New "Field Notes". These are short reports that I have been writing for the Montana Natural History Center - which are then broadcast on KUFM - an NPR affiliate based in Missoula.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Field Notes
I've been doing some writing for the Montana Natural History Center. They have a program called "Field Notes, which airs on KUFM - an NPR station from out of Missoula. Here are links to short pieces on sharp tailed grouse, bison and wolves.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Overpopulation
One of the things that I want to do with this blog is to draw attention to issues and causes that I care about. Sometimes, I am going to provide links with shorter pieces of commentary.
The Guardian published a short piece about Paul Ehrlich who wrote The Population Bomb in 1968.
I won’t summarize the work, but I think it is worth commenting that population is one of the hardest topics to discuss. On one page, a person was upset by this article, exclaiming: “Killing more people (haven't we killed enough--145 million+ this past century)--is that really the most creative solution we can come up with?”
Of course, Ehrlich has proposed no such thing. Indeed, overpopulation has the potential to cause massive suffering in such forms as plague, starvation, war for scarce resources, and habitat destruction.
Reducing the population can be achieved through means such as education and empowering women. To be certain, it can create problems - especially economic problems. Many programs such as medicare, social security and even private pensions are dependent on a growing population supporting the well being of the elderly. They cannot be sustained as is if the younger generations are smaller than the older ones.
To be certain, it is a big problem, but it is not an impossible one. If we are willing to discuss it and work to prevent the worst ramifications from becoming reality, we can surely fix the problems.
Surely, it is better to fix the problems now, while we have options, than later - when we don’t.
The Guardian published a short piece about Paul Ehrlich who wrote The Population Bomb in 1968.
I won’t summarize the work, but I think it is worth commenting that population is one of the hardest topics to discuss. On one page, a person was upset by this article, exclaiming: “Killing more people (haven't we killed enough--145 million+ this past century)--is that really the most creative solution we can come up with?”
Of course, Ehrlich has proposed no such thing. Indeed, overpopulation has the potential to cause massive suffering in such forms as plague, starvation, war for scarce resources, and habitat destruction.
Reducing the population can be achieved through means such as education and empowering women. To be certain, it can create problems - especially economic problems. Many programs such as medicare, social security and even private pensions are dependent on a growing population supporting the well being of the elderly. They cannot be sustained as is if the younger generations are smaller than the older ones.
To be certain, it is a big problem, but it is not an impossible one. If we are willing to discuss it and work to prevent the worst ramifications from becoming reality, we can surely fix the problems.
Surely, it is better to fix the problems now, while we have options, than later - when we don’t.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Acadia National Park - The Beehive
For many who come to America’s National Parks, their first experience with the National Park Service is Acadia National Park. The park, first established as National Monument in 1916, was established as Lafayette National Park in 1919 and renamed Acadia in 1929. The idea for a national park east of the Mississippi came from the landscape architect Charles Elliott. Much of the park’s charm comes from the carriage trails that weave throughout the park. The trails were financed by John D. Rockefeller Jr. and designed by Beatrix Farrand.
I was there early in the season, before most of the roads in park were open to cars. Clearly, the carriage trails were popular with bikers and joggers, and next time I am there, I plan to bring my bike. But for this trip, I wanted to try my hand at the Beehive. I heard about the trail the last time I was in the park, and it didn’t disappoint.
The bulk of my hiking is done in Greater Yellowstone, where the volcanic history makes good vertical climbing a rare treat. But on Mt. Desert Island - the coastal Maine Island that is the home of Acadia - strong hard granite is the norm. So, the cliff faces of the beehive can support iron rungs used to go pretty much straight up a 500 foot rock outcrop.
In short, it is a thrilling hike. But the best part of it is not the adrenaline rushes (although they are pretty amazing), but what is nearby. It is often said that people are either ocean or mountain people, but this trail offers the best of both worlds. The trail head is only a few hundred feet from the ocean. After a long winter of snow and skiing, a warm spring climb in the sea salt air, with waves crashing below was one of the most satisfying hikes I have done in years.
To finish off the hike, I headed south to the summit of Gorham Mountain and enjoyed the views of miles of untrammeled Maine coast. From the bottom of the mountain, I hiked north along the ocean back to the car.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Why I stand with the 99%
If there is one thing that both the Tea Party and the 99% can agree on is that there is an unjust coupling of wealth and political power in this nation. It seems that the Tea Party wants to eliminate this problem by minimizing government while the 99% wants to eliminate the wealth disparity. (I am skirting around the fact that there is a good amount of diversity in both groups.)
However, the Tea Party has set themselves up as cheerleaders for what the rich and powerful want. They want less regulation, less of a government safety net, fewer government programs. I suspect that much of this comes from sheer magnitude of the injustice of the bank rescue. The rich got bailed out while the rest of us got screwed. Sadly, their solutions sound like the same things that corporations want. Less regulation for the banks is exactly what the corporations and the Tea Party both want. It is the same thing with environmental regulations. It is the same thing with the social safety net. One is left to wonder (I suspect the Koch brothers would have an explanation.)
So then the question must obviously be why we should support the 99%. Let me start by saying that at a very fundamental level, I agree with them. For the first time in this nation's history we have a generation that is going to be poorer, less healthy , and weaker nation than the previous generation inherited. Basics like Social Security and Medicaid are going to be denied to younger people (after having paid them for the older generation).
Furthermore, when I look at nations that do many of the things I want, like increased regulation, better economic safety nets, less wealth inequality, I find that they work well. In terms of per capita income, we aren't at the top by any measure. (Pardon my link to Wikipedia, but it was the only page with convenient listings that I could find.) Nations with much stronger social safety nets than ours are doing it better. Meanwhile, amongst OECD nations, we are at the bottom 5 for social justice as we are for wealth distribution, and we are one of the most polluting countries in the world.
This is compounded by the fact that starting in the 1980s, income stagnated for all but the richest of us. Once we started eliminating government, the rich just started getting richer while everyone else was working harder for more. Even after the collapse in 2008, they kept getting richer. CEO pay is now 343 times what the average worker makes, and that doesn't take capital earnings (which are taxed at a lower rate) into account.
One example of the abuse by those in power is in health care. To be sure, if you can afford it, you can get top of the line health care in this nation. Even those of us with "adequate" insurance can get some pretty decent health care too. That said, our system is monstrous. It is unimaginable that we, as a civilized nation, will turn to our poorest, least able, and sickest, and just say "fuck you, suffer." Yet that is what we do. Even if you are not sick, but have a pre-existing condition, or don’t do the paper work exactly, good luck getting covered.
That is, of course, small picture. The big picture is whether or not we, as a nation, get our money's worth, and the answer is clearly that we do not. In fact, we spend more than any other nation on health care, and we aren't living the longest, we have people passing away from treatable illnesses, and it is so unjust as to be unconscionable.
That is, of course, small picture. The big picture is whether or not we, as a nation, get our money's worth, and the answer is clearly that we do not. In fact, we spend more than any other nation on health care, and we aren't living the longest, we have people passing away from treatable illnesses, and it is so unjust as to be unconscionable.
In short, our system sucks. That said, Medicare does work. Right now, young people are paying for the current recipients. It is the same thing with Social Security. These are wonderful programs and probably the only social programs that are popular with the American people. That said, I doubt that I will ever see the benefits of either program, so why should I pay for it? It isn't fair that I am paying for a program that I will never see the benefits from. Of course, if people still working stop paying into that system - then everyone will stop getting your benefits.
Of course, every other industrialized nation has solved this by providing universal coverage. While no country has solved it perfectly, almost every country has done a better job than us. (See my link above) Are we incapable as a nation of providing at least basic health care to everyone? I would answer that we are, but it isn't inherent. The problem is that there are very wealthy and powerful interests getting in the way.
That seems wrong to me. People say it will cost us more in taxes. Right now, my insurance is about $350, which I get through my wife’s job. We are paying $700 a month between the two of us. I would happily pay $500 a month for both of us to get better health care. It doesn’t matter to me if it is taxes or a private company – I am still out the money. Ultimately, I would rather pay less for better product.
Keep in mind, the reason corporations opposed the public option was because they would not be able to compete.
 |
| My friend Cathy making a stand |
In other words, it is time to remove money from politics and regulate corporations. If they really are people, let them live by the same rules as the rest of us. If someone dies because of a corporation’s action, put it in jail. Better yet, put it on death row in Texas. I also want personal freedoms. I feel that the nations that do this best are in those in Scandinavia. I don't want to move there, but I think we could learn from some of their ideas. We are a nation of immigrants, and I think that we have always done well by importing good ideas.
By the way, Scandinavia is not part of the Euro-zone, so they are removed from what is happening in Greece (keep in mind that the Euro is pretty much a conservative idea), and Iceland has recovered nicely, and much more quickly, by following a socialized regiment.
Moreover, government is ours. By every right, we should have an equal say in government. My views, your views, David Koch's views and Michael Moore's views should all be held in equal regard. Money should not be the keys to the kingdom. So, let's get money out of politics, stop saying that corporations are people, and find realistic ways of solving the problems. I think that puts me with those people who are occupying Wall Street. Indeed, it puts 99% of us with them.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Galapagos: Fernandina
On the sixth day we visited the island of Fernandina. At 700,000 years old it is the youngest of these islands, and its lack of age shows. The area we landed in was quite lush. It was underwater until 1959, when an underground lava flow forced some of the shoreline above water. A Disney crew was filming in the area at the time. The returned to the area one morning to find the beach has been lifted up. Where there had been water, they found exposed ocean floor. They reported that fish were still flopping around and lobsters were crawling around on the ground.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Galapagos: Galapagos Underwater
Roughly 20% of the fishes in the waters around the Galapagos are endemic, meaning they can be found nowhere else. By Galapagos standards the waters are absolutely cosmopolitan, even if that number is fantastically high by the standards of most ecosystems.
Enter the waters here, and you are overwhelmed with snappers, parrot fish, sergeant majors, and star fish. Today, while snorkeling off the coast of Isabella, we met an astonishing number of creatures. Within 30 seconds of entering the water, I was greeted by the first spectacular sighting of the day – a shark. In our tellings of the story, the shark has grown to be well over 50 feet. However, it was probably about 6 feet – a white tip shark. The hammerheads have proven to be less cooperative.
About one minute and several dozen brightly colored fish after the shark swam off, a pacific green sea turtle swam into view. These endemic sea turtles are nesting at the moment, so they wait close to shore for night to come. When it does, they haul themselves up past the high tide mark and bury their eggs in the soft sand, leaving tracks that look suspiciously like truck tires. They are amazing creatures, and quite common on these islands. Already a number of my travel partners have grown bored of them. I haven't.
Later, I feel a tugging at my flippers. Malcolm, an English traveler who used to work for the Saudi royal family, point at a bunch of Galapagos penguins. They slowly approached, apparently curious about what they were seeing in their normally human free waters. After investigating for a bit, they must have decided that I was nothing of interest, and disappeared into the ocean.
This was followed by a Galapagos sea lion, an endemic species closely related to the California sea lion. They are entirely tame here. At one point, I was walking along the beach, looking at the sea when Maru, a girl with my group, pushed my chest to make me stop walking. I was about to trip over a sea lion that was walking past. The sea lion was nonplussed – it simply looked up at me, barked at me, and kept moving.
In 1998, the waters surrounding the islands were declared a marine reserve, and is protected under both Ecuadoran and international law. Despite these protections, and genuine enforcement efforts, these waters remain under siege. Poaching continues, with long lines and nets drowning countless numbers of birds, turtles and sea lions. The damage done to reefs and other underwater habitats is difficult to quantify, as is the economic damage done to people who try to support themselves sustainably on these islands. (Including the many local fishermen who play by the rules.)
Enter the waters here, and you are overwhelmed with snappers, parrot fish, sergeant majors, and star fish. Today, while snorkeling off the coast of Isabella, we met an astonishing number of creatures. Within 30 seconds of entering the water, I was greeted by the first spectacular sighting of the day – a shark. In our tellings of the story, the shark has grown to be well over 50 feet. However, it was probably about 6 feet – a white tip shark. The hammerheads have proven to be less cooperative.
About one minute and several dozen brightly colored fish after the shark swam off, a pacific green sea turtle swam into view. These endemic sea turtles are nesting at the moment, so they wait close to shore for night to come. When it does, they haul themselves up past the high tide mark and bury their eggs in the soft sand, leaving tracks that look suspiciously like truck tires. They are amazing creatures, and quite common on these islands. Already a number of my travel partners have grown bored of them. I haven't.
Later, I feel a tugging at my flippers. Malcolm, an English traveler who used to work for the Saudi royal family, point at a bunch of Galapagos penguins. They slowly approached, apparently curious about what they were seeing in their normally human free waters. After investigating for a bit, they must have decided that I was nothing of interest, and disappeared into the ocean.
After that came a flightless cormorant. Cormorants here have lost the ability to fly. They still sun their wings, but for no apparent purpose. The wings that they have left are little more than stubs. Out of water they are awkward looking creatures, stumbling about on the rocks and getting into shouting matches with blue footed boobies like drunks on binge. Moving about the underwater rocks like mercury, searching for food hidden in the crevices, they possess a grace under water that that is utter lacking on land.
In 1998, the waters surrounding the islands were declared a marine reserve, and is protected under both Ecuadoran and international law. Despite these protections, and genuine enforcement efforts, these waters remain under siege. Poaching continues, with long lines and nets drowning countless numbers of birds, turtles and sea lions. The damage done to reefs and other underwater habitats is difficult to quantify, as is the economic damage done to people who try to support themselves sustainably on these islands. (Including the many local fishermen who play by the rules.)Not every snorkel trip has been that eventful. Sometimes the water is murky, sometimes there is just nothing there. This isn't an aquarium, but, at least for the time being, this is one of the best places to experience some of the best underwater wildlife viewing this world has to offer.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Galapagos: Lonesome George
Today was a trip to town. We took in a bit of shopping and a spin through the Charles Darwin Research Center. The center's most famous inhabitant is Lonesome George. Poor George is the last of his kind, or at least the last of his kind known. There is a $20,000 reward out for female saddleback tortoises from the island of Pinta.
He actually isn't so lonesome. He shares his pen with two female saddlebacks from a different island. They are a different species, but scientists think that they might be closely enough related that they could be able to produce offspring.
Mostly this has gone nowhere. For twelve years, George only appears to have tried to mate with one of the females one time. He ended up falling asleep on top of the poor thing and the mating was unsuccessful. He is estimated to be about 90 years old, fairly young for a giant tortoise, but still give the guy a break. He got something done – the female laid eggs, but none of them were fertilized.
A Belgian volunteer “with lovely soft hands” (as described by Juan, our guide) managed to collect some sperm from George. It turns out that the last of his kind is not producing viable semen. And there is, so I am told, plans in the works to introduce saddlebacks from a different island to Pinta. The different species play similar ecological roles on the different islands. Their diets are roughly the same, and they play an important role in seed distribution for plants. Finches also rely on them as a source for food. The two species have a mutualistic relationship, where the finches east the pests off of the turtles. It is hoped that a similar enough tortoise will fill the same ecological niche.However, not all hope is lost for George. The bounty is still out on a potential mate. It is hoped that once he is meets a female of his own kind, his sperm might be revitalized. And after all these years, it is still a possibility. A male from the Isabella, the main island, seems to be wild cross between a Pinta tortoise and the local tortoises found near Wolf Volcano. A brief study has found that 8 of 27 tortoises around that volcano have genetic traits suggesting that there are Pinta tortoises on the island.
Given the long life spans of giant tortoises, it is also possible that one of them is still alive in a private collection or zoo.
Even if a mate can’t be found, George might not be the last of his kind. Genetic tests on a tortoise named Tony at a zoo in Prague suggest that he might also be from Pinta. So, maybe, Lonesome George can finally have a friend he wouldn’t want to fall asleep on top of.
Travel notes: That afternoon we headed up to a private ranch with a healthy population of wild tortoises. We began the trip with a short jaunt down a lava tube, which are basically caves caused by lava flows rather than running water. Normally there is an abundance of wildlife in these caves, including bats and owls, but today there were none.
We ended up seeing numerous tortoises and learning about the moister, high elevation areas of these islands. It was fascinating. Afterwards, we gathered at the rancher's home, where we had coffee with rum and relaxed in the shade (the island was incredibly hot and humid.). After a while, Juan brought out his guitar and started singing. Another group of Ecuadorian tourists came up and joined us. Their guide tried his hand at singing as well, He had a wonderful tenor voice and bBefore long, everyone was singing and dancing and clapping.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Galapagos: Flamingos of the Everglades
Today we watched flamingos. They are the same kind that live in the Caribbean and Florida, they haven’t been here long enough to evolve into a new species. They aren't the strongest of fliers and were probably carried over to these islands by a strong storm several thousand years ago. They were lucky enough to find some brackish waters and thrived.
Because they are relatively recent arrivals to these shores, they still have some of their fear of people, so quietness is a must. However, they aren't that afraid. We were able to get within a few dozen feet of them while they preened and groomed themselves, occasionally sticking their heads in the water for a snack of the shrimp that thrive in these waters.
I've only seen flamingos once before, in Florida, with my dad. We were staying in the Everglades, and we had asked the ranger where we could see them. The answer involved a long boardwalk through a mangrove swamp full of mosquitoes. We made the trek, and despite covering ourselves with both clothing and repellent, we were both pretty well chewed up. We arrived at the end of the trail only to see nothing. No flamingos, not much of anything to be honest. We waited about 15 minutes, the mosquito bites turning into welts, before two finally flew over head. Close enough to be identified, but not so close that we could get any good pictures.
My father was happy enough with that – simply smiling and saying “we know they're here.”
Today was different. I know they are there because there were dozens of them on the lake. Several of them were almost within touching distance, three babies were visible, and we could hear their calls – honking like Canada geese. My group stood still and silent on the edge of the brackish lagoon. Roughly three of them preened themselves. They were so close that we could hear them ruffle their feather and splash their heads around in the water as they ate or gathered water to clean themselves with. Each pink feather was clearly visible. Silence seemed the only appropriate response. In part, this is because the birds are more easily spooked than other animals on the islands. However, it was more than that. It was like some innate part of us that understands when stillness and silence is the only proper response.
Somehow though, none of them were as satisfying as those two quietly passing over a mosquito plagued swamp in the south of Florida.
Travel notes:
Later in the day, we went to post office cove, where an 18th century whaling captain placed a barrel where people could put mail and hope that it would be delivered. Today the tradition survives. I had no postcards with me, but I did pick up a few for delivery when I return to the states.
After that, we crossed the island in bare feet, where we watched sea turtles waiting for night time to come ashore at night and lay their eggs. They were remarkably close to the shore.
The crew of the ship also took a break from providing us with luxury service and played a soccer match with the crew of another vessel. We stayed and watched – it was great fun, especially given that half the field was covered by the rising tide by the end of the match. (Literally, half the field – no exaggeration.)
After that, it was time for a bit of snorkeling. (Another reminder of my father, who loved nothing more than being in the ocean.) We went to devil's head, a place famous for hammerheads. No sharks today, alas, but lots of beautiful fishes, starfish and corals.
Tonight we are off to one of the towns. I forget exactly which one, but it will be an opportunity to do a bit of shopping and enjoy a beer at the bar.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Galapagos.
We know the story well enough. Darwin visited here aboard the HMS Beagle, and what he saw inspired him to develop the theory of evolution. Since then, religious zealots, refusing to realize the power of metaphor over crude literal truths, have attempted to demonize this remarkable idea.
Ironic, given that this place is as close to paradise as any of us can imagine. Most of us are used to animals that run away. We approach, the move off – occasionally, they attack. There is none of that here. We approach; they look at us kindly as if to inquire if there is something we need of them.
To be certain, it isn't some blissful place where pain and death don't exist. The Galapagos Islands are a hothouse for evolution precisely because it is so tough to make a living here. Poor volcanic soils, an inconsistent climate, and a paucity of fresh water means that those species who eventually settled into this place had to adapt quickly to survive. The ones we see are the ones who made it, and for the most part, they made it by being tough or adaptive enough.
An overwhelming majority of the animals here are endemic. They arrived here as a finch, an iguana, a plant, and soon, at least on an evolutionary scale, became something else. Some iguanas learned to swim, living off of the algae that lives in the tidal zone. Others became antediluvian giants of the land, surviving off the few green plants that live here – especially cacti, which they eat with apparent relish, thorns and all. Tortoises also took hold. On the lusher islands they ate grass and developed a dome or flat shaped shell. On the drier islands, they had to reach up to get at the cactus, so they developed the famous saddleback shell, which frees their long necks.
Early visitors to the park were careless, and a number of invasive species soon took hold. Today numerous islands are populated with goats, rats, cats, as well as plants, insects and who knows what sort of microbial organisms – each doing untold damage to the islands where they have managed to establish themselves. Often these animals were brought deliberately by early settlers, such as the wild goats and cows. Others were brought accidentally, such as the rats.
Today, the regulations are strict. Luggage is inspected twice, not for drugs or weapons, but for any fruits or seeds that might establish themselves on the island, first at Quito, then again on the island. It is fumigated on the plane, and you have to walk over disinfectant mats all before you enter the park. And all that is before you pay the $100 entry fee.
Then you are here. Sea lions rest besides sea iguanas on the pier while blue footed boobys and frigate birds circle above. Normally, I am a budget traveler. To me vacations involve lumpy beds, rough roads and a strong possibility of infectious disease. This is a luxury cruise – the host wears a bow tie at dinner time, and we make toasts with lovely amaretto cocktails. Gotta love them last minute deals.
I even got to enjoy having my luggage brought to my room for me.
Our first stop was the island of Baltra, where we went for a 3 hour stroll. Normally, I would go about 5 miles in that time, but in the Galapagos we maybe went an hour and a half. This is not because my luxury traveling friends are slow or soft or lazy. They aren't. Rather it is because there is so much to see. You are practically tripping over animals.
I thought that I was spoiled by Yellowstone, but that is nothing. Animals that I thought I would be lucky to see just once are everywhere. Land iguanas, unseemly in size and appearance gracefully ignored use while munching on prickly pear cacti. Blue footed boobys relaxed and basically ignored us.
Back on the boat, I saw my first hammerhead shark. We are planning on going snorkeling in a place where they are common. Needless to say, I will talk about that once that happy day comes to pass.
Day two took us to Espanola, or Hood Island as it is known in the English. We started off the day with a trip to beach. Our guide, Juan, has degrees in ornithology and marine biology – and after twenty one years of guiding, maintains a remarkable enthusiasm. We went looking for the three finches you find on the island – the cactus finch, the warbler finch, and small ground finch. They all look alike, except for the beaks. The cactus finch has a thick strong bill used for tearing at the flesh of cactus. The small ground finch has a medium bill used for seeds, while the warbler finch has a tiny bill, little more than a pair of tweezers, used for snatching small insects.
Other birds were on the beach as well, including an oyster catcher, a Galapagos hawk, and hood mocking birds. Of course, the fun part was swimming in the ocean alongside sea turtles and sea lions. The afternoon was another walk, the highlight of which were the red green marine iguanas and masked boobies – bleached cousins of the more famous ones with blue feet.
Ironic, given that this place is as close to paradise as any of us can imagine. Most of us are used to animals that run away. We approach, the move off – occasionally, they attack. There is none of that here. We approach; they look at us kindly as if to inquire if there is something we need of them.
To be certain, it isn't some blissful place where pain and death don't exist. The Galapagos Islands are a hothouse for evolution precisely because it is so tough to make a living here. Poor volcanic soils, an inconsistent climate, and a paucity of fresh water means that those species who eventually settled into this place had to adapt quickly to survive. The ones we see are the ones who made it, and for the most part, they made it by being tough or adaptive enough.
Early visitors to the park were careless, and a number of invasive species soon took hold. Today numerous islands are populated with goats, rats, cats, as well as plants, insects and who knows what sort of microbial organisms – each doing untold damage to the islands where they have managed to establish themselves. Often these animals were brought deliberately by early settlers, such as the wild goats and cows. Others were brought accidentally, such as the rats.
Today, the regulations are strict. Luggage is inspected twice, not for drugs or weapons, but for any fruits or seeds that might establish themselves on the island, first at Quito, then again on the island. It is fumigated on the plane, and you have to walk over disinfectant mats all before you enter the park. And all that is before you pay the $100 entry fee.
I even got to enjoy having my luggage brought to my room for me.
Our first stop was the island of Baltra, where we went for a 3 hour stroll. Normally, I would go about 5 miles in that time, but in the Galapagos we maybe went an hour and a half. This is not because my luxury traveling friends are slow or soft or lazy. They aren't. Rather it is because there is so much to see. You are practically tripping over animals.
I thought that I was spoiled by Yellowstone, but that is nothing. Animals that I thought I would be lucky to see just once are everywhere. Land iguanas, unseemly in size and appearance gracefully ignored use while munching on prickly pear cacti. Blue footed boobys relaxed and basically ignored us.
Back on the boat, I saw my first hammerhead shark. We are planning on going snorkeling in a place where they are common. Needless to say, I will talk about that once that happy day comes to pass.
Other birds were on the beach as well, including an oyster catcher, a Galapagos hawk, and hood mocking birds. Of course, the fun part was swimming in the ocean alongside sea turtles and sea lions. The afternoon was another walk, the highlight of which were the red green marine iguanas and masked boobies – bleached cousins of the more famous ones with blue feet.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Last Thoughts on the Amazon
I was asked before coming to the Amazon to compare what I made of the jungle to what I feel about Yellowstone.
Here is my answer. The Amazon is an amazing place. Within an hour of being here, I saw a two toed sloth, a turtle, several species of fish and monkeys, and my birding life list just about doubled.
The rain forest certainly gets into you. I understand how a person could arrive here and decide that they are never going to leave. There is just so much to learn here. As I mentioned in a previous blog, our guide knew plants for just about every purpose from a phosphorescent fungus that can be used as a lantern, to trees that can be used for birth control for these late night paramours that you use to fungus to get to. He wasn't a shaman or a botanist. He was just a guy who had a bit of local knowledge.
I understand that shamans in the area have knowledge of thousands of plants gained from over 20 years of training. It is the most biologically diverse ecosystem on earth. There are probably more species of monkey than there are species of large mammals in the whole of greater Yellowstone. The pink dolphins were absent, forced downstream by an dry spell that left the Cuybeno River unusually dry, but this same dry spell forced so many animal and birds to the banks of the river that I won't even bother to list them all.
In short, the neo-tropical rain forests of the Amazon were everything I could wish for and more. It was a magical, wonderful, beautiful place, and I loved it.
However, it wasn't home. I wasn't raised in Yellowstone, so in some way I feel like I don’t have the right to claim to it as home. However, last winter, after an absence of a few months from the area, a friend of mine came up to me, slapped me on the back and said “welcome home”. He was right; I felt it as soon as he said it. Yellowstone place was home.
The Amazon has so much to offer. It is known as the lungs of the earth because so much of our oxygen is created here. Its survival is vital to the survival of the entire planet. I suspect that I will return many times, and I know that I will be supporting charities that do good work to protect it.
But a part of me found it to be claustrophobic. It is so tight with life. Every corner was a wall of green. I saw dozens of monkeys, but most of them for no more than a few seconds.
Perhaps I am spoiled by Yellowstone, where you can sit and watch a herd of bison for hours, or enjoy watching the druid pack on a kill for the better part of a day. Maybe I just like open places where you can see for miles in any direction. Maybe, I just found the place that part of me knows is home.
The rain forest certainly gets into you. I understand how a person could arrive here and decide that they are never going to leave. There is just so much to learn here. As I mentioned in a previous blog, our guide knew plants for just about every purpose from a phosphorescent fungus that can be used as a lantern, to trees that can be used for birth control for these late night paramours that you use to fungus to get to. He wasn't a shaman or a botanist. He was just a guy who had a bit of local knowledge.
I understand that shamans in the area have knowledge of thousands of plants gained from over 20 years of training. It is the most biologically diverse ecosystem on earth. There are probably more species of monkey than there are species of large mammals in the whole of greater Yellowstone. The pink dolphins were absent, forced downstream by an dry spell that left the Cuybeno River unusually dry, but this same dry spell forced so many animal and birds to the banks of the river that I won't even bother to list them all.
In short, the neo-tropical rain forests of the Amazon were everything I could wish for and more. It was a magical, wonderful, beautiful place, and I loved it.
However, it wasn't home. I wasn't raised in Yellowstone, so in some way I feel like I don’t have the right to claim to it as home. However, last winter, after an absence of a few months from the area, a friend of mine came up to me, slapped me on the back and said “welcome home”. He was right; I felt it as soon as he said it. Yellowstone place was home.
But a part of me found it to be claustrophobic. It is so tight with life. Every corner was a wall of green. I saw dozens of monkeys, but most of them for no more than a few seconds.
Perhaps I am spoiled by Yellowstone, where you can sit and watch a herd of bison for hours, or enjoy watching the druid pack on a kill for the better part of a day. Maybe I just like open places where you can see for miles in any direction. Maybe, I just found the place that part of me knows is home.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Squirrel Monkeys on the Cuyabeno
When you are speeding down the Cuyabeno River in the deep Amazonian rainforest, there are certain things that you don’t want to hear. One of these things is “You need to learn CPR”.
A few hours earlier I had been standing on the dock waiting for Juan, our guide, to finish setting up the canoe. The last of the fishing bats were using echo-location to snatch their last meals of the night while the birds and frogs were warming up for the dawn chorus.
Three of us, Juan, Andrea, and myself, were going birding. Juan, the guide, was incredible. Half Quichua, half Shuar – anthropologists will tell you that his ancestors once shrunk heads. Juan wasn’t shy about it, and admitted that his own grandfather used to engage in the practice. He possessed an amazing knowledge of the forest. Whereas I can barely keep the eight trees of Yellowstone straight in my head, he knew trees that could provide birth control, cure constipation, make tattoos, treat malaria, help children fall asleep or had leaves that could be used to leave messages. (Pressing into the flesh of the leaves, he explained, releases tannins that dark. His note proclaimed his love for one of the girls who works in the kitchen.) He even knew a tree that nurtures a phosphorescent fungus that can be used as a lantern in the dark.
Most impressively, he acknowledged sources with an honesty that would impress any academic. Not coy about his knowledge, he easily mixed information drawn from books, family members, local shamans, and even other visitors.
Andrea I liked almost instantly. I think she took to me when I asked if she was a student. It turns out that she was a doctor from Austria – a neurologist. She was bright and curious – with soulful brown eyes and a knack for listening. At one point, she questioned Juan for a good 20 minutes about the finer points of woodpecker tongues.
It was a wonderful trip – full of magpie tanagers, bat falcons, scarlet macaws and white throated toucans. The morning mist carries the spices and flowers waking up in the forest from their beds of rotting trees and moldy leaves. Like two children, Andrea and I kept pointing at things: “What’s that?” and “What’s that?” Not much scope for more explanation than just a name, given with patience and enthusiasm by Juan.
I came back feeling more relaxed and at ease than I have been in a while. It took a few moments to register the fact that Brian was sitting on the floor in his underwear, with the mosquito netting torn from the ceiling wrapped around him. “Brian, are you OK?” I asked over some synthetic alarm what was going off in the room.
“Mwwaarrhh… buh, buh… help”. He had diabetes. The day before he had an episode - breaking out into a very visible sweat that required food.
I knocked on Andrea’s door first. Then I ran to get Jack and Joan – a husband and wife team of nurses from New Zealand, taking a year off to explore the world. They were incredibly kind people and two of the best storytellers I’ve ever met.
As the three of them tended to Brian, I started quietly packing. I figured that since Andrea and I were leaving that morning anyway, we would be taking the boat with Brian. Since there was nothing I could do on the medical side of things, I wanted to stay close in case they needed things – which they did. I also figured that eventually we were going to have to start moving quickly.
Once my stuff was packed, Joan took me outside to see how I was doing, then sent me to go get a plastic bag to pack Brian’s stuff. Meanwhile, the medical professionals were starting to disagree. Brian kept insisting he needed insulin; he had managed to spit out that his insulin needed to be at around 6, his machine was registering something in the low 40s. Jack and Joan weren’t used to the metrics of Brian’s glucose meter. Andrea was used to it, but wasn’t sure what to make of Brian’s statements that he needed to drop his blood sugar – rather urgently.
Brian, meanwhile, started having seizures.
Juan had been taking care of getting everything together. The canoe was made ready, the fastest driver was getting fuel for the trip, breakfast for Andrea and I was put into Tupperware, the ambulance had been called, and a bottle of jam was ready in case Brian needed sugar.
I brought the backpacks down to the boat while the stretcher was fetched. As I came back to get Andrea’s pack, Brian was being carried to the boat.
The river was low. Although there was plenty of rain while we were there, it hadn’t rained for three weeks before. It was normally a two hour ride, but with the low water, the driver had to avoid fallen trees and sandbars. Juan told us it would take three hours at top speed.
The driver was good—fast and frightening, but good. Andrea went to work, putting a line in for the medics, keeping Brian in the rescue position, and constantly monitoring his blood sugar. At one point she decided to try giving him a bit of jam to see what would happen, so I was sent to mix some jam with water as we moved up stream, branches whacking us, and the canoe making tighter and tighter turns to avoid obstacles in the water.
We got some blackberry jam into him, and he seemed to be getting better. His convulsions were easing and he appeared to be a bit more conscious. However, when Andrea tested his blood sugar, it had dropped. Since he had improved with lower blood sugar, she decided against giving him more jam.
She turned to Juan and asked how much longer.
The answer came back “An hour, maybe an hour and a half”.
That was when the CPR lessons began. “Tilt the head like this, hold his nose.” “Apply pressure here. Keep your arms locked, use your body weight.”
She was running the lesson for the third time when the boat ran out of fuel. The river was little more than a large stream at this point – and a troop of monkeys were easily leaping across it from one tree to another.
It interrupted the lesson as we watched in silence for a few moments—some kind of ancient compact. Finally Andrea asked Juan, “What type of monkeys are those?”
“Squirrel monkeys”.
We returned to silence as the rest of the troop finished crossing—graceful and elegant as they slipped back into the canopy. The silence lasted after they were gone.
The engine roared to life, Andrea turned to me, “OK, so you remember, 5 pushes on the chest, one breath?”
At the dock, EMTs, soldiers and firefighters were ready to bring Brian up to the fire truck.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on top of a fire truck, tearing through the jungle on a dirt road to bring a guy who was slipping into a coma to the nearest medical help.
The nearest medical facility was not much. There was no running water, no alcohol swabs, and a hand painted sheet on the wall explaining how to diagnose starvation in a child. Amazingly, there was a blood sugar monitor and glucose. In a relatively short period of time, Brian was fine–laughing and eating potato chips.
Andrea wanted Brian to go to a hospital, but he refused – preferring to sign a form agreeing that he was acting against medical advice. Brian offered to pay for the treatment, but the doctors refused. Ultimately, payment was made as a donation to vaccinate kids in the area.
Two days later, Brian and I had beers in Quito. He was much better with a new glucose monitor. It turned out that his old meter was broken, leading to an overly large injection of insulin. He is probably in the Galapagos. Andrea is probably in Chile at this point, as are Jack and Joan.
I’ve read in numerous anthropology text books that human sacrifice and shrunken heads is common amongst tropical peoples because the link between life and death is never as obvious as in a rainforest. Dead trees are quickly decomposed, animal flesh doesn’t last long at all, and all life rests on a thin mat of rotting leaves. Death and life depend on each other.
This blog post was nearly an obituary. Thankfully, it isn’t.
Instead, I can talk about squirrel monkeys who, as we stood on the line between life and death – offered a glimpse of how beautiful it somehow always manages to be.
A few hours earlier I had been standing on the dock waiting for Juan, our guide, to finish setting up the canoe. The last of the fishing bats were using echo-location to snatch their last meals of the night while the birds and frogs were warming up for the dawn chorus.
Three of us, Juan, Andrea, and myself, were going birding. Juan, the guide, was incredible. Half Quichua, half Shuar – anthropologists will tell you that his ancestors once shrunk heads. Juan wasn’t shy about it, and admitted that his own grandfather used to engage in the practice. He possessed an amazing knowledge of the forest. Whereas I can barely keep the eight trees of Yellowstone straight in my head, he knew trees that could provide birth control, cure constipation, make tattoos, treat malaria, help children fall asleep or had leaves that could be used to leave messages. (Pressing into the flesh of the leaves, he explained, releases tannins that dark. His note proclaimed his love for one of the girls who works in the kitchen.) He even knew a tree that nurtures a phosphorescent fungus that can be used as a lantern in the dark.
Most impressively, he acknowledged sources with an honesty that would impress any academic. Not coy about his knowledge, he easily mixed information drawn from books, family members, local shamans, and even other visitors.
Andrea I liked almost instantly. I think she took to me when I asked if she was a student. It turns out that she was a doctor from Austria – a neurologist. She was bright and curious – with soulful brown eyes and a knack for listening. At one point, she questioned Juan for a good 20 minutes about the finer points of woodpecker tongues.
It was a wonderful trip – full of magpie tanagers, bat falcons, scarlet macaws and white throated toucans. The morning mist carries the spices and flowers waking up in the forest from their beds of rotting trees and moldy leaves. Like two children, Andrea and I kept pointing at things: “What’s that?” and “What’s that?” Not much scope for more explanation than just a name, given with patience and enthusiasm by Juan.
I came back feeling more relaxed and at ease than I have been in a while. It took a few moments to register the fact that Brian was sitting on the floor in his underwear, with the mosquito netting torn from the ceiling wrapped around him. “Brian, are you OK?” I asked over some synthetic alarm what was going off in the room.
“Mwwaarrhh… buh, buh… help”. He had diabetes. The day before he had an episode - breaking out into a very visible sweat that required food.
I knocked on Andrea’s door first. Then I ran to get Jack and Joan – a husband and wife team of nurses from New Zealand, taking a year off to explore the world. They were incredibly kind people and two of the best storytellers I’ve ever met.
As the three of them tended to Brian, I started quietly packing. I figured that since Andrea and I were leaving that morning anyway, we would be taking the boat with Brian. Since there was nothing I could do on the medical side of things, I wanted to stay close in case they needed things – which they did. I also figured that eventually we were going to have to start moving quickly.
Once my stuff was packed, Joan took me outside to see how I was doing, then sent me to go get a plastic bag to pack Brian’s stuff. Meanwhile, the medical professionals were starting to disagree. Brian kept insisting he needed insulin; he had managed to spit out that his insulin needed to be at around 6, his machine was registering something in the low 40s. Jack and Joan weren’t used to the metrics of Brian’s glucose meter. Andrea was used to it, but wasn’t sure what to make of Brian’s statements that he needed to drop his blood sugar – rather urgently.
Brian, meanwhile, started having seizures.
Juan had been taking care of getting everything together. The canoe was made ready, the fastest driver was getting fuel for the trip, breakfast for Andrea and I was put into Tupperware, the ambulance had been called, and a bottle of jam was ready in case Brian needed sugar.
I brought the backpacks down to the boat while the stretcher was fetched. As I came back to get Andrea’s pack, Brian was being carried to the boat.
The river was low. Although there was plenty of rain while we were there, it hadn’t rained for three weeks before. It was normally a two hour ride, but with the low water, the driver had to avoid fallen trees and sandbars. Juan told us it would take three hours at top speed.
The driver was good—fast and frightening, but good. Andrea went to work, putting a line in for the medics, keeping Brian in the rescue position, and constantly monitoring his blood sugar. At one point she decided to try giving him a bit of jam to see what would happen, so I was sent to mix some jam with water as we moved up stream, branches whacking us, and the canoe making tighter and tighter turns to avoid obstacles in the water.
We got some blackberry jam into him, and he seemed to be getting better. His convulsions were easing and he appeared to be a bit more conscious. However, when Andrea tested his blood sugar, it had dropped. Since he had improved with lower blood sugar, she decided against giving him more jam.
She turned to Juan and asked how much longer.
The answer came back “An hour, maybe an hour and a half”.
That was when the CPR lessons began. “Tilt the head like this, hold his nose.” “Apply pressure here. Keep your arms locked, use your body weight.”
She was running the lesson for the third time when the boat ran out of fuel. The river was little more than a large stream at this point – and a troop of monkeys were easily leaping across it from one tree to another.
It interrupted the lesson as we watched in silence for a few moments—some kind of ancient compact. Finally Andrea asked Juan, “What type of monkeys are those?”
“Squirrel monkeys”.
We returned to silence as the rest of the troop finished crossing—graceful and elegant as they slipped back into the canopy. The silence lasted after they were gone.
The engine roared to life, Andrea turned to me, “OK, so you remember, 5 pushes on the chest, one breath?”
At the dock, EMTs, soldiers and firefighters were ready to bring Brian up to the fire truck.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on top of a fire truck, tearing through the jungle on a dirt road to bring a guy who was slipping into a coma to the nearest medical help.
The nearest medical facility was not much. There was no running water, no alcohol swabs, and a hand painted sheet on the wall explaining how to diagnose starvation in a child. Amazingly, there was a blood sugar monitor and glucose. In a relatively short period of time, Brian was fine–laughing and eating potato chips.
Andrea wanted Brian to go to a hospital, but he refused – preferring to sign a form agreeing that he was acting against medical advice. Brian offered to pay for the treatment, but the doctors refused. Ultimately, payment was made as a donation to vaccinate kids in the area.
Two days later, Brian and I had beers in Quito. He was much better with a new glucose monitor. It turned out that his old meter was broken, leading to an overly large injection of insulin. He is probably in the Galapagos. Andrea is probably in Chile at this point, as are Jack and Joan.
I’ve read in numerous anthropology text books that human sacrifice and shrunken heads is common amongst tropical peoples because the link between life and death is never as obvious as in a rainforest. Dead trees are quickly decomposed, animal flesh doesn’t last long at all, and all life rests on a thin mat of rotting leaves. Death and life depend on each other.
This blog post was nearly an obituary. Thankfully, it isn’t.
Instead, I can talk about squirrel monkeys who, as we stood on the line between life and death – offered a glimpse of how beautiful it somehow always manages to be.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
New Years in Quito
After rescuing us from the chaos of La Mariscal – the touristy section of Quito also known as “Gringolandia”, Tania’s parents bought us back to their house in the north of town. La Mariscal was about what you would expect in any capital city on New Years – cheap beer and loud music filling the air. The rest of Quito was different.
Several times on the way north we were stopped by gangs of viduas or widow. These are men dressed as mourning women who ask for money so they can afford to cremate their husbands—the old year. I was told that they used to dress in black and act solemn. Not anymore. Most of them were provocatively dressed and, to be honest, funny as hell.
Tania’s poor father bore the brunt of it. He was a kind man, with silver hair, who used to be a professional race car driver. (He drives like he still is.) The assorted viduas flirted with him mercilessly, telling him that they found his silver hair sexy and that they wanted a silver haired old guy to take care of him. One guy got his money then told us that he tricked us. The money was for his liposuction. A few pennies were always enough. It seemed to be more about having a few laughs than making any money.
As we got closer to their house, they viduas set up roadblocks and you had you to pay to pass – again, it was more about laughing and teasing than any real quest to get rich. We also stopped to get a dummy to burnin effigy. Again, Tania’s poor father bore the brunt of that as Tania found a mask for the dummy with silver hair, a moustache and glasses—just like her father.I was lucky to have ended up at Tania’s. Her mother makes an excellent turkey, and the rest of the meal was gorgeous as well. They were such graceful hosts. Despite a pretty significant language barrier, I felt entirely at home, and it was the best meal I had eaten since I have been in Ecuador. Along the way, I learned the finer points of rose farming and the virtures of Liga (a soccer team) from her uncle and learned a bit about engines from her father.
After the meal, Tania and I headed out. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. By this time, the widows were a bit more …celebratory (read as: Drunk). They had graduated from a bit of flirting to full on sexy dancing.
However, on one street it was totally outrageous. The viduas group up into teams – dancing around, flirting and putting on a hell of a show. However, things went exactly as I feared they would—twice. The first time, one of the guys heard me speaking in English to Tania. He spoke English – and used to live in New York. Soon I was surrounded by gangs of transvestites telling me how sexy my accent was and that they loved me so much. I hate to admit this, but it entirely cracked me up. Their lines were hilarious. They loved me, they wanted to marry me and have me bring me back to the states. We took a few pictures then took a swig from a bottle of some cherry flavored liquor.
The next stop was a bit more embarrassing. Tania gave one of the dancers a bit of money and told him to dance with me. He grabbed me, pulling me out into the middle of dance floor—with everyone watching. When I hesitated he started screaming in English “I am beautiful, you must love me. Dance with me, I am beautiful.” Some of you know that I have a bad case of “white guy hips”. I can’t shake my stuff to save my life. That did not stop him. “You love me. Dance and show me you love me.” Eventually, I was sore from laughing so hard. I made him go get Tania and dance with her for a dash of revenge—which, frankly, did not work. She is too much of a Quiteño. (The picture of the guy in the white dress and red belt is the dance partner in question.) The night ended with the countdown to the new year. Quiteños countdown the end of the year by stuffing grapes into their mouth. You make a wish on each grape. If, in the last 12 seconds of the new year, you can get the 12 grapes in your mouth, the wishes will come true. Also, just before the new year, they light the effigy and let off fireworks. So I ended the new year with a mouth full of grapes, smoke filling the air, and the remains of lipstick from hordes of lonely widows, looking for love.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Christmas, Copenhagen and Ecuador
At Christmas there is always lots of talk about spirit, family and home. For those of us from the North, it brings images of snowbound cabins, snowball fights and huge family dinners.
However, Christmas here in Ecuador is a bit strange. It seems to be an almost inappropriate time to have a holiday. The days stay the same length, the temperature is about the same as it will be in six months, and the rainy season (which hasn’t really shown its head much this year) still has a few more months left to kick around.
To be honest, I kind of find it strange the way that Christmas here is attempt to recreate what Christmas is in the north. I would guess that it is just a cultural dominance thing here. Christmas is defined by the larger and wealthier nations of the north. We get to say what it is, and the rest of the world gets to follow.
I know that in parts of Africa this happens too, but that part of the world was settled mostly by the French and English – parts of the world where it snows. But here we have all the trimmings – turkey and stuffing, fake snow all over the place, and artificial Doug firs covered with light, and this place was colonized by the Spanish.
It’s funny. We love to talk about these traditions in very knowing tones: “The lights were an ancient pagan tradition to bring back the sun” or “The tree was an ancient Nordic tradition for brining life into the home.” But that seems not to apply here. Few people here are of Nordic descent, and the sun is in the sky just as much as any time of year.
Obviously, much of this has to do with cultural influence of the United States. That much is obvious.
It is very popular to talk about family, hearth and home at this time of the year, and I support anything that does that. However, it also seems obvious to me that the times of year that do that are also times of the year that celebrate the natural order of things: lilies, eggs and lamb at Easter; harvest foods at Thanksgiving, and evergreens and snow at Christmas.
It suggests that our homes are not as segregated from the natural order as we think.
So, what are we to make of a world where Christmas is celebrated by recognizing the natural order in a different part of the world?
To be honest, I don’t know. But I think that in some ways the answers can be seen in Copenhagen. Recent talks to try to reduce the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere have failed. The consequences of this will be highly tangible. Species will go extinct, sea levels will consume low lying areas, and people will die. I say this with no sense of exaggeration.
We are destroying the planet at an increasingly rapid rate, and few seem to notice. Perhaps, it is because we are out of sync. The ties that once bound us are loosening – we are losing touch with our land, with our families, and ultimately with ourselves. Is it any surprise that we can’t come to agreement on one of the most important issues facing our world today?
What then can be done? If the great and good of the world can’t get it together, what chance do we have? To be certain, I have kind of lost faith in the political system. The politicians know that the vast majority of people in the world want something done about this, so what point is there in reminding them?
Perhaps that is where the Christmas spirit becomes important. Getting together, spending time with loved ones, and taking a moment to be glad that there is still snow is precisely what is needed. For me Christmas acts more as a reminder of what a special place we live in. It is a time to recognize the value of abstractions like love, home and harmony. It does not mean that it is the only time that these things have any worth. Maybe, if we get that right, bigger things can get done.
However, Christmas here in Ecuador is a bit strange. It seems to be an almost inappropriate time to have a holiday. The days stay the same length, the temperature is about the same as it will be in six months, and the rainy season (which hasn’t really shown its head much this year) still has a few more months left to kick around.
To be honest, I kind of find it strange the way that Christmas here is attempt to recreate what Christmas is in the north. I would guess that it is just a cultural dominance thing here. Christmas is defined by the larger and wealthier nations of the north. We get to say what it is, and the rest of the world gets to follow.I know that in parts of Africa this happens too, but that part of the world was settled mostly by the French and English – parts of the world where it snows. But here we have all the trimmings – turkey and stuffing, fake snow all over the place, and artificial Doug firs covered with light, and this place was colonized by the Spanish.
It’s funny. We love to talk about these traditions in very knowing tones: “The lights were an ancient pagan tradition to bring back the sun” or “The tree was an ancient Nordic tradition for brining life into the home.” But that seems not to apply here. Few people here are of Nordic descent, and the sun is in the sky just as much as any time of year.
Obviously, much of this has to do with cultural influence of the United States. That much is obvious.
It is very popular to talk about family, hearth and home at this time of the year, and I support anything that does that. However, it also seems obvious to me that the times of year that do that are also times of the year that celebrate the natural order of things: lilies, eggs and lamb at Easter; harvest foods at Thanksgiving, and evergreens and snow at Christmas.
It suggests that our homes are not as segregated from the natural order as we think.
So, what are we to make of a world where Christmas is celebrated by recognizing the natural order in a different part of the world?
To be honest, I don’t know. But I think that in some ways the answers can be seen in Copenhagen. Recent talks to try to reduce the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere have failed. The consequences of this will be highly tangible. Species will go extinct, sea levels will consume low lying areas, and people will die. I say this with no sense of exaggeration.
We are destroying the planet at an increasingly rapid rate, and few seem to notice. Perhaps, it is because we are out of sync. The ties that once bound us are loosening – we are losing touch with our land, with our families, and ultimately with ourselves. Is it any surprise that we can’t come to agreement on one of the most important issues facing our world today?
What then can be done? If the great and good of the world can’t get it together, what chance do we have? To be certain, I have kind of lost faith in the political system. The politicians know that the vast majority of people in the world want something done about this, so what point is there in reminding them?
Perhaps that is where the Christmas spirit becomes important. Getting together, spending time with loved ones, and taking a moment to be glad that there is still snow is precisely what is needed. For me Christmas acts more as a reminder of what a special place we live in. It is a time to recognize the value of abstractions like love, home and harmony. It does not mean that it is the only time that these things have any worth. Maybe, if we get that right, bigger things can get done.
Friday, December 11, 2009
When the Sun is North of Here.
I’ve been sick. I don’t often get sick, and when I do it isn’t for very long. I was sick for one day last winter. Before that, I don’t even remember. This time the illness was different. A cruel lover, at first I enjoyed it. I don’t sleep much. Getting 12 hours of sleep was great. Soon it became too much and other, less polite, complications emerged. I was pretty much bed-ridden.
Apparently, I have two illnesses at once. The first is a virus called CMV – to make a long story short, it is a form of mono. The second, and less polite illness, is some kind of intestinal bug. The bug can be treated, and hopefully my will start to be digested again.
Regardless, the blog has been quiet because I don’t think that people want to hear about lying in bed all day. However, one nice thing about lying in bed all day is that it gives you time to think. Granted, most of the thoughts have been along the lines of “curse my damn colon”. But, some useful thoughts have come to the fore.
In particular, I have noticed the sun.
My bedroom has a sunroof. It is nice, except at mid day when it bakes my room and gives no shelter. Normally, I am not here for that, so it is of little consequence. However, when there is nowhere to go, it is noticeable
A few days ago, something whispered in my mind – “That sun is coming in from the north”. So it is.
I haven’t really hidden the fact that I don’t love Quito. It is loud, polluted and crime ridden. In short, it is a city. I grew up in one and I feel no need to live in one again. But something else, something deeper, has bothered me about this place.
I was raised by a man who had an undeniable sense of place. My father understood Long Island in a way that few ever will again. We used to tease him—he saw potato fields and forests in places that are now strip malls and tract housing. He knew the history of the place. He knew that that the Native Americans would go clamming in the estuaries and salt marshes—today an activity that produces a luxury item—in times of famine. He knew about the Loyalists that populated the Island during the American Revolution and the different techniques that the Long Island baymen used for harvesting food.
The first time I ever really felt a place was in Edinburgh. I had been studying the Celtic Holiday, Imbolc. It was, and still it, the start of spring in that part of the world. To me, early February is not spring. It isn’t even close. But, after a long morning of thinking of nothing but the Celtic start of spring, I headed into a cold Scottish afternoon. On my way home, past the Meadows, the first snowdrops were coming up. I understood. It was an intuitive understanding—the type that words are useless for.
Somehow, in that moment, I got the place. I understood Scotland in a way that I think my father understood Long Island. I knew that spring had begun, and I knew in some way what Imbolc was about.
I’ve carried that moment with me. In upstate New York I read Iroquois mythology, learned about the ecology of a place that measures snow in feet. I loved it there. In Ireland, I knew the myths as well as anyone. That field was where Cú Chulainn made his stand against the armies of Ireland, and over there is where the Mórrigan mated with the Dagda. Even in a place as ecologically devastated as Ireland, there is a sense of place.
Then there was Montana. In Montana, I took it a step further. Understanding Montana was more than just reading some stories and doing some bird watching. To be certain, I learned about Old Man Coyote and read about the ecological significance of alpine snow pack to the low lying sagebrush ecosystem. But I also discovered the importance of ceremony. In my studies of anthropology I had an intellectual understanding that ceremony cements a relationship with a place, with other people, with the divine, in a way that nothing else could.
Before long, I was sitting in tortuous sweat lodges and standing in the hot sun with wounds in my chest. It wasn’t snowdrops in Scotland. It was long, slow and hard. I still don’t get it. I wish I did. I think some of the guys at the sweats got sick of constant questioning. I belonged to that place in a way that that is hard to explain. There is nothing supernatural about it. It is just…
Well, it is kind of like soul – if I have to explain it to you, you will never understand.
So now, the sun is in the north. There are tall majestic trees with bark that seems to be peeling away. There are grasses that are as tough as any I have ever seen – I imagine that someone must have once used them for rope. The mountains are stately and cloud veiled and the birds… well, if anything can keep me here, it is the birds.
I could go on – great fruit, colorful music, and a rich and vibrant culture.
But none of it touches me. I think about elk moving in the Lamar Valley, wolves in tow. I dream of eagles, not condors. For the past week, I have dreamt of bison coming to me, and I know I will be better soon.
Now I question what to do with this place. Do I try to connect to it? There are surely great Incan myths and I can see the natural beauty from my own back yard. Can I ever adjust to a sun that lives in the northern sky?
Apparently, I have two illnesses at once. The first is a virus called CMV – to make a long story short, it is a form of mono. The second, and less polite illness, is some kind of intestinal bug. The bug can be treated, and hopefully my will start to be digested again.
Regardless, the blog has been quiet because I don’t think that people want to hear about lying in bed all day. However, one nice thing about lying in bed all day is that it gives you time to think. Granted, most of the thoughts have been along the lines of “curse my damn colon”. But, some useful thoughts have come to the fore.
In particular, I have noticed the sun.
My bedroom has a sunroof. It is nice, except at mid day when it bakes my room and gives no shelter. Normally, I am not here for that, so it is of little consequence. However, when there is nowhere to go, it is noticeable
A few days ago, something whispered in my mind – “That sun is coming in from the north”. So it is.
I haven’t really hidden the fact that I don’t love Quito. It is loud, polluted and crime ridden. In short, it is a city. I grew up in one and I feel no need to live in one again. But something else, something deeper, has bothered me about this place.
I was raised by a man who had an undeniable sense of place. My father understood Long Island in a way that few ever will again. We used to tease him—he saw potato fields and forests in places that are now strip malls and tract housing. He knew the history of the place. He knew that that the Native Americans would go clamming in the estuaries and salt marshes—today an activity that produces a luxury item—in times of famine. He knew about the Loyalists that populated the Island during the American Revolution and the different techniques that the Long Island baymen used for harvesting food.
The first time I ever really felt a place was in Edinburgh. I had been studying the Celtic Holiday, Imbolc. It was, and still it, the start of spring in that part of the world. To me, early February is not spring. It isn’t even close. But, after a long morning of thinking of nothing but the Celtic start of spring, I headed into a cold Scottish afternoon. On my way home, past the Meadows, the first snowdrops were coming up. I understood. It was an intuitive understanding—the type that words are useless for.
Somehow, in that moment, I got the place. I understood Scotland in a way that I think my father understood Long Island. I knew that spring had begun, and I knew in some way what Imbolc was about.
I’ve carried that moment with me. In upstate New York I read Iroquois mythology, learned about the ecology of a place that measures snow in feet. I loved it there. In Ireland, I knew the myths as well as anyone. That field was where Cú Chulainn made his stand against the armies of Ireland, and over there is where the Mórrigan mated with the Dagda. Even in a place as ecologically devastated as Ireland, there is a sense of place.
Then there was Montana. In Montana, I took it a step further. Understanding Montana was more than just reading some stories and doing some bird watching. To be certain, I learned about Old Man Coyote and read about the ecological significance of alpine snow pack to the low lying sagebrush ecosystem. But I also discovered the importance of ceremony. In my studies of anthropology I had an intellectual understanding that ceremony cements a relationship with a place, with other people, with the divine, in a way that nothing else could.
Before long, I was sitting in tortuous sweat lodges and standing in the hot sun with wounds in my chest. It wasn’t snowdrops in Scotland. It was long, slow and hard. I still don’t get it. I wish I did. I think some of the guys at the sweats got sick of constant questioning. I belonged to that place in a way that that is hard to explain. There is nothing supernatural about it. It is just…
Well, it is kind of like soul – if I have to explain it to you, you will never understand.
So now, the sun is in the north. There are tall majestic trees with bark that seems to be peeling away. There are grasses that are as tough as any I have ever seen – I imagine that someone must have once used them for rope. The mountains are stately and cloud veiled and the birds… well, if anything can keep me here, it is the birds.
I could go on – great fruit, colorful music, and a rich and vibrant culture.
But none of it touches me. I think about elk moving in the Lamar Valley, wolves in tow. I dream of eagles, not condors. For the past week, I have dreamt of bison coming to me, and I know I will be better soon.
Now I question what to do with this place. Do I try to connect to it? There are surely great Incan myths and I can see the natural beauty from my own back yard. Can I ever adjust to a sun that lives in the northern sky?
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thanksgiving in Quito
In America, for those of you not from America, Thanksgiving is probably the second biggest holiday of the year. I can’t say that is my favorite holiday. That would have to be Halloween – especially Halloween in New England, where it just seems to belong. In fact, having spent so much time either out of the country or in some far flung corner of the country, its significance has, to be honest, diminished in my mind.
Not that this is a good thing. Living on an Indian reservation for all those years certainly gave me a perspective on the holiday. Some of it was bad – like the treatment of Native Americans over the years. Some of it was good – like the importance of gratitude and family.
This year, I find myself, yet again, in a different country. Needless to say, my perspective on Thanksgiving is affected once again. In the past, I’ve lived in places that in some respects made me look at the States in a disparaging light. Living in Europe, I was exposed to countries with decent health care, education, transportation and public services. It was a pleasure. I became increasingly critical of the fact that we didn’t have those things in my home country.
It made me sad to see that we had become a “can’t do” nation. We can’t cut on CO2 emissions, we can’t have universal health coverage, we can’t improve the schools. Of course, those of us who argued that we could do these things became an evil cabal of Trotskyite nay sayers who hated America.
I still maintain those criticisms. However, living in Ecuador has given me a different perspective. It would seem that Thanksgiving is a good time to share those criticisms.
I’m writing this blog entry in an incredibly beautiful house. It looks like I live in the country. During the day it looks out over a lush green hills and a gorgeous volcano, perfect in its conical whiteness. At night I go to bed listen to a tree frog that makes a delightful clicking noise. In the morning, before my alarm goes off, I wake up to a dawn chorus like you would not believe. In the heat of the day, hummingbirds dash, flower to flower, outside my window.
It is paradise behind a wall. I never imagined myself living behind a wall, but I do now. It is a roughly 10 foot wall with an electric gate and broken glass mortared onto the top to keep thieves out. My office is similar. I sit at the window. For it, the closest thing is another wall. This one, instead of having glass has electric fencing on top. Beyond that, moves the hustle and bustle that you would expect in a capital city. Frustrated commuters lean too heavily on their horns, and there is occasional sounds of shouting.
Between the cars, people try to sell stuff or beg. One kid carries his lame brother – pant legs rolled up to show the sores – getting handouts from drivers. Another guy sells art prints. There is also an indigenous woman. She sells candy, cigarettes, cough drops, and other stuff to drivers. I like her. She is there in the morning when I come to work, and she is still there in the evening when I leave. I often buy a box of Chicklets from her. She works hard, never begs and always smiles. What else can I do? After I make my purchase, I step over her two boys, asleep on the sidewalk, and go to work.
I am writing this in the midst of a blackout. Ecuador does not have an adequate enough infrastructure to deal with a minor drought. A few weeks without rain and the hydroelectric that powers this country can’t cope. So, every day we lose power for a few hours. It is, to be certain, a bit of a pain in the ass.
But, it is also something to be thankful for. It is a time to read – be in silence – and take a break from the rest of the world.
I won’t really get to celebrate Thanksgiving this year. I’m OK with that. But certainly, living in Ecuador has given me pause. America certainly has its share of flaws, but the closest thing to a wall I’ve ever lived behind was the picket fence in the front yard of my loving (if slightly crazy) childhood home. Before coming here, I never thought to plan out what I carry so that I did not make an attractive target for thieves, and I certainly never stepped over children sleeping on the street.
That is truly something to be thankful for.
***On a side note – for those of you reading this, I want to thank you. I’ve moved quite often over the course of my life. During that time I’ve made friends with some truly amazing people. If I have one regret in life, it is that I have not stopped in one place long enough to get to know many of you better. I am thankful to so many of you for so much. I also want to thank my family (the few of you that there are) for providing me with a childhood that prepared me so well for the life that I truly love.
-Tommy
Not that this is a good thing. Living on an Indian reservation for all those years certainly gave me a perspective on the holiday. Some of it was bad – like the treatment of Native Americans over the years. Some of it was good – like the importance of gratitude and family.
This year, I find myself, yet again, in a different country. Needless to say, my perspective on Thanksgiving is affected once again. In the past, I’ve lived in places that in some respects made me look at the States in a disparaging light. Living in Europe, I was exposed to countries with decent health care, education, transportation and public services. It was a pleasure. I became increasingly critical of the fact that we didn’t have those things in my home country.
It made me sad to see that we had become a “can’t do” nation. We can’t cut on CO2 emissions, we can’t have universal health coverage, we can’t improve the schools. Of course, those of us who argued that we could do these things became an evil cabal of Trotskyite nay sayers who hated America.
I still maintain those criticisms. However, living in Ecuador has given me a different perspective. It would seem that Thanksgiving is a good time to share those criticisms.
I’m writing this blog entry in an incredibly beautiful house. It looks like I live in the country. During the day it looks out over a lush green hills and a gorgeous volcano, perfect in its conical whiteness. At night I go to bed listen to a tree frog that makes a delightful clicking noise. In the morning, before my alarm goes off, I wake up to a dawn chorus like you would not believe. In the heat of the day, hummingbirds dash, flower to flower, outside my window.
It is paradise behind a wall. I never imagined myself living behind a wall, but I do now. It is a roughly 10 foot wall with an electric gate and broken glass mortared onto the top to keep thieves out. My office is similar. I sit at the window. For it, the closest thing is another wall. This one, instead of having glass has electric fencing on top. Beyond that, moves the hustle and bustle that you would expect in a capital city. Frustrated commuters lean too heavily on their horns, and there is occasional sounds of shouting.
Between the cars, people try to sell stuff or beg. One kid carries his lame brother – pant legs rolled up to show the sores – getting handouts from drivers. Another guy sells art prints. There is also an indigenous woman. She sells candy, cigarettes, cough drops, and other stuff to drivers. I like her. She is there in the morning when I come to work, and she is still there in the evening when I leave. I often buy a box of Chicklets from her. She works hard, never begs and always smiles. What else can I do? After I make my purchase, I step over her two boys, asleep on the sidewalk, and go to work.
I am writing this in the midst of a blackout. Ecuador does not have an adequate enough infrastructure to deal with a minor drought. A few weeks without rain and the hydroelectric that powers this country can’t cope. So, every day we lose power for a few hours. It is, to be certain, a bit of a pain in the ass.
But, it is also something to be thankful for. It is a time to read – be in silence – and take a break from the rest of the world.
I won’t really get to celebrate Thanksgiving this year. I’m OK with that. But certainly, living in Ecuador has given me pause. America certainly has its share of flaws, but the closest thing to a wall I’ve ever lived behind was the picket fence in the front yard of my loving (if slightly crazy) childhood home. Before coming here, I never thought to plan out what I carry so that I did not make an attractive target for thieves, and I certainly never stepped over children sleeping on the street.
That is truly something to be thankful for.
***On a side note – for those of you reading this, I want to thank you. I’ve moved quite often over the course of my life. During that time I’ve made friends with some truly amazing people. If I have one regret in life, it is that I have not stopped in one place long enough to get to know many of you better. I am thankful to so many of you for so much. I also want to thank my family (the few of you that there are) for providing me with a childhood that prepared me so well for the life that I truly love.
-Tommy
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Watching Condors in the Paramo
I instantly knew what it was.
Some of the guys on the team were up on a vantage point, helping us to navigate the easiest path around the mountain. One of the team members was struggling a bit, and some of us were holding back to give him a hand. Suddenly, the gesturing changed. Rather than a relaxed attempt – gesturing up, down, or level, they were pointing to something behind them. And they were excited.
We were up in the paramo, a high, sort of alpine ecosystem that hovers, more or less, above the tree line but below the snow line. Because it is in the tropics, it has some unique characteristics. For example, a few trees do manage to hang on to places where the sun keeps it warm enough. Unlike the alpine areas of Montana, which I am used to, the paramo doesn’t freeze. While there is a dry and wet season, there is never a part of the year when it is covered in snow. As a result there are plenty of boggy spots. In some places it felt more like I was back hiking in the moors of Scotland.
It is a spectacular wilderness – filled with tracks of deer, Andean foxes, and other animals that I didn’t recognize. The birding is also fantastic. To be honest, I didn’t recognize most of the birds. There were two avid birders on the trip, but I have to admit that I forgot the names of most of the birds that we saw.
But there was one bird that was obvious.
As they were gesturing towards something behind, it suddenly appeared, thrusting up into the sky behind them. It was immediately obvious that the wingspan was longer than these guys were tall. And they weren’t short guys.
Condors are one of those things you never expect to get to see. They are on the list of well known animals that few people ever get to see – kind of like jaguars, wolves, and polar bears. They aren’t unicorns or dragons, but they are close to it.
Yet, there it was, hovering above us, checking us out. Then it moved down – circling below, looking for food sources that are increasingly rare due to poaching and other human interventions.
There were three in all – two matures and an immature. It is the immature that was the miracle. Condors are rare. They are huge, majestic, beautiful – and will probably disappear within my lifetime. Scientists estimate that 20,000 – 30,000 species become extinct per year. That number might rise to 200,000 – 300,000 per year. Most of them are undocumented – some fungus that grows in a minor basin in Australia or a grass found by one pond in the Russian steppe. Each one is a loss. In pragmatic terms, we don’t know which of these species has the cure for cancer, or might produce oil that can produce cleaner energy, or even possible food sources for our growing population.
However, aside from economic and pragmatic values, there is just something spectacular about seeing a condor. We would never allow the Taj Mahal or the Mona Lisa be destroyed needlessly. Nor should we.
I wasn’t thinking of biodiversity or cures for cancer. I had even stopped thinking about getting to our campsite. I simply watched the condors. It was one of the most majestic and beautiful experiences that life has ever offered me. To say more would be like trying to describe the color red or the smell after rain. Some things just have to be experienced.
I fear it is an experience that will be offered to fewer and fewer people.
Another posting on the V!VA blog.
For some reson, it was decided that I should handle festivals for my company's blog. Go figure.
Here is my take on it.
http://news.vivatravelguides.com/?p=874
Here is my take on it.
http://news.vivatravelguides.com/?p=874
Monday, November 9, 2009
First Blog at the New Job
I also write blog articles for V!VA. I finished my first one today. It is on bus travel in Latin America:
http://news.vivatravelguides.com/
http://news.vivatravelguides.com/
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Missing Ruminhaui
So, my big plan to climb Ruminhuai fell apart. I should say right up front that I had some reservations about it. The guide did not exactly sound professional. From what I understand, he left a person alone when she got exhausted and tired. So I can’t complain too much. That said, it wasn’t the poor quality guide that convinced me not to go.
In fact, I was packed and ready to go. It would have been the highest peak I had ever climbed by a good thousand feet or so. Unfortunately, just as the e-mail from one of my co-workers came with the instructions, the internet crashed. Not having a phone, this was my one avenue for information. So, eventually it was time for bed – and still no information.
This by the way is one of the joys of living in the third world. As I mentioned before, we are having rolling blackouts here. Although we did not lose power last night, I think that the internet might have crashed because of the black outs – so who knows?
I got up the following morning at about 6:15, and kind of putzed around for another 15 minutes before finally reading the e-mail telling me that I had to be at an Ecovia (kind of like a trolley service) stop at 7:00. By the time I got dressed – finished organizing my stuff and got to the door it was almost 7:00. I didn’t get a cab until 7:15, and got the meeting place after 7:30. Needless to say, the party was gone – or at least I didn’t see them.
The lesson learned – buy a cell phone.
In fact, I was packed and ready to go. It would have been the highest peak I had ever climbed by a good thousand feet or so. Unfortunately, just as the e-mail from one of my co-workers came with the instructions, the internet crashed. Not having a phone, this was my one avenue for information. So, eventually it was time for bed – and still no information.
This by the way is one of the joys of living in the third world. As I mentioned before, we are having rolling blackouts here. Although we did not lose power last night, I think that the internet might have crashed because of the black outs – so who knows?
I got up the following morning at about 6:15, and kind of putzed around for another 15 minutes before finally reading the e-mail telling me that I had to be at an Ecovia (kind of like a trolley service) stop at 7:00. By the time I got dressed – finished organizing my stuff and got to the door it was almost 7:00. I didn’t get a cab until 7:15, and got the meeting place after 7:30. Needless to say, the party was gone – or at least I didn’t see them.
The lesson learned – buy a cell phone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
