I no longer feel ill, but I am still quite tired and my legs feel like lead.<span style=""> </span>After organizing our clothes and washing some socks and shirts, we showered in the bitter cold water available only in the morning, and prepared to leave for the market.<span style=""> </span>We are staying in Miguel Torres’s house in Pio Pata, a suburb of Huancayo.<span style=""> </span>Mom met Miguel through couchsurfing.<span style=""> </span>His intelligent eyes and low-key demeanor are a pleasant complement to our day as he provides happy company but in a relaxed manner which allows us to do as we please in his home without encroaching on his own busy schedule.<span style=""> </span>He is not hugely concerned with being the perfect host which is more comfortable for Mom and I as we are both “do it yourself” types and feel more comfortable in this atmosphere.<span style=""> </span>Miguel’s wife and 5 year-old son live in Lima as the life and education is considerably better than that in the highlands.<span style=""> </span>He visits whenever possible.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wandering through the market, we bypassed vendors selling shoes and clothes to explore the weighty fruit stands and small tables of algarrobina and dried goods.<span style=""> </span>Algarrobina is a molasses like syrup that comes from the Algarrobin tree in northern Peru, such as Piura.<span style=""> </span>Artisans sold wool ponchos, purses, and hats of alpaca and wool.<span style=""> </span>Hand-etched gourds lined tables, the stories of the harvest and Santiago fiestas carved into their hard skins.<span style=""> </span>Gypsies selling hand-made necklaces with shells, teeth, bones, and stones from the jungle and highlands sat on blankets next to the curb.<span style=""> </span></p> In lieu of the Santiago festivities, Mom had made friends in a small village on the mountain outside of Huancayo.<span style=""> </span>After lunch, we took a taxi up a rocky road for 30 minutes into Cochas Grande for the family gathering.<span style=""> </span>Climbing out of the taxi at a corner when it could not ascend any further, we began to wander up the road in search of a familiar face to direct us to the right house.<span style=""> </span>We had no idea where we were going, and I had no idea who we were looking for, but somehow, with my Mother, everything just seems to work.<span style=""> </span>Sure enough, we rounded a corner and we bumped into the exact woman we were looking for as if she had planned to meet us at the corner at that time.<span style=""> </span>Smiling and kissing each of us, she grabbed our hands and led us up the hill and through a gate bordered with mud walls too high to see over.<span style=""> </span>We were greeted with the cheering sight of sixty people dancing and drinking merrily to the sound of saxophones and violins playing energetic music traditional for the Santiago festival.<span style=""> </span>The dances were simple shuffles, almost like jogging in place, a challenge for the colorfully dressed women wearing high heels in the rocky dusty ground.<span style=""> </span>At first, the dance was tiring, but after standing still in the bitter wind for 30 minutes, I suddenly began to appreciate the value of a beer and an energetic dance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFgtp_FjCWd7UPKgsYhWI4HM_CM8uKIdJlekXvhXhoN3XSohw5_m7cJPvypvxqav0p15bbvqOoNZnvetxIVqQ6oa548o3dwh-_mRm8gbxxmneLT4ILXXr-ChABPSOilb-yL_YbICYYVmR/s1600-h/jpeg,+a+beer+for+santiago.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFgtp_FjCWd7UPKgsYhWI4HM_CM8uKIdJlekXvhXhoN3XSohw5_m7cJPvypvxqav0p15bbvqOoNZnvetxIVqQ6oa548o3dwh-_mRm8gbxxmneLT4ILXXr-ChABPSOilb-yL_YbICYYVmR/s320/jpeg,+a+beer+for+santiago.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231830460353676770" border="0" /></a> Una Cervesa por Santiago<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Santiago is a celebration of life and fertility of livestock—typically cattle, sheep, and llamas.<span style=""> </span>Animals decorated with colorful ribbons were dragged into the center of the festivities, live music competing for attention over the brawls of each calf and bleat of each sheep, as the host fed each wine and coca leaves for fertility.<span style=""> </span>An ornery bull whose respectable horns tossed and turned furiously when the glass wine bottle was forced into his mouth did not deter the stubborn Peruvians; six men joined in a game of dodge the horns, force feeding wine without being hospitalized.<span style=""> </span>The coca leaves are the very same leaves which are used to make cocaine—just without the arduous chemical process.<span style=""> </span>Old women in hand-embroidered wool skirts and felt hats decorated with flowers and fruits sat cross-legged on the ground chewing the dried coca leaves, grinning numbly and gossiping amongst themselves.<span style=""> </span>I approached them and sat chatting with them in the grass as they smiled toothily at me, green leaves covering their gold caps.<span style=""> </span>Glasses of Peruvian wine, beer, and chicha morada (purple corn refresco) were passed in my direction, each person ensuring that I always had a full glass—I learned quickly to refuse their slightly overbearing hospitality lest I had too much.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tuesday, August 05, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Walking to the morning market at 7:30 a.m. I was startled to find that only one stand was open.<span style=""> </span>Asking the dark women selling vegetables when the cheese and fruit vendors would arrive, I was disappointed to realize that I was 30 minutes early (not accounting for Peruvian “punctuality”) and that Mom and I would have to delay our morning plans to go find a Caldo shop and eat sheep or chicken soup for breakfast.<span style=""> </span>Grabbing a taxi, we rode to the town center to meet Rocilla, a smiling, amiable Huancayan and our private taxi for our trip to Al Nevado del Huaytapallana.<span style=""> </span>We met Rocilla last night when we went to help Miguel with his English class and invited her to join us on our outing.<span style=""> </span>Our cab driver, Fidel, announced that he needed to grab a bite to eat before we left, so we stopped at a typical Peruvian eatery overstuffed with tables and diners devouring hot platters of seco del pollo with rice, potatoes, and Anis tea.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Huatapallana is a 2 hour drive from Huancayo, up a steep, narrow gravel road squeezed between the ascending slopes as if resting between a large woman’s thighs.<span style=""> </span>Fidel pointed out sights along the way, chattering away on his radio with a fellow taxi driver about the odd American women traveling with the Peruvian girl.<span style=""> </span>Stopping the cab in front of a crowded general shop, Fidel explained that we needed to purchase coca leaves and sugar cane liquor for the altitude and for energy.<span style=""> </span>Though skeptical, Mom and I knew no other way to battle the cold, thin aired peaks of the Andes and we purchased the suggested items.<span style=""> </span>Andean campesinos chew coca leaves and drink the cane liquor (referred to as “combustible”) to give them the energy to work without resting or eating.<span style=""> </span>The Incas chewed coca leaves as well, using it not only as a meal replacement, but also to numb their mouths in order to remove and replace teeth with gold and silver nuggets.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Arriving at a small restaurant shrouded in an endless fog and wrapped with swirling snow, we placed orders for lunch, bundled our heads in scarves and chullos and hit the trail.<span style=""> </span>Walking up a hill, I paused to catch my breath and admire the pastoral scenes of snow-covered sheep and llamas grazing amongst lichen spotted rocks and wiry grass.<span style=""> </span>Realizing that I had only walked 20 meters, I groaned inwardly, knowing that my lingering soroche (altitude sickness) would not take long to hit as we ascended the mountain.<span style=""> </span>My legs strong from working in the field at the station had no trouble ascending the slippery rocks and loose soils, but my heart and lungs were on a different track.<span style=""> </span>My temporal and occipital lobes audibly pounding with blood, screaming for oxygen, begged me to stop the insanity of the marathon that should have just been a pleasant day hike to a receding Andean glacier.<span style=""> </span>Crossing a windy saddle, we began to descend, picking up our pace to warm our cold toes.<span style=""> </span>Stopping just off the wind’s main path, we admired a smoky lagoon meekly resting under an intimidating snow peak obscured by currents of fog racing around and down its impossibly steep slopes.<span style=""> </span>Fidel removed the bottle of cane liquor from his pack and after giving us each a capful, began to dump the innocently clear liquid into his bare hands, tossing it toward the mountain and muttering quietly.<span style=""> </span>Answering our confused looks, he explained that he was chasing the fog away…sure enough, the fog disappeared for five minutes, exposing the stunning crest of the mountain rising from depths as deep as Hell.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Posing for photos with the grand snow peak and mysterious lagoon as a backdrop, our smiling eyes suddenly widened at the not so distant roar of thunder which echoed ominously off the rocky peaks.<span style=""> </span>Though we were just over half-way through our hike, Fidel explained that we would need to return.<span style=""> </span>Once it starts raining, he explained, it will pour, the fog will thicken, and we will likely lose the trail and definitely get hypothermia.<span style=""> </span>Not doubting any of what he said as he appeared to prefer to continue the awe-inspiring trek, we turned back.<span style=""> </span>We had already hiked over 600 meters and only had around 500 more, but the trail lead straight into the thunder clouds—being on the same shelterless mountain as an electric storm was enough and we felt no need to intentionally walk toward the thunder.<span style=""> </span>An hour later, bundled inside the drafty restaurant eating steaming platters of trout caught from a lagoon that morning, we were grateful for our quick decision to return.<span style=""> </span>The other vehicles on the same trek were long gone (though more likely due to hiking at 4,600 meters than the thunder) leaving our ice-covered vehicle alone to brave the pounding rain and sleet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finishing our lunches, we piled into the taxi to return to Huancayo.<span style=""> </span>Small groups of colorfully dressed highlanders, or witches, dotted the occasional hillside,<span style=""> </span>sacrificing cuy (guinea pigs) and fruits to the gods of the mountains.<span style=""> </span>Rounding a sharp corner, we came upon a large cargo truck loaded with fruits and people from the jungle traveling to Huancayo to sell their goods.<span style=""> </span>The truck was stopped in front of a bridge consisting of eucalyptus trunks tossed casually over trout stream 15 feet below the road.<span style=""> </span>The truck’s narrow bald tires could not cross the bridge without slipping between the logs.<span style=""> </span>Fidel hopped out of the taxi to help the small group of men readjusting the logs forming the bridge and wedging small borders in between to stabilize the ground.<span style=""> </span>Thirty minutes later, the men agreed that the bridge was as good as it would get and began to direct the truck over the wet logs.<span style=""> </span>Two young girls sitting atop the truck watched the spectacle with grins, pointing at the men and the creek below.<span style=""> </span>Just as the front tires reached the opposite bank and the back tires began to rely on the newly constructed bridge, the wet soil which held the logs began to shift and the eucalyptus trunk slid apart allowing the truck’s bald tire to drop several inches.<span style=""> </span>Leaning dangerously, the truck’s engine screamed as the driver gunned it, no doubt clinging to a rosary dangling from his rearview mirror and the grinning girls atop the truck adopted looks of terror.<span style=""> </span>Pitching and turning, leaning one way and another, the truck’s tires suddenly found life and shot up the bank, stopping when the bridge had been crossed.<span style=""> </span>Unaware that every person was holding his breath along the bank or in the cab, a collective sigh spread through the spectators—no doubt the people inside the truck were still holding their breath.<span style=""> </span>Unable to see out of the metal walls or tarp roof, they could only feel the weight of the truck rocking just too close to death (or at least a trip to the hospital).<span style=""> </span>Now that the truck was across, we were next, though our trip was uneventful compared to what we had just witnessed.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p>Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-80205336544886879082008-07-28T18:59:00.000-07:002008-12-09T17:47:34.353-08:00El Aguajal<p class="MsoNormal">I woke at six to the barks and chatters of the Titi monkeys energetic conversations.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>After breakfast, Will Minehart, an ornithologist studying antbirds, approached me, reminding me of our plans for a trek in the Aguajal.<span style=""> </span></p> Donning my polyester pants, wool socks, and tall rubber boots I prepared to trek through the palm swamp.<span style=""> </span>The first trail was wide and we walked abreast listening for mammals wandering through the damp brush of the primary forest.<span style=""> </span>It led to the retired airstrip, which upon entering, blinds the passerby with a sudden inundation of blazing sunlight.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Passifloras and purple clitoralis flowers line the well trodden path leading back to the familiar dank humidity of la trocha Huangana.<span style=""><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kU6Nv6HPN9FpWxSYcTbdVeWKPWG3HH79XQBtvua_ZwU03bQ9GvzZPxfmaMKftEjkxlE7vH3Ae0XhgAv9Ilv1noPK7blavqiWHcPT9N_omFs8y1xQ0FdgaE4UZwX-isLSAx8ZFUCH-ylt/s1600-h/DSC_0038.5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kU6Nv6HPN9FpWxSYcTbdVeWKPWG3HH79XQBtvua_ZwU03bQ9GvzZPxfmaMKftEjkxlE7vH3Ae0XhgAv9Ilv1noPK7blavqiWHcPT9N_omFs8y1xQ0FdgaE4UZwX-isLSAx8ZFUCH-ylt/s320/DSC_0038.5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228252403728473794" border="0" /></a> Blue and Gold Macaws in a Cecropia on the Aerodromo. (photo by Will Minehart)<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Turning onto the seldom traveled trail, Mauritia, the path narrowed, traversing down a steep hill over dried creek beds and under thorny trees.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The solid dirt paths spaced loosely with grandiose ficus trees and chirping trogans suddenly gave way to thick marshy grasses and shrieking parrots.<span style=""> </span>Shiny green vanilla vines scaled lichen spotted aguaje palms while cumulous clouds garnished the pool blue sky.<span style=""> </span>Ferns freckling the islands of palms tenaciously grasped nutrient rich dirt and dangled their flighty branches over tea-colored swamp waters.<span style=""> </span>Palms whose tops had fallen provided nesting grounds for parrots.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>He graciously offered to fight off any attackers.<span style=""> </span>Muchas gracias, amigo.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">High hopes of staying dry in this swamp were futile.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>We lost the trail numerous times, yet getting lost is never a waste of time—it’s a part of the adventure.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Even after admitting water into our sweaty boots, our trip hardly moved faster. <span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> Passing a stretch of fallen trees, I looked up to see the New York City of spider webs.<span style=""> </span>The massive cobwebs and intricate rings hung in a thick cloud for 20 feet and rose 4 feet in places.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>When I removed the thread, an audible BING reached our ears, just as if I had snapped a piece of fishing line.<span style=""> </span>Impressed by its durability and extreme stickiness, we carefully crept around the cloudy mess of thread and continued to lose and find the trail.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XeB7kIfG8qTEq24ydrXITzP57sSdfazcF7h_s2q32nBbiKdCJzQqCHjjOg3cKdVjsHlLwqGVBQV7_NEdHKz9HqO8CILpaMQwJOAvDbP6dp-Tfd8NnAVHeLSz9y-hD1qrLbJduz7G8JkU/s1600-h/Vertical+Aguajal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XeB7kIfG8qTEq24ydrXITzP57sSdfazcF7h_s2q32nBbiKdCJzQqCHjjOg3cKdVjsHlLwqGVBQV7_NEdHKz9HqO8CILpaMQwJOAvDbP6dp-Tfd8NnAVHeLSz9y-hD1qrLbJduz7G8JkU/s320/Vertical+Aguajal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228252414077391058" border="0" /></a> El Aguajal<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">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).<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I too reacted, but with a shriek, jumping backwards, nearly running into Will.<span style=""> </span>Peering over the shrubs with wide brown eyes, I laughed.<span style=""> </span>I had to.<span style=""> </span>It was a tortoise.<span style=""> </span>Though grinning, Will admitted that he would have jumped too.<span style=""> </span>We gringos can never be too sure of ourselves in an Amazonian swamp.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> 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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I cannot say for sure, but perhaps my attraction for the swamp stems from my childhood.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVkJRzHKIfZRs4QOb1OamOvgPfTwqflQypbhccS4x_3CBDQBGNXAchwQPPbEHWNt1qtcTQ38nbTHEChbZyLYOQtihCHp71tsHHSXcq9Cdo6O1IIXTlWZU00VjGgygs1hx77TVvIi4xMNJ/s1600-h/woot,+Shag+rug+caterpillar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioVkJRzHKIfZRs4QOb1OamOvgPfTwqflQypbhccS4x_3CBDQBGNXAchwQPPbEHWNt1qtcTQ38nbTHEChbZyLYOQtihCHp71tsHHSXcq9Cdo6O1IIXTlWZU00VjGgygs1hx77TVvIi4xMNJ/s320/woot,+Shag+rug+caterpillar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228252421905140210" border="0" /></a> Caterpillar...1970's shag rug?<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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:<span style=""> </span>take a siesta.<span style=""> </span></p>Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-63813027265658866752008-07-19T09:27:00.001-07:002008-12-09T17:47:36.025-08:00CM1 and the MinersThursday, July 10, 2008 <p class="MsoNormal">Today started out with rain.<span style=""> </span>Again.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The rain slowed around 10, and by lunch time it had disappeared completely, the sun pouring joyfully from large gaps in the clouds.<span style=""> </span>Everyone was in a good mood.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Walking back to my cabin, Karina spotted me and asked me to help her track the ocelot.<span style=""> </span>Struggling into my damp, muddy, sweaty field clothes I grabbed my tall rubber boots and met her in the comedor.<span style=""> </span>We set off immediately, walking toward Aerodromo and stopping to pick up faint signals with the GPS.<span style=""> </span>I recorded each signal, it’s strength, location, and time.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We arrived in time for a sunset game of fútbol, and I hopped into my OTHER sweaty clothes for a quick game before dinner.<span style=""> </span>The electricity had not been turned on, so there was nothing I could do except play.<span style=""> </span>Sprinting, chasing my offender, and shooting at various intervals, I ran until my legs could go no more.<span style=""> </span>The light had finally receded and I ran to my cabin for my towel.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I lost instantly.<span style=""> </span>Grabbing my soap, I headed for the second shower hut and went to dinner.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Saturday, July 12, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I took a photo yesterday.<span style=""> </span>A good one.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I’ve never felt that way before today.<span style=""> </span>I could be wrong, but everyone has their doubts when they get their hopes up.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I’ve taken some amazing photographs before, but they were different.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>This time, it’s different.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nigel and I walked down the rocky, uneven terrain of Carretera to go visit the mining camp just 40 minutes walking from the station.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Hopefully something will come of this.<span style=""> </span>Hopefully I will gain a purpose other than cheering the ACA website with yawning cayman and ruffled rufescent tiger herons yellow glares.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I can help.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Monday, July 14, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Today I woke at 5:15 for a quick yoga session.<span style=""> </span>I had gone to bed at 8 the night before so I was wide awake and ready for a vigorous, blood pumping session.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Eating enough for 2 ½ people, I gorged on eggs and bread with algarrobina, a fruity molasses from Piura, Diego’s homeland.<span style=""> </span></p> I continued to read about the gold mining process and picked up <i style="">A Neotropical Companion</i> for a quick lesson on rainforest ecology.<span style=""> </span>I continued to edit the photojournalism story on the mining and hunting around CICRA.<span style=""> </span>After lunch, I walked down to the river to cool my overheated body and hopefully catch sight of some white caiman.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Though I have acquired some skill in spotting mammals and reptiles, I still see very little from day to day.<span style=""> </span>Even with the help of another’s trained eyes, it’s still quite difficult to find the wildlife concealed in the foliage.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPhOXn8FdRZ19dv8EoizAaaHuHpxt0xPRnuBjGNudpyehwX8g_8UdsjeRisglxb0RovvgCFU0iiPSaCYkxo7bEmBlsiyap3dweQWd4bdwHPJJZ61gAaW9Kgx1fnaxj2j9cagdNjBNf3Ye/s1600-h/JPEG,+black+faced+hawk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPhOXn8FdRZ19dv8EoizAaaHuHpxt0xPRnuBjGNudpyehwX8g_8UdsjeRisglxb0RovvgCFU0iiPSaCYkxo7bEmBlsiyap3dweQWd4bdwHPJJZ61gAaW9Kgx1fnaxj2j9cagdNjBNf3Ye/s320/JPEG,+black+faced+hawk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224770113430018546" border="0" /> </a> 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!).<br /><p class="MsoNormal">At four, I returned to the station ready for a nap, as I was still too sticky and hot to do anything else.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>He asked me to take Aña and Clark, two ecotourists visiting the station for the next four days, to the tower.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Aña and Clark were both unfamiliar with the anatomy of the harnesses, so I helped each strap, tie, and tighten the harnesses accordingly.<span style=""> </span>Carefully looping safety knots for the steep ascension, I climbed first, reaching the top in about 4 minutes.<span style=""> </span>Clark arrived several minutes later, and Aña was last.<span style=""> </span>Sweaty, bug-bitten, and thirsty, the unfamiliar feeling of a breeze was heaven.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tuesday, July 15, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I forgot to set my alarm again last night and I woke at 8:30 bathed in a thick pool of sweat.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>The comedor was busy that morning, people writing papers, reading, and doing research.<span style=""> </span>It was going to be a hot day, and those who were doing field work had already returned, soaking wet and smelly.<span style=""> </span>I helped myself to leftover potatoes and onion sauce with rice.<span style=""> </span>Still hungry, I returned to the kitchen for fruit, Renata’s homemade granola, and strawberry yogurt.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I spent the morning helping Nigel label photographs of birds with their Latin names for the ACA website.<span style=""> </span>Though it was not difficult, it took patience since not all photos were labeled correctly.<span style=""> </span>I was pleased to note that some of the photos were mine—next to the photos of famous photographers.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LfyhAiykqYNRwfQ7uyuuuWfP0MQlgGPqPoRJG2ziZLYgfOnf_-1SS_gOS0zEko0i0YBZjbNO54-xFc-cmgqeSwSwBd-QVqspoApiIxdlUqHJKEb9rhZHG-q8tt_xxqttO3v8CrSpvs3S/s1600-h/road-side+hawk,+a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LfyhAiykqYNRwfQ7uyuuuWfP0MQlgGPqPoRJG2ziZLYgfOnf_-1SS_gOS0zEko0i0YBZjbNO54-xFc-cmgqeSwSwBd-QVqspoApiIxdlUqHJKEb9rhZHG-q8tt_xxqttO3v8CrSpvs3S/s320/road-side+hawk,+a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224764307066214770" border="0" /></a><br /> Road-Side Hawk<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">After lunch, I returned to my cabin to pack for my trip to CM1.<span style=""> </span>I would be traveling with Claire Salisbury, Will Minehart, and Diego Olaechea to a research station just downriver from CICRA until Friday.<span style=""> </span>We left at 4 and stopped for emergency supplies at Boca Amigos…aka chocolate wafers.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>The station was just 100 meters from the river’s edge, making it far buggier than CICRA.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>A prometor led us to the dorm, which was conveniently empty, except for its rumors about being haunted.<span style=""> </span>The boys took a room across the hall from Claire and I, and we chatted loosely, donning more protective clothing and unpacking our bags.<span style=""> </span>Will and Diego, machetes in hand, left to collect bamboo poles for the bird trapping in the morning.<span style=""> </span>The poles would be used to hang the black bird nets.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday, July 16, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We woke at 5:45 and headed to the dining hall.<span style=""> </span>Jerry was in the kitchen preparing eggs, rice, and broccoli for breakfast while Diego and I searched for water.<span style=""> </span>We found two pitchers of liquid in the fridge and pulled them out for a closer inspection.<span style=""> </span>The first was a fruity refresco, but the second was unidentifiable.<span style=""> </span>It had no scent, but was a murky brown color:<span style=""> </span>river water.<span style=""> </span>Yes, golden brown, mercury laden river water is our drinking water here.<span style=""> </span>We opted for refresco.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZw-YqL-oCmrNJnzgGdIKeZcuxqAdbA__JMGcu8SpVHOdu1O2VrHN-zKvMOmjcHlA3SPkPgfvHTgi2Jpd9psLrDGaIiY28J4cXOr7LGCSP8uhmHgrnBfaIIA9gj4gjBF8mImllCNM4-To/s1600-h/Diego.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZw-YqL-oCmrNJnzgGdIKeZcuxqAdbA__JMGcu8SpVHOdu1O2VrHN-zKvMOmjcHlA3SPkPgfvHTgi2Jpd9psLrDGaIiY28J4cXOr7LGCSP8uhmHgrnBfaIIA9gj4gjBF8mImllCNM4-To/s320/Diego.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224770103805425650" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Diego lindo, de que estas pensando?<br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>A lucky morning for us, we caught a male and female in ten minutes.<span style=""> </span>Claire untangled the female from the nets and began recording its size, took blood and feathers, and weighed it.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Fortunately, our luck did not wane and we managed to catch 3 more birds in four hours plus two species on accident.<span style=""> </span>What a success!<span style=""> </span>Four birds in a morning is quite lucky, especially since we started 1.5 hours later than we should have.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Sound appealing?<span style=""> </span>If so, please, join us.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yet, to be honest, I can’t wait for tomorrow.<span style=""> </span></p> <span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>After lunch, we returned to our cabin to read and sleep off the heat.<span style=""> </span>It is 10 degrees hotter at this station as it’s just next to the river, unlike CICRA.<span style=""> </span>The bugs are far more intense too.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinBevu9c9K6ZXA02r8sYM7QU3GqkGoYX2L7Nl0hqPiI5arsx5t60PaRYRfBz8inC3t2SAQtg9PYT2Lr1OdrkC4Onbx0VAPcOqVJXvGm1wk6xITlFnIZI4PZlJis9A0cMXIawHYH_2-gBwv/s1600-h/orchids.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinBevu9c9K6ZXA02r8sYM7QU3GqkGoYX2L7Nl0hqPiI5arsx5t60PaRYRfBz8inC3t2SAQtg9PYT2Lr1OdrkC4Onbx0VAPcOqVJXvGm1wk6xITlFnIZI4PZlJis9A0cMXIawHYH_2-gBwv/s320/orchids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224764310394518962" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>As the sky began to darken, we wondered if Jerry was planning to return.<span style=""> </span>It was dark by six and Will went downstairs to turn on the generator so we could go cook dinner.<span style=""> </span>We knew we were supposed to wait for Jerry, but we were unsure of when he was planning to return and we were hungry.<span style=""> </span>If you leave four hard-working researchers to their own devices in a camp, they will take care of themselves.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>An hour later, steaming plates of spaghetti with meat and tomatoes (no sauce) was ready to eat.<span style=""> </span>We had water….it was translucent this time as someone had taken the time to filter the sand from the pitcher.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>The lights go out late here!<span style=""> </span>However, the generator just died as I typed that last sentence, which means that lights are going out now:<span style=""> </span>8:00.<span style=""> </span>Early to bed we go!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thursday, July 17, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We headed out at 6 this morning, but were stranded by a brief rain shower.<span style=""> </span>None of us can work in the rain.<span style=""> </span>I don’t want to risk damaging my camera and the birds hide, making it pointless to try and capture and record them.<span style=""> </span>When it did stop, it was surprisingly cool, yet the birds were not cooperating.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvqOKVMM-eadkTCnRI9WyEVm2kDx3ErF8CAC0fCNghgLl0rcTJt35-NrMyhTk-dIuqy2bkMhUv-D1LGI6OT85erkXuS5RS5D2ei1-nPw0Y7oURfgUT_IgJOzLAwOrP8bTcBOrPZPHEhgM/s1600-h/CM1+boats+with+moon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvqOKVMM-eadkTCnRI9WyEVm2kDx3ErF8CAC0fCNghgLl0rcTJt35-NrMyhTk-dIuqy2bkMhUv-D1LGI6OT85erkXuS5RS5D2ei1-nPw0Y7oURfgUT_IgJOzLAwOrP8bTcBOrPZPHEhgM/s320/CM1+boats+with+moon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224770095224688002" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Moon Rising over the Madre de Dios at CM1. Mining camps can be seen in the distance.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The morning rain was starting to make the sunny air muggy, and with full stomachs, we showered and took a siesta.<span style=""> </span>After waking, we read and walked to the benches, layered in clothing to survive the mosquitoes.<span style=""> </span>The moon was full and was rising as the sun was setting creating a pink glow and providing fantastic photo opportunities.<span style=""> </span>I walked away from the group and sat in silence next to the boats, waiting for the moon to reappear from behind the clouds.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Friday, July 18, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We woke at five this morning, but not because our alarms were beeping frantically.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Diego and Will rose early as usual, shaking the entire house despite their efforts to tiptoe as quietly as possible.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>Sure enough, we were shooed back under the cover of the kitchens and we waited, drinking coffee and reading to pass the time.<span style=""> </span>At 8, we set foot on the trails and set up nets, but to no avail.<span style=""> </span>Moving and setting up again about a mile from the station, we had much better luck and caught a bird almost immediately.<span style=""> </span>Before we knew it, there were three birds in the net:<span style=""> </span>a subflava, a cinnamon rumped foliage gleaner, and a red billed scythebill (yes, the redundancy is correct).<span style=""> </span>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).</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8ajo7zI0nE6EBiSsxSNx-qn8-Hnb9DqYNAeTQll6eRcP_eYUYukPdu_yJKySVKV_X7pIzxsVjaNcRm-lBb3CJaj0Hllz7gwNUiB-82J29l5ehqWmqv0UquQAtpo0L6FZbSY91CNQPZx5/s1600-h/white+lined+ant+bird+with+crest.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8ajo7zI0nE6EBiSsxSNx-qn8-Hnb9DqYNAeTQll6eRcP_eYUYukPdu_yJKySVKV_X7pIzxsVjaNcRm-lBb3CJaj0Hllz7gwNUiB-82J29l5ehqWmqv0UquQAtpo0L6FZbSY91CNQPZx5/s320/white+lined+ant+bird+with+crest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224770107310135138" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"> White-lined antbird.<br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I ran to cover my book and put away my camera, and not a minute too late.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Re-energized, we admiried a troop of red howler monkeys crawling quietly through the trees next to the kitchen.<span style=""> </span>I began to follow them for a ways into the brush, but changed my mind, opting for a shower.<span style=""> </span>However, just as I returned, I saw them heading near the showers and stopped to watch them still tempted to track them.<span style=""> </span>Just then Will came over and we grinned at each other—time to follow some monkeys.<span style=""> </span>We leapt and crawled carefully into the thick, thorny underbrush until we were under the tree where the great monkeys were feeding.<span style=""> </span>Unable to see anything, Will shook some vines and imitated a hawk’s call in hopes of bringing the monkeys lower.<span style=""> </span>Instead, they hid.<span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span>On the way back, I saw a wonderfully tempting climbing tree lined with vines.<span style=""> </span>Shedding my awkward rubber boots, I scaled them easily for the first 20 feet.<span style=""> </span>Looking down, I realized the stupidity of my actions since there were no prometores at the station at the moment.<span style=""> </span>Claire, Will, Diego, and I had been left to our own devices for the afternoon, so if something happened, we would be in trouble.<span style=""> </span>Descending carefully, but with smiles, we returned to shower and pack.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>The startling sound of an approaching boat interrupted the silence, but it wasn’t a CICRA boat.<span style=""> </span>The boat belonged to a miner and he was landing on CM1’s dock along with two other men.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>They asked if anyone was at the station and Diego said no, that we were the only ones—Claire visibly cringed.<span style=""> </span>It was true, but I interrupted quickly, “reminding” him that a few of the men were on the trails near the kitchens.<span style=""> </span>Diego smiled meekly at me and quickly agreed, shaking his head as if he just had a bad memory for details.<span style=""> </span>Next, the men began to admire Diego’s fine birding binoculars and asked him how much they cost.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I quietly pushed my camera case into the brush and picked up a machete, playing casually with it….<span style=""> </span>I didn’t feel threatened, but no one knew who these men were and why they were at CM1.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Awkwardly chatting with the men, everyone fell silent at the sound of a tremendous crashing just 20 meters from where we stood.<span style=""> </span>A majestic 70 foot tree was falling at an epic rate down the steep embankment into the river.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Finally we heard the sound of another boat, and peering into his binoculars, Diego delightedly announced the arrival of the CICRA boat.<span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span>However, Samuel, and the people on the boat just waved back as if delighted that we should come down to say hi.<span style=""> </span>We began to run toward the edge of the shore, but the sweet, dimwitted boat-driver just kept driving.<span style=""> </span>Now what?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, we did the only thing we could do.<span style=""> </span>Wait.<span style=""> </span>With the anonymous miners.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">……………..</p> <p class="MsoNormal">An hour later the miners seemed to lose interest in us, the station, or whatever they had come for and left.<span style=""> </span>We never knew what they wanted.<span style=""> </span>They didn’t even seem interested in conversing with us as they kept to themselves for the majority of the time.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aBpmXsL0NaHN0IfMU3nFtVsXitnGqsKSqX_AuLruo7nym2sTTw2EqjPdJIS9tbAgGsDDXuEvmKcMVrBzW2AjRWgbMIO2aVPYGZ5CJNAnjtCsbIKWKGFIBk3Iyv-6hHj4jGfLEIKgsh9Y/s1600-h/rio+madre+de+dios.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aBpmXsL0NaHN0IfMU3nFtVsXitnGqsKSqX_AuLruo7nym2sTTw2EqjPdJIS9tbAgGsDDXuEvmKcMVrBzW2AjRWgbMIO2aVPYGZ5CJNAnjtCsbIKWKGFIBk3Iyv-6hHj4jGfLEIKgsh9Y/s320/rio+madre+de+dios.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224781812490502258" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Minutes after their departure, we saw the CICRA boat upriver, empty, and heading in our direction.<span style=""> </span>We waved vigorously, but stopped as soon as we saw it was Jerry with Lisseth and Edwin.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>The sun was stunning on the dark river water, shafts of light illuminating portions of the dark green forest.<span style=""> </span>I rolled up my pants, pulled off my long sleeves, let down my hair, sat back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the ride. <span style=""> </span></p>Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-22203308824368997232008-07-12T07:45:00.000-07:002008-12-09T17:47:36.368-08:00<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“We’re going to do a necropsy on a huangana,” Mini said.<span style=""> </span>“Would you be willing to help?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Hunters.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>It lay ten meters off the trail, hidden from sight but not from smell.<span style=""> </span>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. <span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately, we still needed to retrieve the samples.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>I perked my ears to the sound of approaching footsteps, wondering who in the world had any desire to help us dissect the carcass.<span style=""> </span>The footsteps stopped, but I could just make out a figure peering at us through the thick underbrush wondering who we were.<span style=""> </span>“Hóla,” I called and a gruff voice responded.<span style=""> </span>The man decided the three girls were harmless and he strode boldly past.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Mini, a petite Indian woman, displayed her spunk, clenching her fists in a death grip and turning red at the sight of the hunter.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>No one spoke for several minutes as we finished our work and returned to the station with photos, samples, and stories.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>It’s a haven here at CICRA, but even the most isolated oasis cannot escape social and economic adversity. <span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>His dark skin contrasted with his bright red soccer shorts, rubber boots, and simple watch.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Smiling as he chatted with us, he explained that he had been mining in the Madre de Dios for 28 years.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>Forty foot pits carved into the skin of the earth yawned widely at the anxious knots forming on our brows.<span style=""> </span>Smoke drifted casually from the edge of the forest where three laborers were clear cutting the grand ficus and rubber trees.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Smoke filled the pits and I turned to snap a photo before a new sight distracted my darting eyes.<span style=""> </span>Feeling a sudden chill as I looked through my viewfinder, I knew this photograph would be significant.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><span style=""></span></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4iIO1y9ETmTXfo46moJSVkK3Fs4R6p4XybF96OdDu6FvRmZ5N6j364RpPN-JLUvSIlVKA-Hm4nWMT2EN6a3BMNYXIi7PBSeETCeUrP-CFr54pzOMgYdFlRItmIISs719alK70Vj2Kz9Z5/s1600-h/JPEG,+water+pumps,+b%26w.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4iIO1y9ETmTXfo46moJSVkK3Fs4R6p4XybF96OdDu6FvRmZ5N6j364RpPN-JLUvSIlVKA-Hm4nWMT2EN6a3BMNYXIi7PBSeETCeUrP-CFr54pzOMgYdFlRItmIISs719alK70Vj2Kz9Z5/s320/JPEG,+water+pumps,+b%26w.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222149520802588178" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"> Hydraulic pumps are used to excavate and loosen soil in the first part of the mining process.<br /><br /><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Tiptoeing across a fallen tree used as a bridge between the village and the mining pits, we entered the camp.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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”.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Everyone listened, knowing that if others spoke he would not be heard over the din of another conversation.<span style=""> </span>Even the dogs stopped their vociferous barking.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He asked if we could walk around the camp, and one man, apparently a leader, though only in a naturally acquired sense, nodded.<span style=""> </span>We thanked them and set off, walking to the edge of the camp, winding around the piles of gravel back toward the cavernous pits.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Just before he broke skin, I landed a swift kick on his jaw.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Nigel, smiling grimly, said that the dogs were a necessary precaution for the miners.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Bandits rob the mining camps hoping to make a profit off the tired backs of the slaving miners.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Along the river banks of the Madre de Dios, one can observe ingenio, the simple 2-6 man mining process favored in this region.<span style=""> </span>Men dump wheelbarrows of rocky, gold-containing sediment into sluices lined with deposition cloth.<span style=""> </span>Gold sticks to the cloth while diesel water pumps wash the unwanted debris off the sluice.<span style=""> </span>Placing the cloth in barrels, mercury is added, and the miners stomp vigorously on the thick fabric to loosen the heavy metals.<span style=""> </span>“Mercury amalgamates the gold, that is, binds to it but leaves most other metals and impurities behind” (Goulding 45).<span style=""> </span>The mercury is then separated from the gold by heating it, evaporating the substance and releasing noxious fumes.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>Nigel cringed, and with a melancholy look, pointed to the remains of a research trail buried under accumulating soot.<span style=""> </span>The men were cutting directly into the concession of protected land yet there is little Nigel can do<span style="color: red;"> </span>from his post in the rainforest except to beg the miners to go elsewhere.<span style=""> </span>Though CICRA owns the land, the miners have “underground rights”.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Yet, it would be unfair to call these men dangerous.<span style=""> </span>They are like any other man, raising a family or leading an independent life, but with few resources and taxing conditions.<span style=""> </span>Miners cannot be blamed for resorting to destructive practices to bring home bread.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>Two hours later, intending to retrieve the bananas, Jorge encountered a hunter from the mining village pursuing the distant sound of barking huanganas…. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">Goulding, Michael, et al.<span style=""> </span>“<i style="">Amazon Headwaters:<span style=""> </span>Rivers, Wildlife, and Conservation in Southeastern Peru</i>”.<span style=""> </span>Lima:<span style=""> </span>Amazon Conservation Association, 2003. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat%27s_claw<br /><br />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.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-16538728344758531002008-07-09T07:21:00.000-07:002008-12-09T17:47:37.198-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvb-QqFMXOpOLjVtxksx9uWVCYgxonwuqEfGMFT9Gp-N48qUMTDE13r2kcSFdk4fJN_GkOSFiOc7eL-yXxFq6evif182OccFLj-q5moz0xrhyphenhyphennV1isUiKQ_HKXbHs_MvMOCdUO_CMLvi4p/s1600-h/flower+with+water.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvb-QqFMXOpOLjVtxksx9uWVCYgxonwuqEfGMFT9Gp-N48qUMTDE13r2kcSFdk4fJN_GkOSFiOc7eL-yXxFq6evif182OccFLj-q5moz0xrhyphenhyphennV1isUiKQ_HKXbHs_MvMOCdUO_CMLvi4p/s320/flower+with+water.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221019962289666178" border="0" /></a> Flor de Alaconia<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPs06PPXdzSDxydfRgJ4SYdJ26Ew1eiaaQVDriUpaSyIhyphenhyphenJ8tLc-9izPaMqTX3x58uJchZrLtahOkph3mZh6THi53ojsOj-XEC-D_QyM9sJ3wAyyeJVMXGjjdRK-mvkl1pOYdKXqIpM2m/s1600-h/insecto+extrano+cerca+del+torre.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPs06PPXdzSDxydfRgJ4SYdJ26Ew1eiaaQVDriUpaSyIhyphenhyphenJ8tLc-9izPaMqTX3x58uJchZrLtahOkph3mZh6THi53ojsOj-XEC-D_QyM9sJ3wAyyeJVMXGjjdRK-mvkl1pOYdKXqIpM2m/s320/insecto+extrano+cerca+del+torre.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221019969544365906" border="0" /></a> Insecto Extrano cerca del Torre<br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday, July 9, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I woke at 5 for an hour long yoga session.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s pouring again, so there’s no sense in taking photos.<span style=""> </span>Alas..another reading day.<span style=""> </span></p> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQhGdF6mmlIXTTlGUtYMSDP75pO9-PTwXnqU_DYuwSGfq18phZ2eS6EErrrzs7A4Tz8Q6lo3PHum9FZLdWwKwCwxUrSyo4bkUYtgHqL-Gg-fS4hySyqjCb3CHewr5N_9e_caOD100j5by/s1600-h/JPEG+plant+with+morning+dew+at+6+am.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQhGdF6mmlIXTTlGUtYMSDP75pO9-PTwXnqU_DYuwSGfq18phZ2eS6EErrrzs7A4Tz8Q6lo3PHum9FZLdWwKwCwxUrSyo4bkUYtgHqL-Gg-fS4hySyqjCb3CHewr5N_9e_caOD100j5by/s320/JPEG+plant+with+morning+dew+at+6+am.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221019981739366082" border="0" /></a> Plant with Dew...5:30 a.m.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYriVonAnsB3ZqBSQj4JPz7duawwFYsISIzIAOyzcJH6locObfZv-ycxnoeyjAdGu8_uKOmOT7oF0NOSaPErENjEfH9HSUCHfJIpkDZEh0680UDpuLM7xGvSPIchs_yZxppjhfNa69IZS/s1600-h/butterfly+w,+light+on+leaf.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYriVonAnsB3ZqBSQj4JPz7duawwFYsISIzIAOyzcJH6locObfZv-ycxnoeyjAdGu8_uKOmOT7oF0NOSaPErENjEfH9HSUCHfJIpkDZEh0680UDpuLM7xGvSPIchs_yZxppjhfNa69IZS/s320/butterfly+w,+light+on+leaf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221019985103667858" border="0" /></a> 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.Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-75054572928017761212008-07-09T06:06:00.000-07:002008-12-09T17:47:37.875-08:00<p class="MsoNormal">Monday, July 07, 2008<span style=""> </span></p> This morning I woke at 4:30 in a cold sweat and couldn’t fall back asleep.<span style=""> </span>I crawled out of bed searching for my headlamp to scan the floor before I touched my bare feet to its surface.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>The howler monkeys roared from a short distance, perhaps near Plataforma, and I quietly listened to them call to the sun.<span style=""> </span>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.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxC8Y7nw8452flNMG5JGTJcSRrJXC-Dtaxs2p8UrPKdDGhd_BYHzVMERvVjCSLZ-B_dv7UFy8Q7PlfeaQG7WObS2bb8TaLdhX0KnYDIb5Mt85n3DL9NnvVtcRC93d5LYjCWDHI5TXNbvRk/s1600-h/jesus,+jorge,+old+man+at+boca+amigo+cliff.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxC8Y7nw8452flNMG5JGTJcSRrJXC-Dtaxs2p8UrPKdDGhd_BYHzVMERvVjCSLZ-B_dv7UFy8Q7PlfeaQG7WObS2bb8TaLdhX0KnYDIb5Mt85n3DL9NnvVtcRC93d5LYjCWDHI5TXNbvRk/s320/jesus,+jorge,+old+man+at+boca+amigo+cliff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221013590893408754" border="0" /></a><br />Pluma and Jesus at Boca Amigo<br /><br />Tired of being bitten by mosquitoes, I tiptoed into the library and began to write.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Sure enough, I began to tap my keys furiously, my hands barely keeping up with my train of thought.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<br /><br /><br />At 10, Brian and I decided to wander to Segunda Mirador for a 3 hour hike to search for birds.<span style=""> </span>Walking quietly, and conversing in low tones, we had no such luck.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Turning back to camp, we meandered across Sobrevuelo to Aerodromo.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I was curious to learn more since Nigel plans to take me to a mining village tomorrow morning.<span style=""> </span>There we will speak with the miners about their hunting habits and I’ll hopefully be able to take some photos.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnp2onNtruwbRABVUq6vg1vmUxsBvqlA4viyE9Y5rWVKYjsEF5c3aWLNBMCm_AMCLSai4yddsulSI2tqzw4Ssu8bl9OP_kYaEiK-R8Li_Aad5uoZ1TPdLepAps5HnybfVRqqj1ba18NLe/s1600-h/phantom+hands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnp2onNtruwbRABVUq6vg1vmUxsBvqlA4viyE9Y5rWVKYjsEF5c3aWLNBMCm_AMCLSai4yddsulSI2tqzw4Ssu8bl9OP_kYaEiK-R8Li_Aad5uoZ1TPdLepAps5HnybfVRqqj1ba18NLe/s320/phantom+hands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221013593429161970" border="0" /></a>Phantom Hands (Woodland Creeper)<br /><br />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.<span style=""> </span>It has not rained in two weeks, so the rain smelled immensely refreshing.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Alas, we saw nothing apart from the general beauty of the forest after a fresh rain.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNXWkN2v3FcqXGGURjJuUTs0j3SdZ883T-sNlnc8DtKUWebpoT_YSqtVNsJ0yQTtFbaUAA_oMX317gWgTsJk2CKZ0Odc8rWrNulavBlNqtFVtSzb81yR4Rdji_JfFOOL_eUYmAs9Kg8YM/s1600-h/caiman+negro,+cocha+lobo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNXWkN2v3FcqXGGURjJuUTs0j3SdZ883T-sNlnc8DtKUWebpoT_YSqtVNsJ0yQTtFbaUAA_oMX317gWgTsJk2CKZ0Odc8rWrNulavBlNqtFVtSzb81yR4Rdji_JfFOOL_eUYmAs9Kg8YM/s320/caiman+negro,+cocha+lobo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221013599422078802" border="0" /></a>Black Caiman, Cocha Lobo (Oxbow Lake)<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Tuesday, July 08, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">No one had a full night’s rest last night.<span style=""> </span>Rain came at 2 a.m. and again at 4, roaring through the dense tree cover as heavily as a falling tree.<span style=""> </span>Even the heaviest sleeper (i.e. me) could not ignore such a sensation of fresh air inundating the peaceful cabaña.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>We will not go to the mining village today…maybe Friday if it’s sunny.<span style=""> </span>Hopefully the sun will coincide with Nigel’s schedule.<span style=""> </span></p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhBE1gEzvKE1NEQmoi3K5MSYUs-zlDC6Bt2LD98x7LknjgfNf3pzh5d8-K0Im6St4TP1abcLFbOylgJQ-ltAHeC-XZ2bcQ-hcOQw-SsmtJjbmKANjLdcSLUp_00jVql05-omdWO8hO6kv/s1600-h/JPEG,+baile,+la+nina,+boca+amigo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhBE1gEzvKE1NEQmoi3K5MSYUs-zlDC6Bt2LD98x7LknjgfNf3pzh5d8-K0Im6St4TP1abcLFbOylgJQ-ltAHeC-XZ2bcQ-hcOQw-SsmtJjbmKANjLdcSLUp_00jVql05-omdWO8hO6kv/s320/JPEG,+baile,+la+nina,+boca+amigo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221013602093076402" border="0" /></a>"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.<br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>We had no luck finding orchids, but we did run into a family of 10 saddleback tamarins.<span style=""> </span>The students went ballistic, taking photos and whispering excitedly at their first sight of a mammal in the Amazon.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:11;" ><span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-78407143474703497702008-07-07T06:24:00.000-07:002008-12-09T17:47:39.300-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2fVQXhlHwZFhwANO2GGFOffF9guV63StPP5JKRWDRF69__n54VQ9Z_t1TKDf1YNWv1UVL2_gBAWvYPoEvSZUAL-AwAsRgCGH-7L1foDQd6VLFFMtnKuYhOG66bU6OwMEc9W2SDOe9LxE/s1600-h/tiger-heron+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2fVQXhlHwZFhwANO2GGFOffF9guV63StPP5JKRWDRF69__n54VQ9Z_t1TKDf1YNWv1UVL2_gBAWvYPoEvSZUAL-AwAsRgCGH-7L1foDQd6VLFFMtnKuYhOG66bU6OwMEc9W2SDOe9LxE/s320/tiger-heron+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220263840800938610" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Juvenile Rufescent Tiger Heron at Cocha Lobo (Oxbow lake)<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Friday, June 27, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Today was the first day that we’ve had sun in 6 days.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I hurried back to my cabin and collected the pile of clothes I had accumulated over the week.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Becoming accustomed to wearing damp, musty, moldy clothes is just another fact of life in the Amazon. <span style=""> </span>I do not mind washing my clothes…if only they could dry.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw0s76DlB01_rV4NkPC1OXCSx0NwHiJgObfnw6Jy6f8SFl1665wntPtsak98o_EwW3K01e566J9nFA00dDSIQqAc054WVom5Fdxh5JJuv4W854Gp_Tt1FQ5kReHoHLl3k9eT7wJ__aKnf/s1600-h/JPEG+andes+to+the+amazon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw0s76DlB01_rV4NkPC1OXCSx0NwHiJgObfnw6Jy6f8SFl1665wntPtsak98o_EwW3K01e566J9nFA00dDSIQqAc054WVom5Fdxh5JJuv4W854Gp_Tt1FQ5kReHoHLl3k9eT7wJ__aKnf/s320/JPEG+andes+to+the+amazon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220270585018271810" border="0" /></a><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span> Andes to the Amazon with wild ducks<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I helped Antonio this afternoon, serving as a guide’s assistant.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Walking to Pozo Don Pedro, we hoped to catch sight of the anacondas inhabiting the small cocha.<span style=""> </span>Since it was the first sunny day in a week, our chances were good.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Saturday, June 28, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>This morning I woke with sunshine streaming through the screen walls of my cabin.<span style=""> </span>I woke without an alarm just in time for breakfast and dressed, putting on my green linen pants and a soft merino wool shirt.<span style=""> </span>After eating pancakes with honey, I sat in the sunshine on the porch with Mini.<span style=""> </span>A fly had laid larvae into her finger and she needed someone to remove the creatures from her skin.<span style=""> </span>Susan retrieved her insect dissecting kit and I carefully pulled away the skin from her fingertips to remove the minute larvae.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Susan was less lucky last week—Lisseth dug a larva from her back with her dissecting kit and the pressure from her fingernails.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Later Mini began to demonstrate Indian dances for Oli and Pepi, turning our beautiful sun shiney morning into a dance class.<span style=""> </span>We danced for an hour, showing each other dances that we knew.<span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I was more than willing to help decapitate a wild pig and check out its innards, so was ready in minutes.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>As I was sitting in the grass waiting for her and Mini to return, I heard two distinct gun shots coming from Cocha Lobo….<span style=""> </span>I informed them of my observations as soon as they returned and we proceeded as planned, but with wide eyes.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU_QgFE4RDWfAx8Z_DNH4NeeMhXexWq2fsDIimTt-M7dTW1rjnmHjUuWpFxV-S0lBLphtcIAXt7rL8h7_zwM5lGVaiNAVUBFLUMXAZ5fVNu52Tbeva5_eu6FSh3wG_vjEB9EyoE95YEmW1/s1600-h/JPEG+shot+gun+wound,+huangana.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU_QgFE4RDWfAx8Z_DNH4NeeMhXexWq2fsDIimTt-M7dTW1rjnmHjUuWpFxV-S0lBLphtcIAXt7rL8h7_zwM5lGVaiNAVUBFLUMXAZ5fVNu52Tbeva5_eu6FSh3wG_vjEB9EyoE95YEmW1/s320/JPEG+shot+gun+wound,+huangana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220265364262411186" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span> Shot Gun Wound, Huangana (Peccary)<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The land around CICRA is protected, making hunting illegal.<span style=""> </span>It’s simply a matter of safety—scientists and hunters in the same field do not mix well.<span style=""> </span>So far no one’s been hurt, but we hope to never reach that point.<span style=""> </span>The hunters are generally local gold miners who frequent the bars and do not hesitate to hunt while drinking or drunk.<span style=""> </span>For this reason, Nigel and Renata have forbidden me to walk alone in case I encounter a miner on the path.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>After 30 minutes of walking, we finally found the huangana sprawled dramatically in the brush 10 meters from the trail.<span style=""> </span>We set up the dissection supplies and I was given instructions on what supplies to give and when.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I began recording the location of the pig and its current condition with my camera.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>We planned to collect samples of blood, spinal fluid, and pulmonary fluid assuming the lungs had not collapsed.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Just as we began to do the autopsy, I heard a sound on the trail just 10 meters from the peccary.<span style=""> </span>Absorbed in a deep discussion involving the location of the first cut, Mini and Susan were unaware of the approaching footsteps.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Hunched over, he crouched lower upon realizing that I was aware of his presence and we cautiously observed each other.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Abruptly, he stood and started walking.<span style=""> </span>Startled by his sudden change, I called out “Hola!” receiving a muffled greeting in reply, as if out of breath.<span style=""> </span>Seconds later I understood why, and Susan, Mini, and I watched in a nervous trance as the man</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span>Every move we made stirred up the hundreds of flies and bees that laid so thick, the huangana’s skin crawled to life.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Granted, we couldn’t stop sneezing, but the permeating smell of rotting corpse became bearable and we eventually forgot about the odor.<span style=""> </span>Walking back to camp, our confused noses sorted through the collage of smells: sweat and cinnamon, rotting corpse and humid forest air.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunday </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Today was a relaxed day at the station.<span style=""> </span>It’s quite hot and humid and time for me to organize photos.<span style=""> </span>I have taken several hundred already, and keeping them organized is tedious and mind numbing.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Dull, yes, but necessary.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">After organizing photos for 3 hours, my computer battery died and I had to change my plans.<span style=""> </span>The electricity is turned off during the day to conserve power for cooking and light in the evening.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>Diego and I worked together, me setting him up and him spiking after blocking the bumps and spikes from the other side.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Diego chucked a handful of sand at me and I responded instantly, chasing him up and around the river bank.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Delighted by our discovery, we started rolling around, breaking the top layer of sand and exposing the warm, smooth mud and silt.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I had mud in my nose, ears, eyes, and mouth and ran to wash myself in the muddy river water.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Monday, June 31</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Today is Mini Watsa’s second to last day and she was determined to see the anaconda before she left.<span style=""> </span>Eight of us put on our boots and covered our bare arms in deet.<span style=""> </span>Thirty minutes later we reached Pozo Don Pedro and jumped atop the catamaran, spacing ourselves so it wouldn’t flip.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Except for the feeling that we were being carefully watched, the giant made no move.<span style=""> </span>Paddling closer, we drifted within 8 feet of its glistening scales, some of us holding our breath and others chattering nervously.<span style=""> </span>The only person who was not remotely scared was Brian.<span style=""> </span>Chuckling mischievously, he began to back the boat within 1.5 meters from its elegant head.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Mini grimly told me at that point that anacondas have a special tube to breath with when they swallow prey.<span style=""> </span>Trembling and grinning at his idiocy, we took over the boat and moved away from the lazy creature and back to CICRA.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday, July 02, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>This morning we said our goodbyes to Antonio, Megan, and Mini as they set off for their respective homes in India and Boston.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The hard drive on my laptop is about to explode with the inundation of photographs and music from the past three weeks.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I spent most of my morning organizing old folders and making new ones in order to START deleting information.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>We walked slowly, stopping at every noise in hopes of catching a rare sight of a mammal or exotic bird.<span style=""> </span>We did not find the toucan, but did come across the Saki monkeys that Dara and Gordon are studying.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>Groaning and giggling, we both ran out of range, turning onto primer mirador.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>They showed us the path where they had set up the bird nets and we tiptoed toward it in hopes of seeing more birds.<span style=""> </span>Sure enough, a small wood creeper had severely entangled itself in the invisible black netting and I called for help.<span style=""> </span>Will jumped up to help while Claire finished the notes on the bird they had intentionally caught.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">After lunch, I played a quick game of volleyball and had a quick siesta.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thursday, July 03, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m looking forward to traveling with mom at the end of the trip.<span style=""> </span>We are hoping to travel in the highlands in the area of Huancayo or Huaraz.<span style=""> </span>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. :)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Friday, July 04, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Ahhh, it's so beautiful today and I LOVE my little cabin.<span style=""> </span>It's the first one on the left just as you leave the soccer field.<span style=""> </span>So not only is it close, but it's quiet and private.<span style=""> </span>What a treat after living in a dorm all year!<span style=""> </span>When I go back to school I'll never be able to sleep since I'll miss the peace (yet noisiness) of the jungle.<span style=""> </span>I can't stop thinking about how this place is just so ALIVE.<span style=""> </span>The sounds, movements, people, thoughts, animals, whatever!<span style=""> </span>This is my kind of city.<span style=""> </span>People know each other, learn from each other, and are still free to be themselves in a beautiful, mostly stress free, sunny environment.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I HAVE 82 BUG BITES AND 2 TICKS. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA….I NEED NEW SKIN!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>I’m starting with a beautifully photographed book called “El Paraíso Amazonico del Perú:<span style=""> </span>MANU Parque nacional y Reserva de la Biosfera”.<span style=""> </span>Though I’m not actually in Manu, I’m just downstream and can see the same flora and fauna—just not as abundantly.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Manu area was industrialized in the 1830’s by the rubber boom.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>The elder Kalinowski moved to Peru where he raised his son in the jungle, giving him a lifetime experience in biology and natural history.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>So, during the beginning of the lumber boom in the 60’s, he lobbied to protect the forest and succeeded.<span style=""> </span>Manu was first named as a state park, then as a national park.<span style=""> </span>Finally, UNESCO named it a world heritage site, a position held by only 200 places in 55 countries (64).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Tropical rainforests cover less than 7% of the earth’s surface, but host over 50% of the world’s species.<span style=""> </span>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).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Medicinal plants:<span style=""> </span>25% of all drugs found in modern pharmacies are derived or copied from those found in the rainforest.<span style=""> </span>(77)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Giant otters (lobos del río):<span style=""> </span>The otters actually hunt caiman 5 feet and under by attacking their soft underbellies, then eating their head, body, and tail.<span style=""> </span>The otters grow up to 6 feet in length and a full grown male eats an average of 10 lbs. of fish each day.<span style=""> </span>They are extremely rare from overhunting for their precious skins (as well as the black caiman).<span style=""> </span>(86)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Epiphytes:<span style=""> </span>plants that live on other plants and take their nutrients and moisture from their surroundings and not the ground.<span style=""> </span> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Saturday, July 05, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I woke this morning feeling nauseous.<span style=""> </span>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. <span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>After lunch, I feel asleep on the couch and woke an hour later feeling refreshed like the beginning of a new day.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>We plan to have 20-30 minute conversation each day covering every tense and as much vocabulary as possible.<span style=""> </span>Karina is intelligent and prepared to speak English, but she needs to build confidence and learn how much she already knows.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>It was both interesting and sad to see the immense destruction of the land rendering it entirely useless.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style=""> </span>Arriving at CICRA just as it was becoming dark, we spotted two white caiman sitting on the sandy beach by the boat launch.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunday, July 06, 2008<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This morning was a maintenance day. I shaved Will’s head, letting the hair float away in the gentle breeze.<span style=""> </span>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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Afterwards, I picked up my book and continued to search and identify flora and fauna I had been observing in the forest.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve nearly finished clearing old photos off my hard drive…which means I need to delete my music next.<span style=""> </span>This is such a painful chore since I need to be careful (especially with the photos) to not delete anything special.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-9867544135247067362008-06-26T14:43:00.000-07:002008-06-26T19:03:07.845-07:00the past two weeks<p class="MsoNormal">Day 2:<span style=""> </span>June 15, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I woke at 6 a.m. today and ate some native fruits and pancakes for breakfast.<span style=""> </span>I helped Adriana Sanchez and Edwin fill 300 cups and quart containers with soil to plant the cuttings of the plants which Adriana is using for one of her PhD research projects.<span style=""> </span>After filling the pots with soil, the three of us walked along the trail off the fútbol field to collect cuttings and roots of her plants from the jungle.<span style=""> </span>Adriana’s study involved the hormigas (ants) that protected these two species of plants and to what extent their protection extended.<span style=""> </span>Upon observing many of the older trees related to the smaller plant species Adriana was interested in, there was an obvious clearing extending about 2 feet all around the tree with its bark being perfectly smooth and white.<span style=""> </span>The aggressive ants defend their home clearing all vines and mosses from the tree.<span style=""> </span>Many of the plastic orange tags which had been tied to the trees less than 24 hours before had already been chewed from the tree and pulverized by the ants.<span style=""> </span>The ants live inside the tree and if one happens to flick the bark above the entrances, hundreds of ants come rushing out to defend their home, some even jumping several inches to land on their attacker in order to leave behind their stinging bites.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>After dinner, I began to organize my photos and editing them with Photoshop.<span style=""> </span>Adriana picked a random song from my iTunes to play.<span style=""> </span>It was a song from the Carolina Chocolate Drops album.<span style=""> </span>Everyone in the room stopped and stared at Adriana and I in the corner as we listened to the old time music.<span style=""> </span>I will never hear the end of it now, especially since Bryan, a Welsh man, started doing a crow’s foot dance.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 3:<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 4:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Today I went with Adriana and Edwin on a hike from 6:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m.<span style=""> </span>We hiked on trocha 10 to the ficus trocha to the concha lobo where I saw a black caiman.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 5:<span style=""> </span>June 18, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I woke at 6 and went to track Saki monkeys with Gordon and Dara, the couple living in the cabin with me.<span style=""> </span>Mini (from India) went with us since the Tamarind monkey’s she was tracking tended to follow a similar path as the Saki monkeys.<span style=""> </span>Tracking monkeys is difficult and dangerous, as well as fast paced and totally dull all at the same time.<span style=""> </span>In order to follow a pack of monkeys skating through the trees, researchers must go blundering off the trails after their subjects.<span style=""> </span>The uneven terrain and extremely high potential for becoming lost is obvious, not to mention the danger of grabbing a branch that happens to be the tail of a snake or the home of a horde of army ants.<span style=""> </span>At the same time, the monkeys may stop to rest, groom, or feed which entails much sitting and waiting for them to stop their normal healthy behavior for the safety of changing resting locations lest a predator discover their normal paths.<span style=""> </span>Additionally, one must never forget the misery of a sore neck from staring at a monkey sitting 60 meters from the ground, never removing the eyes for fear of losing sight.<span style=""> </span>I learned all of this in about 20 minutes, and grew to understand it after about 6 hours of sitting completely still.<span style=""> </span>While sitting still, mosquitoes begin to swarm, making the situation much more comfortable for the observer.<span style=""> </span>Simply said, I’m glad that I’m just the photographer and can leave the monkeys to eat my lunch in the comfort of a shaded screen dining hall rather than skipping lunch and waiting for 3 more hours to observe the monkey’s feeding and grooming habits from a 60 meter distance.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>There are three large problems associated with carrying a camera in the rainforest, even in the “dry” season.<span style=""> </span>First—the humidity is horrendous and my lens constantly fogs up during rainy or humid days.<span style=""> </span>However, if I wipe off my lens, I have to be careful not to use a wet rag or cloth, which is nearly impossible because everything is damp.<span style=""> </span>For example, I washed my socks and set them outside to dry at 6 p.m.<span style=""> </span>However, by 6 p.m. the next day my socks had molded (and not just a smelly mold, but a mold of dark black spots covering my socks).<span style=""> </span>This place is simply alive.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Second—the camera is valuable.<span style=""> </span>I do not foresee any issues with carrying expensive equipment here at the station except if I encounter a local gold miner on the trails.<span style=""> </span>Many hunt illegally for the rich meat of the peccaries.<span style=""> </span>It’s only illegal because it’s dangerous for the researchers, not because the peccaries are particularly rare.<span style=""> </span>Today I found shot gun shells near the spot where we were searching for the Saki monkeys.<span style=""> </span>Shots were heard this morning as well—not by us, but by another researcher.<span style=""> </span>This is potentially quite dangerous since humans blunder as loudly in the brush as any other peccary, but without the grunting and smell (except perhaps for the strange Italian man….).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Third—the light is terrible in the forest.<span style=""> </span>There are spots where the light shines through because a tree has fallen, but there is significantly less exotic flora and fauna in these locations because much of the wildlife here prefers the safety of the shade.<span style=""> </span>I need to experiment with the ISO, shutter speeds, etc. to find a combination which will allow me to shoot accurately and in focus.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately, I shoot such a large variety of insects, mushrooms, and vistas that I will need to change these settings for almost every shot.<span style=""> </span>This would be easier if I had a manual camera with dials visibly protruding from the body, however I need to find a cozy couch and reread my manual tomorrow so I can improve my skills.<span style=""> </span>I have an eye for photography, but few technical skills when dealing with digital cameras.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 6:<span style=""> </span>June 19, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I became quite lost today.<span style=""> </span>Susan needed help collecting insects from the insect traps, which involved me going alone to some trails quite far from the station by myself.<span style=""> </span>At first I had no trouble.<span style=""> </span>The insect traps were not always easy to see thanks to the rapid growth of the underbrush, but were well marked on the map.<span style=""> </span>As I headed toward collecting the last two traps I had to turn around due to the dense brush and fallen trees which obscured the trail beyond recognition.<span style=""> </span>It would be too easy to mistake a research trail for a regular maintained trail in a situation like this which could take me a couple of miles from my destination—which in the jungle is quite dangerous.<span style=""> </span>One can stand 10 feet from the trail and not have any awareness of its existence, making it easy to lose the trails, especially when alone.<span style=""> </span>That’s exactly what happened to me.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I started my trek at 7 and finished collecting the insects by 11.<span style=""> </span>I started to return to the station but suddenly found myself standing in front of a river—whether it was the Los Amigos River or the Madre de Dios River, I don’t know.<span style=""> </span>What mattered was that I had taken the wrong trail.<span style=""> </span>Naturally I backtracked knowing that I would simply end up where I started as long as I followed the trail, but that was not the case.<span style=""> </span>Apparently I took one of Diego’s research trails which was notorious for confusing people.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately I did not take into account that the signs are only viewed from someone coming down the trail, not from someone coming up the trail as I was.<span style=""> </span>I was lost for over an hour, but managed to locate a research trail which connected back to the main trail.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Worse yet, I was unable to take photos as my camera lens had fogged and when I wiped the condensation from the glass I used the only fabric I had—a soggy, sweaty cotton t-shirt.<span style=""> </span>Thus one stupid move had killed any photo opportunities for the day since I had forgotten my lens cleaner.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>My awareness of the sounds around me has increased and my fears of walking alone have decreased significantly since my morning in the forest.<span style=""> </span>I remained vigilant in listening for peccaries (huanganas) and other wildlife that would either be incredible or dangerous (or both) to encounter.<span style=""> </span>The distinct salty reek of the peccaries allows you to track the aggressive animals, but if they encounter you instead it is difficult to prepare.<span style=""> </span>The best thing to do is to climb a tree (which is actually quite difficult as most are either too large, too small, or covered in thorns and spikes) and make loud noises to scare them without aggressively encroaching on their territory.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Day 7</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>One sad thing about working at the station is the fact that people come and go, which means saying goodbye.<span style=""> </span>There are around 30 people here, which is a good variety, and each person is friendly and unique (as one would have to be in order to have any desire to live in the isolation of the Manu Biosphere Reserve).<span style=""> </span>However, I realized last night that my first week had already passed and my new friend Adriana Sanchez would be leaving along with the week.<span style=""> </span>It’s a fact of life to say goodbye, and the thought that new people will return makes things exciting as nobody here tends to be cliquey.<span style=""> </span>Granted, some friendships are stronger than others, but I refer more to the fact that workers and researchers and administration alike eat at the same dinner table.<span style=""> </span>The fact that a “lowly” Peruvian worker has the opportunity to eat with brilliant people who work on PhD research projects on unknown species of ants and that this well-educated person has the chance to get to know someone less fortunate cheers me.<span style=""> </span>The lack of cliques is not perfect of course, but is certainly viewed during an aggressive and fun game of fútbol or volleyball.<span style=""> </span>Everyone plays together and works together.<span style=""> </span>It’s really something that should not be overlooked about this station since the sincerity which people display toward each other is valuable and cheering.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I worked with Susan today to create a t-shirt design.<span style=""> </span>Nigel will take the design to Lima on Saturday to have the t-shirts made.<span style=""> </span>She and I discussed what we would like to see on the shirt and how we could best represent CICRA without leaving anybody out.<span style=""> </span>We decided to create a journey of figures moving from the boat in the river and traveling up the stairs carrying heavy boxes with caiman at their heels.<span style=""> </span>The people carrying the boxes would travel to a palm hut at the top (the comedor) and people would be walking out of the comedor doing various activities (soccer, Mammalian GPS tracking, looking through binoculars, taking notes, digging, etc.).<span style=""> </span>I took photographs of people doing these things and Susan will draw the figures which will go on the shirt.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sunday, June 22, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Today I hiked with Will Minehart and Erick to Cocha Lobo.<span style=""> </span>We paddled around the oxbow lake observing the awkward call and blundering movements of the Hoatzin birds.<span style=""> </span>They have crested combs with feathers of red and grey and orange.<span style=""> </span>As we paddled back, 6 giant otters began to swim toward us.<span style=""> </span>They had not seen us, but as soon as they did so, the leader began to click and grunt to his fellows, warning them of our presence.<span style=""> </span>We were quite lucky to see them in part because they were thought to have not existed in this region for a few years until today.<span style=""> </span>My photos prove it.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>A friaje has arrived and it’s about 50 degrees at the moment.<span style=""> </span>By nightfall it will be around 40.<span style=""> </span>The Amazon is not always a toasty place.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Monday, June 23, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We FINALLY got back from a romp in the woods this morning. I got up at 5:30 to do some yoga with an ornithologist named Will and left at 6:15 to take a boat across the river with three of his coworkers. We accidentally missed a trail because the trails on the other side of the river are not marked except at large intersections. Instead of taking a quick trail to the stream where the ant birds they were researching would likely live, we missed a turn and ended up wandering through a palm swamp for two hours. The water was fairly deep and everything was made of slick, sticky mud. We had our eyes open for hungry anacondas and whatever else may want to take a nibble from us. The trail markers that led us to the swamp actually led us to the middle of the swamp and just stopped. Not knowing what else to do, we just kept hacking a trail with a machete and squelching our way through the treacherous muck. Finally we hit solid ground! ...but not for long...little did we know that we had two more swamps to hike. :) <br /><br />When we did find the trail we needed to find the ant birds, it was already time to meet our boat driver and go back to CICRA. It was definitely fun, but cold since we're in the middle of a friaje and it's 50 degrees. No one wanted to fall in, but Diego did...he sank all the way to his hips, filling his rubber boots with icy water and muck. <br /><br />I actually don't wear my hiking boots here. The best thing is to wear big rubber boots and I just so happened to scrounge up a pair more or less in my size. Not too many people wear a size six, so I didn't have to compete to wear them or worry about any one else needing them. <br /><br />Okay...time to take an alcohol bath...chiggers and mosquitoes and other red itchy bites from goodness knows what…. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tuesday, June 24, 2008<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I took a break today. <span style=""> </span>There’s a nasty cold/fever going around and I could feel my body becoming tired from getting up no later than 6:30 and going to bed at 10 or later.<span style=""> </span>I delved into the depths of my camera manual to continue to find a way to take photos in focus with poor light conditions and little time.<span style=""> </span>With a combination of widening my aperture, increasing my shutter speed, and working with options only available to digital cameras such as “white balance” which allows me to tone the harsh grays of a cloudy day to a tolerable level, I may be able to adjust my photos and improve their quality.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday, June 25, 2008<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Today I got up at 5:30 and met Will to do yoga and watch for early morning animals/birds rising from the mists of the river.<span style=""> </span>It would most likely be too dark to take photos again, especially of the macaws flying around the river banks, but they could at least be heard.<span style=""> </span>We stretched and worked our stiff muscles from endless hours hiking in hot rubber boots instead of comfortable shoes (a matter of safety for snakes, ants, etc.) trying to ward off the cold which had settled into our bones from the friaje which had permeated every nook and cranny of the station except under the warmth of a thick blanket.<span style=""> </span>It’s about 40 degrees at night and 50 during the day.<span style=""> </span>That’s not too cold except that all of my clothes, if not completely wet from trekking through palm swamps and marshes, are at least damp from the heavy tropical humidity.<span style=""> </span>One becomes accustomed to everything being damp after just a few days simply because there is no other option.<span style=""> </span>There are no dryers here—for that matter there are not even any wash machines, whether for clothing or dishes.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>At CICRA, each person hand washes their own clothes.<span style=""> </span>The only time anything actually dries is during a dry, sunny day or a cold, dry, windy day.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately, neither of those is very common, and when the opportunity does present itself, the clothes lines are packed.<span style=""> </span>As a result, shirts are worn a time or two longer than would ever be acceptable anywhere in the US.<span style=""> </span>It’s just a matter of perception and necessity.<span style=""> </span>Since everyone smells, no one cares (mostly).<span style=""> </span>Clothing is never really “put away” because field clothes should never mix with evening clothing or else the colonies of chiggers inhabiting the elastic bands of your underwear and the linings of your shirts and pants will take over your clean clothing as well.<span style=""> </span>Also, field clothing should never touch your bed…no one wants chiggers, ants, or ticks to spend the night with them or else they would wake up a different person.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Despite the apparent discomfort, I have no problems with this situation.<span style=""> </span>Naturally, I appreciate the beauty of a wash machine, but the other problems are prevented through simple planning and precautions.<span style=""> </span>Once a routine is established, it’s easy to understand the chaotic system of field clothes, house clothes, soccer/volleyball clothes, etc.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thursday, June 26, 2008</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Today, Pluma (Jorge) and I worked from 7 to 12 collecting Israel’s bugs from his distantly spaced bug traps.<span style=""> </span>I was happy to go with him so I could continue to get to know him.<span style=""> </span>Pluma attends my English classes and I always find him organizing his notes and studying in the classroom before class starts even though everyone else is still bantering and chattering will letting their dinner settle in the comedor.<span style=""> </span>His determination to learn English is commendable, though the possibility of him becoming fluent with teachers coming and going at a constant rate makes it difficult for the students.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I told Pluma about my life in the states, my old home which has been passed down for generations, Berea and its work/study program, my friends, and my interests.<span style=""> </span>Having heard from another researcher that Pluma was studying medicinal plants of the Amazon with the hopes of becoming a shaman of sorts, I was curious to hear more.<span style=""> </span>He has been working over the past few years, growing a (rather unsuccessful) garden, his research on both the internet and by talking to people.<span style=""> </span>When put to the test, Pluma’s knowledge has proved to be fruitful.<span style=""> </span>A young baby in Puerto Maldonado was covered in a series of mysterious welts and Pluma prescribed some natural cream to sooth its sores.<span style=""> </span>Three days later, the sores were completely gone.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps the sores would have disappeared anyway, but I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">One could easily assume that Pluma’s efforts to become a medicine man are silly—let the natives take care of these traditional practices.<span style=""> </span>However, the native Amazon population does not even exist in this region.<span style=""> </span>Most inhabitants migrated from the bitter life in the highlands or from the dusty life of Lima.<span style=""> </span>As such, plant and animal knowledge are at a bare minimum, and there is no knowledge to be passed from generation to generation.<span style=""> </span>Many communities were established over ten years ago, but beyond some simple flowers or the occasional vegetable, all food is shipped from Cusco to Puerto Maldonado, and then distributed to various small communities within 8-10 hours of driving, whether a boat or on a road.<span style=""> </span>To put this in perspective, Cusco is about 20 hours from Puerto Maldonado by bus and CICRA is about 8 hours from Puerto Maldonado.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Pluma and I walked to Trompetero, past Aerodromo, to the Torre, and around Daniela before returning to resupply.<span style=""> </span>All throughout the morning, we could hear the snarling shrieks of the huanganas (peccaries) crashing through the brush.<span style=""> </span>I was torn between wanting to see the aggressive critters and being perfectly content knowing that I would not have to run and climb the nearest tree for safety (which I might add, is extremely difficult since the trees here do not have low hanging branches and others are covered in a thick armor of inch long spines.<span style=""> </span>Other trees are about 12 feet in diameter and would just be impossible to even consider climbing).<span style=""> </span>With Pluma around, I preferred to take advantage of his experience in the selva rather than encounter them alone for the first time.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p>Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5638017045514882085.post-76781984373481639102008-06-14T18:27:00.000-07:002008-06-14T18:35:24.143-07:00Day 1The Amazon and the station (CICRA) is awesome. The people are totally friendly and a bit crazy--but they have to be a bit crazy to WANT to come out here. :) So far I haven't been eaten alive and I only have one mammal living in my cabin. There's some sort of marsupial and a poisonous frog that exudes some incredibly sticky goo when you touch it and it lives in the drain of my sink. Other than that..I love it. We (researchers, volunteers, cooks, trail workers, etc) play a lot of soccer in our free time, so I'm already in better shape than before. <br /><br />I won't be sending any photos anytime soon since the internet's pretty slow and there are more people using it than normal due to a college class coming here for 10 days. There are about 50 people here overall. It's not too hot...but good grief, I've already worn all my clean clothes because it's soooo muggy. Not a single thing is dry...things will start molding by next week. I'm told it's inevitable. I believe it. However the adventure of the moldy socks will come another night. It's time for bed...breakfast is at 6 and the power is shut down at 10 pm to conserve what the solar panels have collected for breakfast since the cooks are awake before the sun peeks through the fog.<br /><br />Oh yeah..so I saw a 26 foot anaconda today. That was both terrifying and completely amazing. Apparently it had eaten because it was basking in the sun and didn't flinch when we arrived. Normally they're extremely shy creatures and people can stay for months without seeing one...day one for Frances: stand six feet from a 26 foot anaconda with a trunk thicker than her waist. Thrilling, huh?Franceshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12581108379302281213noreply@blogger.com0