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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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