The Beni: Adventures (4 of 7)

Before I get down to business, just a couple of quick asides. First, if you´re just tuning in, I would reccommend starting with Beni post 1 and working up, if you have the time and patience, it´ll make a lot more sense. Second, for those that have stuck with it, thanks. Third, for those of you that have Facebook, I have been able to post 4 photos Toa took from the field in a new album. For those that don´t, I´ll keep trying to get them up here as well, I´ve been having some trouble with importing photos lately Lastly, I am heading back into the field tomorrow for a couple of weeks or so, I´ll be back out mid-November. Once I´m out, I´ll post the complete Beastie Report, Bird, and Wrap-Up posts before I start my Bolivian wandering. Now, lets get to work...

ADVENTURES

Guayaquíl

Every Sunday, the cowboys from all the ranches in the area get together for a day of relaxing and a very spirited soccer game at Guayaquíl, the central hub and ranch. It is a two to three hour ride, and we usually do it at night by moonlight. It´s a lot cooler at night, and night rides are always fun. The boss, Scander, splits into a broad grin when as he sees us pulling in, and instantly begins feeding us. The central ranch has an entire cooking staff, and makes up some of the best food I´ve had here. Scander´s motto is ¨just a little more¨, and he is an expert at sneaking a little more food onto your plate when you aren´t looking. We then curl up in the myriad hammocks that crisscross the bedrooms, and sleep like rocks (sometimes past 6:30, a rare feat for me recently).

First thing in the morning, everyone strolls out to the airstrip, and makshift goals made of dead palm trunks are dragged out and pounded into place. The teams greet each other, shake hands, and instantly start talking good-natured trash. My team is the Betania/San Pedro/Guantanamo/Guayaquil team and our opposition is made up of Vaqueros from Poema/Carpa/Beya Flor/Uru Campenia. Everyone knows everyone else, and even though it is a ferocious and passionate game, it is all entirely friendly and one heck of a good time. I have become a popular asset for my team. This is not because I´m good at soccer (I suck, in fact), but instead function as a simultaneous good luck charm and excuse. If we lose, my team says its because we have the Gringo, and the other team says the same thing if we win.

After everyone is exhausted, we all go in to eat more. Now that I think about it, I guess we probably spend more time eating than playing soccer on an average Sunday. In any case, the rest of the day is spent sleeping, snoring, drooling, chatting, lazing around, joking, and every possible combination of these activities. Unrelentingly lazy days, and I love every second of it. I have also had some great conversations and met some awesome people at Guayaquíl, the arts of friendly idle banter and philosophizing about life in general are alive and well in the Beni. Once the sun starts edging towards the horizon, everyone saddles up, dishes out some last-minute off-colored humor, says goodbye and wanders off towards their prospective ranches. By far the laziest and most relaxing of my regular adventures.

Guantanamo

This ranch is run by one of my favorite vaqueros and his family, an extremly mischevious and merry man known only as ¨El Gato¨ (The Cat). Gato has a fleet of offspring, a warm and pleasant Brazillian wife called Negra, and finds humor in nearly everything. His oldest two sons, Faran and Jonah are regularly passing through Betania alongside Gato himself, and Faran in particular is fascinated by my Bionculars. He calls them my Long-Views, and looks at everything he can find with them.

Guantanamo is the sister ranch of Betania, and is situated between two shallow lakes, about an hour´s ride from Betania. We have only made it out here twice on our days off, but Gato always asks us when we are coming through next. We always reply ¨Tomorrow¨, and this sends a peal of laughter through Gato. The major activity at Guantanamo is centered around the lakes, and is an occupation that I hold near and dear: fishing.

Our equipment is a spool of thick fishing line wrapped around a chunk of palm wood, and a few ancient fishhooks. These are preferrably baited with scraps from last night´s dinner, spun around to gather up some momentum, and then thrown in a lazy arc as far out into the lake as possible. Since we don´t have a dock, a massive Suho tree that blew down at the lakes edge and reaches far out into the water makes an ideal perch. The lake itself is shallow enough to walk across, but this is unadvisable, considering what sorts of things live in its mocha colored water. In fact, it is a lot like playing ¨Lava Monster¨ on the Monkey Bars as a kid, but for real. People fall in every so often (knee deep), and nothing happens, but any prolonged time in the water is a really stupid idea. This is because our most common catch is Pirhana, but there are plenty of other reasons not to take a dip.

Pirhanas are great fighters, as you would imagine, and the preferred tequnique is to yank on the line as hard as you can once you get a bite, and pull them in as fast as you can to minimize their chances of snipping the line with their legendary teeth. This creates a new problem if you succeed, namely that you have a blindly thrashing, snapping Pirhana tied to you that you have to deal with. My first Pirhana caught me by surprise as I fumbled for my camera, and gave me a souvenier bite on my left index finger, in an uncanny smiley-face design created by his bottom row and two main top teeth. I thought this was terribly fitting, nature has a very sarcastic sense of humor. They taste like trout more or less, a good lead in to my third and greatest adventure...

Mealtime

Vegetarians and generally squeamish people may be glad they didn´t read this...

My decision to incorporate meat back into my diet over the summer to prepare my DI tract for this trip was uncharacteristically wise of me. There is no escaping meat here I am afraid, as it is one of the only foods that is available without being flown in, and when we start running low on our staples of beans and rice, most of our calories come by necessity from meat. The reality of the situation is that if you don´t eat meat here, you plain just don´t eat. I am looking forward to my return to Vegetarinism, but I have adjusted and am enjoying my brief relapse into a meat-based diet.

The adventerous part of mealtime comes with the game I briefly mentioned yesterday, wherin the cowboys prepare a delicious, seemingly benign meal, watch with barely-concealed enthusiasm and amusement as I happily tuck in, and, as I swallow my last bite, then erupt in howls of laughter as they gleefully tell me what I just ate. This unnerved me a bit at first, but I am not really squeamish and its gotten pretty hard to freak me out. At times they seem to forget that I have formal Biological training and therefore a basic understanding of anatomy, such as when I was told the plate placed in front of me one night was ¨steak¨, when it was actually a circular, tube-like muscle (of which there are only a handful in a mammal, use your imagination). To be fair, I have enjoyed everything they have prepared, and I just don´t dwell too deeply on what it is. My expanded palate now includes, but is not limited to the following: Armadillo (a lot like lean pork), Pirhana, Capybara, Caimen (like a cross between fish and chicken, wierd), and nearly every part of the cow that exists, including tounge, heart, liver, udder, ¨the other toungue¨, hoof, cheek, eyes, and a wide variety of circular muscles and organs intended for reprocuction or digestion. Those who find this barbaric and a bit nauseating (like me) can take comfort in the fact that all parts are well cooked, and usually unrecognizable. It is also morbidly gratifying to see that absolutely nothing goes to waste, they really do use everything but the Moo.

The final part of this adventure is the fact that as a member of the ranch, I am expected to help with either the cooking, or the capture and submission of our evening meal. Anyone familiar with my cooking skills knows what tradjedy would occur if that task fell to me, so I am a part of the capture team. My requests to not eat wildlife for their sake have been respected after the first couple of weeks, but the so-called domestic animals are usually harder to catch than wild game. The basic tequnique involves a frantic pursuit, herding, and tackling of whatever unlucky pig, chicken, or cow has been targeted. Once tackled, the others in the chase tie up or subdue the livestock, while the tackle-or holds on for dear life. Thrilling in a very primal sort of way, but is still profoundly sad for me every time to watch the animal´s life slowly fade away. The cowboys don´t believe me when I tell them that many people in the United States have never been there for the death and butchering of their food, it seems as much a part of life as eating the animal to them. At any rate, I have gotten very good at tackling pigs and chickens, but I´m still working out the bugs in my cow-tackling tequnique.

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Well, thats basically it for now. Look for the next post on November 16th, its been fun guys. Thanks for tuning in, I look forward to the next time I´ll be hearing from you all. Untill then, Amigos...

-Chris

Santa Ana

Yacuma Province, Beni Department

Bolivia

The Beni: Potpurri (3 of 7)

I have a wide collection of silly anecdotes, storys, and thoughts on what has been happening here, far to many put in print and many unsuitable for a generally civilized audience. That said, I have a collection of random pieces of my life here that are, and that is, of course, the subject of this post

THE BENI POSTAL SYSTEM

The first item is a response to myriad questions about how, exactly, have your emails been able to make it out into the field unaided by electricity, fax machines, or voodoo. The chain of events begins with Toa, who prints off all my emails when he is in Trinidad, throws them in an envelope, and addresses it to a man named Don Tico Suarez, the administrator of Betania in Santa Ana. Don Tico then packs the envelope onto the next plane headed into the campo for any one of the ranches in the area, crossing out his name and putting my Bolivian name (Kris Duk) on the envelope. From there, the plane lands somewhere in the field, and waits until a cowboy happens to be passing through towards Betania, or ¨the ranch where the Gringo lives¨, as it is usually referred to over the radio. Said cowboy then carefully tucks the envelope into an area where it is guarunteed that his horse will sweat profusely on it, and rides off in the direction of Betania. Later that night, he arrives at the ranch and happily hands me the envelope, which I thank him profusely for, no matter what fluids it seems to have been soaking in. From there, it is a simple matter of drying the papers off, and once dry, pouring over every word over and over, I´ll be sure to save some of the more abused papers as souveniers, or ¨treasures¨ as Erica would put it. If I can make sure they aren´t supporting some sort of growth.

HELLO, NEWMAN...

As a number of you are already aware, I am far and away a lover of all things animal. That said, there are a select few who have succeded in making my Sh(oo)t List, an elite group of unlovables whom I utterly and totally despise. Official members so far include Ticks, Tapeworms, Polychaete Marine Worms, and Bill O´Riely. While here in Bolivia, I am thrilled to announce the induction of three new members to this hallowed club. Congradulations to these select few.

Botfly- Probably the fastest introduction-to-induction I´ve ever made to this list. This lovely little creature lays an egg on your skin, a tiny and seemingly harmless grain of life, which then promptly hatches into a maggot (it gets worse). The newborn then burrows underneath your skin untill it is completely submerged, save for the breathing hole it leaves in your skin. If you chose, you could then wait until it reached its full size (I´ve heard stories of 3 inches, may be tall tales, but seems feasible), when it then pupates and emerges from the hole as a brand new adult. I did not choose to wait with my first Botfly, and removed the foul beast immediatedly from his home he had made in my left foot. This involves covering the breathing hole with chewing gum, bringing the larvae closer to the surface, where it can be extracted with a knife. They don´t carry diseases, and my wound has healed into an unremarkable scar, but I think you will agree that its overwhelming repulsivness deserves immediate membership.

Ants- I can already hear Kalen snickering. The paperwork was already in the mail for these beasts, and although they play a huge part in every ecosystem they inhabit and are extremely remarkable for their strength and overall fascinating, they have crossed the line. I have been stung, bitten, and otherwise tortured by so many ants here, that I think the first thing I will teach my future kids to do is fry ants with magnifying glasses for sport. I´m not kidding. A non-comprehensive list of offenses includes:

1) Repeated stings and bites without provokation, and apparently just for the hell of it

2) Completely reducing our waterproof blind into something that closely resembles Swiss cheese, as a troop of leafcutters did (while it was raining, !%#&!!!)

3) Inhabiting every possible molecule of ground, making escape impossible

There is even a species that has forged an alliance with a common tree here, and at the slightest movement of a single leaf, hundreds of the little Nazis come pouring out of the holes peppering the tree´s bark, and proceed to bite and sting the bajeezus out of whatever is nearby. Their stings leave quarter-sized welts that turn to boils the next day, and cause an impossible amount of pain. Their host plant has been named ¨Palo Diablo¨, The Devil´s Branch, for exactly this reason.

Cows- These hulking simpletons have also been in consideration for induction for a while, and although they are delicious and useful when dead, in life they are 600 lb of dim-witted bullying malice. My initial attempts at a truce went unheeded, and every day I am charged, pursued, and otherwise pushed around by bovine fart-factories with nothing better to do. They are everywhere, an unescapable presence. Alonso tells me the best way to deal with them is to be aggressive back, but I have seen him come back to the house with cattle-inflicted injuries too often to believe him. Instead, I give them a wide berth, and when charged, I run. Or at least I used to.

I have discovered a secret weapon in dealing with these idiots. When ever I bring it with me into the field, their dull eyes bulge with terror as they see me wave it viciously through the air. The sun catches its polished handle, reflecting the horrifed panic flashing in the eyes of my unnaturally stupid opponets. I unleash a primal scream to drive the point home, and a terrified stampede in the opposite direction ensues, bellowing and mooing. What instrument of doom is this, the one that now never leaves my side and guaruntees me safe passage through cow-infested plains? It is the powerful, the terrifying...

...Butterfly Net.

Which leads perfectly into my next section...

GAMES AND ACTIVITIES

The Beni is not exactly the hotspot of the world, in terms of diversions, so I have devised a number of fun games that I play daily. Starting with...

Terrify the Cows Until They Evacuate Their Digestive Tract (Cow Panic, for short)

One of my favorites. Whenever I have a little extra time in my commute, or the cows have gotten a little too bold, or I just feel like it, the net that serves as my protector becomes my weapon. I carefully place my backpack, hat, and binoculars in the shade underneath a palm, note its location so I can find it again once the fun´s over, firmly grasp my Butterfly Net, unleash an unholy war cry, and charge blindly into the nearest population of cows, shrieking in toungues. It is great exercise, and I have discarded my morning jog in favor of this game to keep in shape. Anyone wondering why Latin Americans all think Gringos are crazy should be able to see that they come from images like the one I create: a tall, shirtless gringo in hiking boots, wildly pursuing a herd of up to 200 cows across the sun-baked savannah, swinging a butterfly net and flinging curses in whatever language comes readily to mind. The game ends when I get tired, or when a cow fires off a cow pie on the run, which I consider to be a suitable sign of defeat. I refuse to feel remorseful about this game in spite of its questionable ethics, because in the long run it does no permanent damage, the cowboys don´t mind at all and in fact encourage it (jumpy cows are easier to drive), and most of all because they (the cows) were the ones to start it, and I´ll be damned if I´m going to let them be the ones to finish it.

Bolivian Whack-a-Mole

To play this game, you need the following:

- A tent

-A rolled-up magazine

-An abundant population of nasty creatures

The game goes like this. Every night when I first enter my tent, there is a scattering of lumps in the floor, created by myriad creatures that have decided foolishly to take shelter underneath my tent. I open my magazine to an ad featuring Paris Hilton, roll it up, and get ready. To let my opponets know the game is on, I give the tent a good shake. The lumps then begin moving about in a confused pattern, and I begin bapping each moving lump that appears with Pairis´s smirking face, using sufficent force to make it a good decision for the lump to find another place to spend the night. I occasionally accidentally ¨permanently stun¨ creatures with exoskeletons, but generally I´m a lot more gentle than I would like to be. An independant referee stands outside and anounces the identity of each lump as it flees from under my tent (usually Alonso, Maria and Paco have phobias, and watch from a safe distance). The game ends when all lumps have been removed and identified, and I am confident that I am the only one in my tent. I enjoy this game quite a bit too, and I´ve been thinking of writing Paris a thank-you note for her ad for all the fun I´ve had (ME: Dear Paris, thanks for selling your soul to Guess and providing me a chance to pummel repulsive little creatures that hide under my tent in Bolivia with your face. PARIS: That´s hot. What´s a Bolivia?)

I play this game nightly, and have combined it with a ¨Guess what´s Under My Tent¨ guessing game, in which the whole ranch participates. Prizes for correct guesses include candy, beers, and a special congradulations from the others. I have compiled a list that once again in far from comprehensive, but nonetheless contains a good deal of the participants of this game (besides me). We have found toads, frogs, rats, mice, chickens, piglets, 2 species of Tarantula, scorpions, lizards, more species of spider and cockroach than I knew existed, and one especially exciting night when a large mystery lump turned out to be a Fer-de-Lance.

Make the Gringo Eat Something Gross and Tell Him Later

This game is a favorite of the cowboys, and I am usually an unwilling participant. I will discuss this in much greater detail in the Adventures post, I have just chosen to mention it as a teaser...

The Beni: Daily Life (2 of 7)

There is only one way into and out of Betania: a cessna prop plane, your classic ¨puddle jumper¨. My first view of Betania came from the cramped cockpit such a plane, more than a month and a half ago, a simple grass landing strip surrounded by sprawling Pampas (savannah), small islands of palms dotting the endless sea of grass. Toa, myself, and another Parabero named John bounced to a landing and were greeted by a broadly grinning Alonso waiting at the other end of the strip. The next few days, Toa helped me get my bearings, orient myself, and establish the routine that is to be my life for my time in the Beni.

A few days later, I watched him climb into the plane to take him back to Santa Ana, and listened to some last minute instructions and advice. Finally, and right before the prop fired up on the plane, he gave me his dry, slow smile and one last piece of reassurance. ¨Dont´worry man, no pressure. I´m only putting you in charge of the saftey and lives of two of the world´s rarest macaws. One nest could make the difference between life and death of this species. But no pressure...¨ He laughed. I grunted a sarcastic thank you, and his plane charged down the runway and off into the hazy afternoon. I watched for a while, then turned and slowly walked back to the ranch house to begin what has become...

MY DAILY LIFE IN THE BENI

My day begins long before the sun manages to creep above the horizon, at about 5:00 am. This is not my choice, but is rather because of the local wildlife. With uncanny precision, the universe seems to explode simultaneously as the birds that roost in the tree above my tent erupt into the most unnaturally loud and grating chorus I have ever heard. Feel free to share in my pain here:
http://www.xeno-canto.org/browse.php?query=rufous+horneroro

To get the full effect, turn up the volume all the way on your computer, and imagine how it would sound if there were close to 30 of this bird, a Rufous Hornero, singing simultaneously directly above your head. They are actually very cute little birds, that is until they open their mouths (just like a Comm major, ha ha!). It beats a cup of coffee for sheer wake-up power, thats for sure. At the same time, our local rooster enjoys walking by the tent and adding his two cents, just in case I made it through the first wave. Lastly, if I manage to drift off after the Horneros have dispersed and the rooster is causing trouble elsewhere, the pigs come slurping into the yard, and begin rooting around and noisily enjoying whatever they can find in the vicinity of my tent. I have yet to oversleep, to say the least. Once thoroughly awake and irritated, I gather up the supplies that I need for the day, and begin making my way off to wherever I am going while it is still dark, carefully watching my feet to make sure I keep my trail.

My activities of the day follow one of three paths, one taking me in a wide 5 mile loop to our active (meaning that it has chicks) nest, the other in the opposite direction to a potential nest to check the progress there, and the third is not a path at all, but a random search area in a 10 mile radius from the ranch where I check on the other pairs in the area and look for signs of nesting. I go one direction, Paco goes the other, and we often run into each other in between.

If I am going to the active nest, I go it on foot, since I need to be there before it gets light, and I don´t have the time to find, saddle, and coerce El Viejo to get out there in time. Even if I could, my trail passes through a coriche, a broad shallow marsh choked with reeds, water hyacinth and papyrus-type plants higher than my head, and encounters with Caimen are the rule. Caimen are our local crocodilian, small, non-aggressive and basically harmless, and absolutely everywhere in the limited areas that have water. Until recently, my trail has been completely dry, and I have been able to easily skirt the wet areas, but now that the rains have come, my trail is now a small river, and the little twerps have taken to hanging out in it. El Viejo is a stubborn coward, and one look at the little alligators throws him into a fit of snorting, and sends him plodding resolutely in the opposite direction, so he really no help with access to this nest. I have taken to bringing a large stick with me to probe the water in front of me to avoid the surprise of stepping on or kicking one by accident. I´d like to stress that these are very small and not dangerous, I´m not worried about them and you guys shouldn´t be either.

Anyway, my duties at the active nest involve climbing the nest tree (a dead palm snag) to get the chicks out, weighing and taking measurements from the chicks, checking for parasites, and generally making sure that they are well fed, happy, and healthy. After all this has been done, I settle into a blind that we have made nearby, a little shelter where I can see the nest without being seen, and guard the nest from predators, mostly in the form of Toucans and Hawks that try to reach into the nest cavity to get the chicks. If one gets a little too close to the nest, I emerge shrieking and waving my arms to scare them away, and if they still don´t get the hint, I have a slingshot and a pouch full of soft mud balls that I fire in their general direction. The Toucans seem particularly dense, they like to sit and look curiously at me as I fumble with my slingshot, waiting until I actually hit the stupid things to croak in alarm and fly off. Pretty birds, but persistant and stupid enemies of the chicks. This vigil was kept up daily by either me or Paco until the chicks were 3 weeks old, and had reached a size and ability to defend themselves that ensured their saftey from Toucan Sam. Once it starts to get dark and their predators have settled down for the night, I head for home, one hour if I hustle. I´ll talk a lot more about the chicks in my Bird post, I´ve grown pretty fond of them.

I´d also like to take a quick aside to clarify something that has come to my attention. The word ¨chicks¨, which I will be using regularly to refer to BABY BLUE-THROATED MACAWS, does not mean, in the context of this blog ¨women¨. Without this clarification, I´ve gotten a number of messages wondering whether I have been studying birds or collecting a harem in Bolivia. I am not spending my time chasing girls, the word CHICK refers to a baby bird. Looking back though, in a different context, it is pretty hilarious. If you´re bored, I would suggest re-reading the posts with an alternative definition of the word, it really spices things up, but it paints me as some sort of bizzare deviant.

If I´m not checking on the other potential nests to find out whether they are active or not yet, I am out roving around the pampas with El Viejo in search of a particular type of palm tree called Motacu. Blue-throated Macaws are closely tied to this tree for food and nest cavities, so where you find Motacu, you sometimes find Blue-throats and potential nests. I have discovered a couple potentials so far, but only one nest has managed to produce chicks. The other couples seem to still be honeymooning, and haven´t yet gotten serious about settling down to raise kids. It can be a little frustrating at times, I´ve considered bringing some scented candles out to some sites to speed things up, or maybe play some Barry White, I don´t know. Hopefully we´ll see some eggs soon, but not until they quit foolin´ around. In any case, I really enjoy this part of my duties, roaming under an endless blue sky with El Viejo, basically just birding to my heart´s content.

By the time I get home, Maria has something interesting ready to go and in the kitchen waiting for us. I say ¨interesting¨ on purpose, mealtime is so much so, that I will deal with it´s details in the Adventures post. After a nice full dinner and some good conversation with the rest of the crew, I plod my way back to the ranch house and flip on the radio, trying to get a hold of Toa and relay some news, and get any instructions he might have. This usually doesn´t work, our radio is reliable but his is not, so mostly I just sit and listen to the radio happily burble away, spitting out the same sort of noises you would get from R2-D2 if you spiked his oil with tequila. After it becomes clear that nobody is on the other end, I grab my towel and head off to the well to take my shower.

This is something of an adventure in itself. Our water source is an open well with the good ol´ bucket and pulley system, and is a reliable source of extremely clean and often cold water. Great for drinking, less so for bathing. The basic technique is simple enough, I pour myself a five-gallon bucket of water, grab an old gourd that has been cut in half to make a decent cup, and go about pouring freezing water all over myself, soap up, and rinse off. The complications arise as a result of our ever-present wildlife. The well itself houses a huge population of frogs, and your average bucketfull of water contains at least one or two. This means that when it is dark and you aren´t really expecting it, you are fairly likely to pour a bucketfull of amphibians on yourself. I challenge anyone not to laugh at the completely absurb image that this creates; standing next to a well in the Bolivian backcountry wearing nothing but a smile and a handful of tree frogs, determinately clinging to a wide variety of body parts that don´t normally come to mind when you think of frogs. Once I´m satisfactorily clean and have removed the frogs, I head back to the ranch house to read a bit by candlelight before turning in.

The ranch house has been affectionately dubbed ¨The Bat Cave¨, for its population of bats that live in the spaces between the roofing tiles. They keep the mosquitos down near the house, but at a high price. Everything in the house is under constant attack from bat poo, falling bat babies, and being landed on by the bats themselves. They seem to enjoy this, as immediately following a volley of turdlets, a high pitched chittering is always heard, sounding alarmingly like impish laughter. This leads to all sorts of aggressive sentances regarding bats, but in the end there´s not a whole lot to be done about it. I have been woken up more than once from a nap in one of the hammocks in the house by the soft plop of a bat landing on my head.

Once I get tired of brushing off bat excrement, I retreat to my tent, my little fortress of solitude and relative sanitary conditions. I watch the fireflies that hang out between my tent and my rain fly, their lime green flashes come in pulses and are as hypnotic as watching the ocean. The buzzing thrum of cicadas and crickets compete with the chorus of thousands of frogs to dominate the night soundscape, punctuated by the occaisonal owl or nightjar. The last thing I hear before I drift off is often the deep, grunting roar of a Jaguar somewhere miles away, fading off into the night as I end another day in the Beni...

The Beni: Into and Cast of Characters (1 of 7)

Hello one and all!

I have returned to civilization, and I will be here for at least four days, spending much of my time right here, in front of the computer, writing furiously to catch up on my blog and emails, until I am so far removed from reality, I will have forgotten how to tie my boots. To those who wrote me, I cannot thank you enough, I have enjoyed hearing about everyone at home so much, I have tattered papers containing each email that I have been in the field with me as they came, and I have read and re-read them all more times than I can count, it is a real morale boost on the days when the Beni seems particularly hostile. I will respond to everyone as quickly as I can in the next four days, but please have a bit of patience, as my one lifeline to the internet is a tenative dial-up with a bad temper.

I have decided that, in effort to increase readibility, preserve my sanity, and to break my life in the Beni into digestible chunks, six posts are coming in the next four days, with a final, wrap-up post at the end of things, since it is likely that not much will have changed hugely. The first 6 posts will regard: Intro (see above), My Average Day, The Land, Random musings and details, Adventures and Events, Beastie Report, and, of course, Birds. This is basically just an expanded form of my Costa Rica emails that many of you slogged through last August, but this gives me a bit more breathing room, or just more space to ramble on.

In any case, I supppose the best way to start is to answer the five most common questions I have been hearing from the emails that I have recieved:

1. I am, in fact, alive.
2. I am in good health and have maintained good hygiene. Animals and Bolivans downwind of me have not been keeling over dead, as suggested by some ¨concerned¨ friends and family suggested.
3. I am happy.

4. In regards to several questions of just where in God´s Green Earth I acutually am, I am currently in the town of Santa Anna de Moxos in North-Central Bolivia. For the past month and a half, however, I have been living on a cattle ranch called Betaina, roughly 40 or so miles Northwest of Santa Anna, which is itself northwest of the departmental capital, Trinidad. A link to a Map of Bolivia is here: http://photo.goliathus.com/bolivia/pictures/map-of-bolivia.jpg
Enlarge the map by clicking on the icon that will appear in the lower right corner when you leave your cursor on the image for a while (for those wo are less than computer-savy, I know you´re out there...).

5. The last question is a bit more complicated: What have I been doing. This question is why I am being such a nerd and organizing my posts, there is simply too friggin´much to put in one post. Suffice to say I have been busy, as you will soon be able to read all about. I´ll try to make it as un-boring as possible, and I´ll start by introducing you (sort of) to the people and beings that I have been interacting with for what feels like forever, so I won´t have to keep explaining who people are in later posts. So take a deep breath, grab some coffee, use your fancy indoor plumbing (cause I sure won´t be using any, ha ha!) and settle in, here we go...

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Toa Kyle - My boss, the director of the World Parrot Trust´s Blue Throated Macaw studies. He is a tall wiry canadian in his early 30´s, with a shaved head and persistant five-o-clock shadow, and a typical sense of sarcastic, understated canadian humor radiates from his relaxed speech. He has gained somewhat of a minor celebrity status here as the leader of the Paraberos, or the Parrot Guys, and as the most commonly spotted Gringo in the Beni. He has been in Bolivia for the past 3 years, and you can sense his growing frustration and cynicism with the area. He is the one who makes sure I don´t run out of supplies, and talks to me over my radio as often as the weather and airwaves allow.

Paco- My fellow Parabero stationed at Betania with me. He is from the small northern town of San Borja, and has become a good friend. His real name is insanely long and nearly impossible to pronounce, and I can usually only remember that it involves way too many vowels. Hence, Paco, his preferred shortened name. He is my very patient Spanish teacher and is a great help with local customs and expectations. I can best describe his personality as humor-loving, patient, and a self-proclaimed ladies and macho man (though this is sort of par for the course, most Bolivians try very hard to display an abundance of machismo). Paco is my age, and may have been in the field for a bit too long, as his normal conversations concern alomost exclusively women and their anatomy.

Alonso- Also know as El Capitán. The manager and lone cowboy that runs Betania, a round, extremely friendly, middle-aged Bolivian with a thick bushy mustache, and a serious liking for the sauce. He is usually more difficult to understand, on account of the large ball of coca leaves that usually lives in his cheek, but is a great help with the horses, helping us find new nests by hearing rumours from the other cowboys, and generally keeping the camp running smoothly.

Maria- Our cook, and the object of Paco´s unsuccessful (so far) lust. She is quiet, but has opened up a bit, and trys to balance the male presence and keep us civilized. Also twenty-something, she is the fourth and last member of the regular Betania group.

El Viejo- My horse. His name means ¨the Old One¨, an ironic and seemingly perfect horse for me. He is a smallish brown horse that is older than me by a couple of years, and has a bit of a stubborn streak in him. Also a good friend, but a bit fickle. He is absolutely terrified of Caimen, and usually forces me to go it on foot through anywhere with water. So much for staying dry. I could also call him lazy, but to be fair, I would probably be sluggish if I had to carry him all the time, so I guess I can´t judge.

Los Vaqueros- The cowboys, a regularly roving group that work on other ranches and pass through to help out, or while driving cattle. There are too many to name individually, but they form a coheirent group themselves. In general, they are overwhelmingly friendly and hospitable (if you are visiting one of their ranches, the will not stop feeding you untill you beg them to stop), boisterous, and pretty much what you would expect from cowboys. Great guys, and in between the steady stream of jolly cursing, they have some deeply profound thoughts to share.

The Farm Animals- These are not old MacDonald´s freindly little animals. We have chickens, pigs, dogs, mules, horses, and of course, tons of cows. They all display more than one extremely irritating trait, and with the exception of El Viejo, all have become Newmans to my Sienfeld. More will follow on these evil beasts...

Others exist, but this is a good start. I´m pooped so I´m gonna call it quits for now. I will be posting tomorrow early, and writing emails like a madman, so I will say goodnight to you all, and I´ll talk to you tomorrow...

-Chris
Santa Ana
Yacuma Province, Beni Department
Bolivia