This is the Part Where I Say Goodbye

Week 9

I was ready. There was no last-minute scramble to throw scattered possessions into suitcases, no running back to retrieve a forgotten item. Nor was there any hesitating in the doorway to look wistfully over the empty shelves and unmade bed, no wandering from room to room to remember good times. I was ready to leave.

Puerto Lopez and Equilibrio Azul have been my home for the last two months, but two months has been enough. I've enjoyed the town, and the work, and the people I've worked with, but it's time to move on.

The organization's work is potentially very valuable to conservation. For example, the Hawksbill sea turtle with which they do most of their work is critically endangered. The data they gather—female fertility, nest and nestling survival, adult movement—are important for conservation efforts. As well, little is known about the life histories of many pelagic sharks and the extent of bycatch for these species; Equilibrio Azul's dockside monitoring program in probably one of the only sources of data on shark bycatch in the country.

Yet their work is also deeply faulted. In my last week at Equilibrio Azul we had three visiting scientists from Palo Verde, Mexico, who came to collect samples from sea turtles nest for their study of the fungi that cause egg mortality. Unfortunately, we were not able to find many of the nests because of missing or poorly placed nest markers. These were nests that had already hatched and should have been exhumed months ago—but weren't. That data was lost. As for the shark project, so far as I know little or nothing is done with the data collected. After attempting the analyze the data for my own independent project, I discovered that there are major flaws with the way the data is collected and recorded. So although I've enjoyed working at Equilibrio Azul and have learned a lot about sea turtles, it's a little frustrating to realize that all my efforts may not mean much.

When I came to Puerto Lopez I had a number of goals I wanted to achieve before I left, both professional and personal. Some of these I achieved, some of them I didn't. For example, I really wanted to develop concrete skills I could put on a resume and use in future jobs, like censusing and banding birds. As I've mentioned before, work on the island was essentially halted during my entire time with Equilibrio Azul, so learning these bird-related skills was impossible. I did, however, get quite a lot of experience performing equivalent tasks with turtles.

Another goal was to network. Networking is one of the soft, squishy goals you can't be quite sure you've achieved, and I'm not sure I achieved it. Although I met a lot of people in Puerto Lopez, and made a lot of connections, I don't know how much I'll use those connections in my professional career. My final professional goal was to “work professionally in another culture”—whatever that means. In retrospect, that goal was even softer and squishier than “networking.” I certainly worked professionally in another culture, and I learned a fair amount of what that entails—for example, nothing happens without going through the boss, even if the boss isn't around—but I'm not sure what that means in terms of goal-setting and goal-achieving.

I may have had more luck in my personal goals. I certainly didn't “perfect patience”, but I definitely improved! I've been in a lot of stressful, confusing, and chaotic situations here in Ecuador, where patience and flexibility were absolutely key in keeping my sanity, and I think I did very well—a lot better than I thought I would, in fact. I've also been more brave than I thought I would, or could, be—another of my goals. In this, however, I am less than satisfied. Facing strange situations is not one of strong points, and when faced with the strange and unfamiliar I feel that I was more of a hermit crab than a lion. But I'll still count this one as a victory.

After living for two months in a foreign country, I've realized that my third goal, “learn a new viewpoint,” is probably impossible. I've captured small glimpses of how Ecaudorians view small parts of the world—I've seen how women are treated, for example, and animals—but I don't think I've truly learned how they really see women and animals, and even if I had, that's only a tiny portion of everything. I think to really understand how another people view the world is almost as impossible as to truly understand how another person views the world: you're not them, so you can't see what they see, think what they think, or feel how they feel. I believe that no matter how long I stayed in Ecuador, the fact that I am not Ecuadorian would prevent me from capturing the essence of the Ecuadorian soul.

Nonetheless, (and moving away from philosophy) I've definitely learned a lot about accepting the views of others, and looking at things from their point of view (as much as I can, anyway). And that's good. That's something everyone should learn. I know this is cheesy and it's been said before, but I think that if we could all do that, all try to do that, the world would be a better place. After all, how can you hate what you understand? How can you destroy what is familiar to you?

As I sat in the common room of my hostal in Cuenca writing this, a song by the Doors came on:

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

How appropriate! That which is strange, that which is unknown, that which is different—these are threatening, frightening, and easy to dismiss as “less” or “wrong” than that which is known and familiar. Moving another culture, another people, from one category to another is not easy, but in two months I've made a lot of progress. So while I've said “goodbye” to Puerto Lopez and will soon say “goodbye” to all of Ecuador, it's not really goodbye. I've learned here, changed here, grown here, and a part of me will always remain—like a cast-off skin, outgrown, or a seed abandoned on the ground.

Genesis/Exodus

Week 8

“All the fountains of the great abyss burst forth, and the floodgates of the sky were opened.” Gn 7, 11.

Wow. That's really all I can say about the weather we've have this past week. Monday night the floodgates were opened and the heavens gave Puerto Lopez a sound drenching. There are a lot of things I've been thankful for on this trip, but the thing I'm most thankful for (so far, at least) is that I wasn't at Playita that night. Jose Luis and Lucho, who had the misfortune of patrolling that night, came back at two in the morning because the camp was... well... gone. Runoff from the hills flooded the camp, cutting about a foot into the sand right underneath the tent. The bottom section of the path was also flooded; Jose Luis said there was water up to his waist and they practically had to swim out.

Here in Puerto Lopez, our courtyard filled with water up to the steps, though thankfully the house didn't flood. Many others were not so lucky. For some reason, a lot buildings in Puerto Lopez are below street level. This is clearly a ridiculous idea for a place that receives as much rain at the Costa does. All of these buildings had several feet of water, and the next day people all over town were bailing out their houses with buckets.

The next day was nice, and the day after, but then that night the rain returned, not quite as strong, but more than strong enough. There was thunder and lightning, too. Lightning is not rare here, but I had yet to hear thunder accompany it. This time, there was thunder—and lots of it. Patacon (the cat) and Ruco (the dog) were absolutely terrified. The courtyard and peoples' houses flooded again.

The next day was nice again, but we had to deal with the aftermath of the previous days' storms. Five of us volunteers and about 45 other people took three boats out to the Isla de la Plata to clean up the debris left by the storm. There used to be a concrete staircase leading up from the base of the island to the top, where the path divided to reach the different parts of the island. I say “used to” because the rain washed the whole thing out. There were pieces of concrete everywhere, all the way down to the beach. I never saw where the staircase was, because I never made it that far inland, but I made it at least a quarter of a mile in without reaching the origin point of all the concrete.

We spend most of the day loading chunks of concrete into old fertilizer sacks and carrying them down to the beach to make a big pile next to the rangers' house. It was hard work. I'm a bad judge of weights and distances, but I'd say those sacks weighed over 60 pounds—and we had to carry them increasingly further distances, with the sharp broken edges digging into our backs. Me and two other girls from Equilibrio Azul were basically the only females there, and it was a little intimidating to work alongside all those men who were so much stronger than us, but the work was, in a strange way, very satisfying.

The cleanup crew returned to the island the next day, sans me, (I had homework) to finish the job. Like with Playita, I caught a lucky break, because it rained almost a whole day and the people who went to the island had a horrible time of it. The path turned into a honest-to-God river, with rushing water up to their knees. There was little work for the EA volunteers, but they had to wait for all of the other workers before they could come back to Puerto Lopez. Again, I'm very grateful I wasn't there.

To keep with the Biblical theme of my title, today is the first day of my last week in Puerto Lopez. I'm grateful for that, too. I've had a lot of fun here in Puerto Lopez, and I honestly like the town, but I'm ready to go—ready to see the rest of the country and ready to head home, ready for an exodus. It's a little hasty, a little unexpected, since it's a week earlier than I'd planned, but it has been long-awaited. It's time to move on.

Observations on Observing

Or, Pics or it Didn't Happen

Week 7

When you don't speak a language as badly as I don't, getting to know the locals is a little hard. All the little things you'd like to say or ask—“Why is every single boat painted blue and white?” “What is this delicious bread called and can I have your recipe?”—are pretty much impossible unless you have, a) a translator, or b) a dictionary, a lot of time, and very patient interrogatee.

Plan B is observation, and I like to think I've become a pretty good people-watcher. This past week saw Carnaval and the start of Lent, which offered ample opportunity to flex my observatory muscles. For those non-Catholics among you (or those not-very-good Catholics among you), Lent is the holy season leading up to Easter. It's a time to reflect and repent sins, and traditionally involves fasting—anything from giving up meat for a single day each week (fairly common) or giving up everything but bread and water (extremely rare). Sweet, fatty, or otherwise rich foods are off the menu. In the bad 'ol days before supermarkets and refrigeration, this meant you had to use up all the fat in the house before the first day of Lent, so it wouldn't go bad—plus, if you're about two spend two months in penitential solemnity you need a little something fun to tide you over.

Thus: Carnaval, Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras—whatever you want to call it. A festival of overindulgence, of too much food and too much drink and too much dancing and too much a lot of other things. Puerto Lopez's Carnaval was a far cry from New Orleans' Mardi Gras, but compared to its normal tranquilo self the town was pretty loco.

Puerto Lopez is one of the larger towns in the area, and people poured in from all over. Cars crowded the streets—every seat filled with an adult and a child on each adult's lap—and the beach was so full of people it was difficult to find room to walk, let alone swim. The beachfront cabanas put out tiki torches and people danced on the sand to reggaeton. Ad hoc restaurants sprang up everywhere; it seemed like every local who owned a grill put out an awning and started serving up platefuls of rice, beans, and fish. And everywhere—people. The town felt like—well, like one big festival.

Aside from the usual annoyances crowds bring, Carnaval brought a host of new nuisances. Ecuador is not a quiet a country, and there is always someone, somewhere, playing music loudly or revving their engine, or otherwise making lots of loud noise. Carnaval took this usual noise level and multiplied it by about ten. Then there was the foam. A couple of days before Carnaval cans of colored foam, a little like Silly String, began to appear in the hands of children. Throughout Carnaval children and adults alike would spray each other with this foam. It was pretty entertaining watching the kids chase each other through the streets, or sneak-attack their parents—but not so funny when a pack of young men sprayed you in the eyes, as happened to Carolina. Water balloons and even eggs were thrown as well. Basically, going outside was a little dangerous.

But go out we did, at least for a few drinks. Now, I'd heard Ecuadorians were good dancers, but this was something else. It wasn't just that the people dancing on the beach were good dancers, though that was true. It was that everyone did it: old, young, slim and sexy, fat and hairy—everyone danced, and no one was at all self-conscious. I think they were so good because they weren't self-conscious. It was a lot of fun to watch them—but a little creepy as well, because the small children danced with the adults and they danced like the adults. One little girl stands out in my mind—not more than ten, with a two-piece swimsuit on her flat, straight body, shaking her skinny booty like she was looking to get laid. The adults around her encouraged her, egged her on. Or a small boy, maybe 12, grinding with two women, probably relatives. To them it was probably good, clean family fun, but to my American eyes it seemed deeply inappropriate.

Carnaval ended promptly on Tuesday; the next day was Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent, and Mamita and I went to Mass at the local church. It's been a while since I've been to Mass, and I was a little rusty, but a lot of it was like I expected—and a lot of it wasn't. Of course, I couldn't understand a word anyone was saying, but the structure was the same—opening song and prayer, readings from the Bible, the sermon. The church itself was similar, too, with a few differences: Mary's altar, rather than being in the back of the church, was places prominently at the front, and the statue of the Virgin was dressed in real robes of cloth. A poetic touch was the crucifix, which was surrounded by a sweep of bamboo and a mural of the ocean, so it appeared as though Christ was affixed to the bowsprit of a boat: a powerful image for the residents of a fishing town.

Despite the familiarity of the Catholic rituals, the behavior of the people was strikingly different than in any church at home. In keeping with what I've experienced of Ecuador, they talked—during the hymns, while walking to receive the ash cross or the Host, even during prayers and the priest's sermon. During the “offer each other a sign of peace” part, people went all out, going far beyond the polite “peace be with you” and a handshake I'm used to and greeting everyone they knew (which in a town like this, is most people) with hugs and kisses and effusive salutations.

Probably only half the congregation rose to receive the ash on their forehead, and far fewer for the Host. I felt terribly sorry for the cantor, as hardly anyone sang along and people kept talking over her. The church was packed, and the lines to the altar disorderly; by the time everyone had filed through her voice was becoming hoarse. There was no wine, for which I was thankful, since I didn't fancy sharing a glass with so many people, and the priest placed the host directly in my mouth, which I was expecting even though it's not how we do it back home.

Great vignettes, you say, but where are the pictures? Well, the camera-crazy gene my mother's side of the family has seems to have skipped me, and I always forget to bring my camera with me. So I don't have any pictures of Carnaval or anything else I've written about. But don't worry, I'll upload random pictures of Puerto Lopez as I take them, so you'll have something to look at.

No, I Do Not Spend All My Time at the Beach (Just Most of It)

Week 6

Aside from a quick sentence or two at the beginning of the term, I haven't really talked much about my work here at Equilibrio Azul. Well, hold on to your hats, folks, 'cause that's about the change.

The harbor at Puerto Lopez

EA works on three main projects: turtles, birds, and sharks. Sharks is probably the least important of the three. Every morning volunteers go down to the harbor and record the number, type, and size of sharks and rays that the fishermen catch. It is illegal to fish for sharks in Ecuador, but it is legal to sell those that are caught by accident. The most common sharks we see are the pelagic thresher and a small species of hammerhead called the smooth hammerhead.

Rays

Although this work makes up only a very small part of what EA, it is very important to conservation as a whole. Sharks are long-lived and slow-maturing, and they produce relatively few offspring. In other words, their life history simply cannot support commercial harvest. Even high levels of bycatch may be too much for them. The data we gather can potentially give us an indication of how local shark populations are doing, and whether they require protection. At that point, government and national park officials can get to work.

This was a slow day

In practice... who knows? To my knowledge, little or nothing is done with the data we gather. Even if the government passes additional laws or Machalilla Park tries to put protections in place, there is little guarantee that they would be obeyed or enforced. Already, fishermen will “accidentally” come back with a boat full of sharks and only a handful of fish. This isn't common, thankfully, but if so little is being done, or can be done, to enforce the protections already in place, will more protections actually matter?

EA's bird project is one of the main reasons I chose this internship, but do to reasons outside of anyone's control, we're not working on that project right now. The bird work is done on the Isla de la Plata, also called “The poor man's Galapagos”, an island that is part of Machalilla National Park. Unfortunately, the park decided now would be a great time to make improvements to the facilities on the island. In the long run this will be good, because currently the building for the rangers and visiting volunteers (tourists are not allowed to stay overnight) is very primitive and has no fresh water. In the short run this horrible (for me, at least) because it means EA can't do any work on the island until they're done—which won't be for months.

A confused Magnificent Frigatebird

Work on the island in the past has largely consisted of censusing the bird populations: Blue-footed, Red-footed, and Nazca boobies, Tropical Birds, Magnificent Frigatebirds, and even a small population of albatrosses. I desperately wanted to see the albatrosses, but alas, is was not to be.

The most important work done here, by far, is the sea turtle project. There are five species of sea turtle in the Pacific, and we get two of them here: the Hawksbill and the Green. (Theoretically we get the Leatherback and Olive Ridley as well, but I've yet to see one and I don't think they're seen very often.)

Green Sea Turtle (photo from Wikipedia)

The Green turtle (Chelonia mydas) is largely herbivorous and favors lagoons and other shallow areas; the IUCN classifies it as endangered. We do less with the Green turtles than with the Hawksbills; mostly we go out in the harbor a couple times a week (water permitting) and “fish” for them by dangling a bit of fish in the water. When one comes close to the boat, someone dives overboard, grabs its carapace, and wrestles it on board. Then we measure it, tag it, and collect a DNA sample. This sounds easy, but catching the turtles is extremely difficult. I've seen close to eight turtles while out in the harbor, but only once have we actually caught one.

Hawksbill (photo from Wikipedia)

The Hawksbill, or Carey as it's called here (Eretmochelys imbricata) is in even worse shape than the green—it's classified as critically endangered. They favor tropical reefs and mainly eat sponges, along with cnidarians (jellyfish and relatives), including the infamous Portugeuse Man o' War. La Playita is an important nesting beach for the Carey, which is why we patrol it every night. When we find a turtle nesting we mark her nest, count the number of eggs she lays (the average is 140, but the other night I counted 199 in a nest!), then measure her, tag her, and take a DNA sample. The tags are metal clips we attach to their rear flippers, a little like very large and ugly earrings, but recently we've started to use PIT tags as well, since they are less likely to be lost. (PIT tags, for the non-scientists among you, are like the little chips you put in you dog or cat.)

Rachele the Sea Turtle (Photo by Felipe)

Occasionally we also put satellite transmitters on them. A few nights ago we attached a transmitter to a female we named Rachele (after our Assistant Director who is (sadly) leaving on Tuesday). This was a huge ordeal, as the turtle's shell had to be perfectly dry and, of course, it rains most nights here. We had previously constructed a very large wooden box and brought it to La Playita by boat. We had to put the box over the turtle keep her there until morning, watching all night to make sure she didn't escape or hurt herself. Then in the morning we had to wash her shell, sand it down, score it with a knife, and attach the transmitter with a truly amazing quantity of epoxy cement stuff. If you follow this link, you can see a map of Rachele the Turtle's travels.

Exhuming a nest (Photo by Rachele the Human)

We keep track of when nests have been laid and when they've hatched. A few days after hatching (so all the babies have a chance to make it to the surface) we do an exhumation, digging up the nest to count how many eggs hatched and how many didn't. For those that didn't, we open the unhatched egg and determine how developed the embryo was and how it died, if possible. This is not a lot of fun, since we usually do it in the middle of the afternoon and the failed eggs stink. But it's always great to find a few baby turtles who didn't make it to the surface and would probably have died without your help.

I won't say I absolutely love the work here, because some of it is rather boring or not much fun—like walking up and down Salango in the heat of the day with dozen of stinging sand flies chewing on you, or standing watch all night in the rain over a pissed-off turtle—but some of it is fun, and most of it is enjoyable, especially when you actually get to work with turtles. The babies are so cute, and the mothers are so magnificent. It's a real honor to have the chance to work this these animals, which are so amazing and of which there are so few left.

Patacón

(Alternate title: Look, Ma! It's on time!)
Week 5

As I am writing these words, there is sitting next to me an extraordinarily cute kitten looking for a new home. Her name is Patacón.

So small!

Patacón is one lucky little cat. Found on the street by an Equilibrio Azul volunteer when she was just a couple of weeks old, she would have died if it weren't for Rachele, who bottle-fed her every two hours and took her everywhere. And I mean everywhere: on patrol in La Playita, day trips to Montanita, hiking in a national park (where pets are not allowed and Patacón became completely covered in mud).

The bond between Rachele and Patacón is like that between mother and child—and little wonder, considering how close they are. Watching Rachele play with Patacón, you could easily think she was holding her own baby, as long as you didn't notice the fur. And Patacón clearly thinks Rachele is her mother. They are absolutely adorable together.

Like mother and child

Unfortunately, they are soon to separated. Rachele has to leave Ecuador, and her itinerary is long, convoluted, and does not include a permanent home. There is simply no way for Rachele to take Patacón with her. Leaving Patacón here is not a good option, though. I could probably spend a whole post writing about the way people treat animals here, but I'll summarize by saying it's not good. Even here at Equilibrio Azul the resident dog, Ruco, can go days without being fed and is often without left without water—and then of course there's the yelling, hitting, mixed (violent) messages and generally poor treatment he receives. As for cats... well, a couple weeks after I arrive we found a dismembered cat leg lying on the sidewalk, mostly eaten by the stray dogs.

This does not mean Patacón's life here would be miserable or dangerous. There is, for example, an extremely sleek and handsome cat who lives at one of the stores on the main street. But Rachele just isn't certain she could find an equally good home for Patacón, and she was miserable at the thought of leaving her beloved cat behind to an uncertain fate. Similarly concerned for Patacón's future, I offered to bring her back to the States.

The problem? My folks already have a houseful of cats, I can't have pets in my current living situation, and I plan to move in with a friend who is deathly allergic to felines. So I put the question to you, Dear Reader: do you, or does anyone you know, want a cat?

How can you resist?

When I first met her, Patacón was significantly smaller and had a bad case of conjunctivitis (a harmless disease of the eye) probably caused by missing out on the antibodies she should have got from her mother's milk. Since then she's grown a truly astonishing amount and is now quite healthy, aside from a few stubborn fleas. She is a friendly, outgoing, playful, and affectionate animal. At this age she loves to play rough, which is cute now because her claws are so small. However, she seems to be growing out of this, so I think she'll be over the rough-and-tumble stage before she's big enough to do any damage. She does this cute little thing where she attacks your ankles as you walk by, then runs away with this sort of sideways crab-like movement.

Basically, she's adorable. Between the two of us Rachele and I will take care of all her shots and getting her neutered, so all you (or your friend, or whoever) need is some food, a box of cat litter, and your love. Interested? Drop me a line! Tell your friends, tell your family! This amazing cat needs and amazing home.

In the Belly

Week 4
Author's note: This post is late because I was dissatisfied with it and kept rewriting it. In the end, I am still dissatisfied with it and am rather embarrassed at how sappy and pointless it is. But I have to post something, so you're stuck with it. I'll try to do better next week. Unfortunately, for the next 15 days we will be without electricity (and thus without Internet) between 2 and 6 in the afternoon. This will not increase the timeliness of my postings.

The second of February marked the Wiccan holiday of Imbolc, also called Oimelc, words which mean “in the belly” and “ewe's milk”, respectively, both referring to the impending birth of the spring lambs. Imbolc stands on the cusp of spring, the tipping point between the long cold of winter and first, tentative stirrings of the new season. It's no coincidence that Groundhog Day shares this date: now is the time for Spring to spring... or slumber on for a few more weeks.

Puerto Lopez

In the story of the Wheel of the Year, which is the story of Earth itself, the Goddess as the Crone of winter is reborn as the tender Maiden of spring. The God, himself reborn a month ago at Yule, is still but an infant, and the focus here is on the Lady in her guise of Brigid, goddess and saint of healing, poetry, and smithcraft.

Here in Ecuador, there is no winter and no spring. So close to the equator, the Wheel of the Year has no meaning. Yet there are still seasons here, albeit only two of them: dry and hot, and wet and hotter. Since I came to Puerto Lopez four weeks ago the rains have arrived, turning the forest from brown and barren to green and lush. Well, lusher. It's hard for a forest full of cacti to do “lush”.

The animals, as well as the plants, have responded to the change in seasons. There are more birds now than there were only a few weeks ago, and some of them appear to be hanging around nests. Birds aren't the only things homemaking: this may be prime turtle-nesting season, but I've also seen a number of enormous insects that look like a cross between a bee and a fly, the length of my hand (no, I am not exaggerating at all; they're huge), burrowing into the trail to La Playita. I assume they're laying eggs in there.

All this green is a sight for sore eyes more accustomed to a place where (to paraphrase Patricia Briggs) it rains only once a year—from January to December. And yet, somehow, the new vegetation makes me homesick, not content. The green is the wrong shade, and the trees are the wrong shape, and somehow it all makes me miss Oregon more than ever.

Me

San Antonio, a fellow volunteer, is from Quito, which is in the same country as Puerto Lopez but otherwise has little in common with this little fishing town. For one thing, Quito is up in the mountains, where it's much cooler and a lot less humid—a lot like Oregon, in fact. The other day we were comparing notes on homesickness and he told me his likes to sleep without a blanket so he'll feel cold when he wakes up in the morning. It reminds him of home, he says.

I know exactly what he's talking about. I miss being cold. I miss being able to put a coat on when it starts to rain without risking heat stroke. Sprawling in a hammock is nice (believe me, it's really nice) but I miss curling up on a couch with a blanket. It's the end of week four, the start of week five—the halfway point of the term—and I'm ready for it to be week ten.

Just as Imbolc is the turning point between winter and spring, week five is the turning point of the term: after this it's all downhill. For most students this means midterms—and I have had one of those—but for me it also means thinking about other kinds of turning points.

Before I left for Ecuador, the Wheel of Fortune showed up in one of my Tarot readings, a card that indicates change, the start of a new cycle... a turning point. December was a turning point for me, when I stuck with my internship plans despite my extremely frosty feet. Now February is another turning point, as I reflect on my internship so far and look forward toward the remainder of my time here.

The beach at Puerto Lopez

So far my internship has been both easier and harder than I expected. The work itself is much easier than I thought it would be—mostly walking or camping on beaches or wandering down to the harbor to count dead sharks. This in and of itself is a little difficult, as it leaves me with lots of free time—sometimes too much. My online class has also been easier than I feared, and aside from occasional Internet glitches computer problems haven't stopped me from doing homework.

On the other hand, day-to-day life, especially communication, has been much harder than anticipated. The language barrier is a huge obstacle; if it weren't for Rachele and Drew I would be completely screwed. Experiencing local culture has not been easier, either. In Puerto Lopez there “structured” activities like theaters or concerts, so without speaking Spanish I have no way to participate in Ecuadorian life.

When you can't understand a word people are saying, just walking out your front door is frightening and challenging. I've gotten better at facing that challenge. I've also gone a long way toward “perfecting patience”—one of the goals I wrote down before I left. I have always thought of myself as a patient person, so it came as a surprise to realize just how impatient I really am, and how much I still have to learn about patience.

Baby Hawksbill

My goals for the rest of my time in Ecuador are few. Mostly I want to improve my Spanish so I can participate more, both in the work at Equilibrio Azul and in everyday life in Puerto Lopez. I want to (finally) get my independent project arranged. I also hope I can stay strong, and not give in to homesickness; the longer I am away from home, the more I miss it, and the more difficult it is to wait for the term to end.

That end is steadily coming closer. Each day brings me a little closer to March 23, a little closer to spring, a little further from winter. Come Ostara, spring will have fully arrived, and I will have arrived back home. As winter is a time for introspection, for learning and growing stronger as a person, so I am learning things about myself and growing, so that when I return to my native soil I can (I hope) blossom into a stronger person.

Ciao, Elisa! Also: La Playita

Week 3
Why is the post so late? Well, the past three days have been incredibly busy. Throw in internet problems and technical difficulties (the reason there are no pictures), and it's been a struggle getting this up. I will put up pictures when I can.

Ciao!

Last week we said goodbye to Elisa, who had to return to her homeland of Italy. Although I only met her three weeks ago, you bond fast in a place like this. On my very first night at Equilibrio Azul we went patrolling together, and I discovered what a sweet and incredibly friendly person she is. I honestly cannot think of a single bad thing to say about Elisa. Between almost dying on La Playita (story to follow, I promise) to diving off the top of Ricky's boat, I feel like I got to know her pretty well in the short time we were together, and it's a shame I didn't get the chance to know her better. I hope that someday we'll cross paths again—es un mundo pequeño, after all. In the mean time, we'll all miss her.

And now (drumroll, please)... La Playita!

La Playita, looking north

La Playita is a stunning beach about 5 minutes south of Puerto Lopez. Because it is an important sea turtle nesting site it is off-limits to the public, but employees and volunteers from Equilibrio Azul patrol it every night, watching for nesting females. When we find one, we measure her, tag her, take a DNA sample from her, and mark the location of her nest. This may sound invasive, but as the turtle lays her eggs she enters a kind of trance and becomes oblivious to everything around her, including annoying humans with sharp bits of metal. I'm not certain they even know we're there.

Driving

My first night at La Playita was my first night at Equilibrio Azul, and my second night in Puerto Lopez. I've already told you how hectic my arrive in town was, and how the ride to La Playita was the moment that convinced me this whole crazy trip was a Good Idea. My introduction to La Playita cemented my resolve, but in many ways my first impressions of the beach were false ones. I spent the night walking barefoot in the sand, wide-eyed and awestruck, like one who stands in the presence of God. And who's to say I didn't? But if La Playita is Divine, she is of the old school, a capricious Olympain who bestows favors with one hand and hands down arbitrary and cruel punishments with the other: the awful Yahweh of Moses, not Jesus' benevolent Lord.

Melodramatic much? Well, maybe. But Nature is the original drama queen, and when the stars are glimmering between the clouds and the waves are crashing before you in the darkness and the trees murmur at your back... it is not very hard to forget civilization and remember that you, too, are Nature. This is not always pleasant, but it always powerful.

Keep out!

In the Willamette Valley, people are everywhere. City gives way to suburbs which gives way to small farms and patchy forest—all dotted with houses and crossed with roads, all lit up with lights and loud with human-noise—until, finally, you leave civilization behind somewhere in the foothills of one mountain range or another. In Ecuador, we left the lights behind at the edge of town: beyond was only darkness cut by the headlights of the occasional car. The pickup dropped us off at the side of the road, where a sign set back into the forest told us the beach was off-limits. We shouldered our gear and hiked right past it.

Our boots thumped loudly on the packed dirt of the trail. Branches and dry leaves pressed and scratched from either side; moths and gnats mobbed our headlamps. I wanted to look around and take in the scenery, but the darkness, the glare of the light, and complicated up and downs of the path forced me watch my feet constantly. The heat was intense; the humidity, oppressive. After the first hill I was panting and sweating and cursing the Nutella I'd had with breakfast. (Okay, I'll be honest: the Nutella I had for breakfast. There was a banana, too, but that was mostly an afterthought.)

On the path to La Playita

The path led us over ups and downs and twists and turns before leveling out and turning abruptly from dirt to sand. The forest backed away, giving ground to beach grass, then vanished completely. We came out onto the beach just as the full moon rose over the hills. I toed off my shows and walked barefoot over the sand. The sand at La Playita is perfect for walking: soft and cool and always slightly damp. La Playita sand is to your feet what silk sheets are to the rest of you.

Camp at La Playita

At the far southern end of the beach we set up our tents in sand little clearing in the forest. There was a lot of rapid talk in Spanish about how we would divide up the watches, some of which I understood, most of which I didn't. It was decided that since I was the only one without any turtle experience someone should do my watch with me. In retrospect this was completely unnecessary, since I could no more have missed a turtle track than I could have missed Godzilla, regardless of how little experience I had—they look like they were left by a small tank. Unnecessary or no, Drew and I wound up pulling a double shift.

I'm not sure if I can describe that night without lapsing into clichéd descriptions that sound like they came out of a bad romance novel—something like, “the moon hung like a glowing coin in the clear night sky, painting the crashing waves with quicksilver and bathing the sand in pearly light. A thousand stars twinkled overhead like diamonds spilled by a careless god. The rhythmic pounding of the surf echoed the....”

I think you see where I'm going there.

Sarcasm aside, it was beautiful. The moon was full, and the sky was perfectly clear, the stars would have been bright as diamonds if the moon wasn't so bright it outshone them. I don't recall there being a balmy tropic breeze, though. Most of what I remember is how bright it was: more like very early morning, just as the sun is thinking about getting out of bed, than like midnight. I also remember how isolated it was. We could not see a single light anywhere—no boats in the water, no houses on the hills, no lighthouses on the points. We might have been the last people on the planet.

There were no turtles that night., but two nights later I was back at La Playita, this time with Ricardo, San Antonio, and Drew again. When we reached our campsite, we found we had company: a turtle was busy laying her eggs among the bushes not five feet from where we would sleep.

Baby turtle headed to the ocean

The turtle was deeply other: there was nothing mammalian about her, nothing familiar for me to easily anthropomorphize. She felt primitive, primeval: a creature older than myself following the drives of a species older than my own. She had returned to the beach where she was born, the beach where all her grandmothers had been born, to produce a new generations, whose daughters would in turn drag themselves up this same beach and lay their own eggs.

This was incredible, Discovery-channel stuff, and here I was getting a front row seat, even touching her. And yet I didn't feel anything special. I didn't think, “OMG turtlz!!” or anything. My thought process was more like, “Oh. Turtle.” If violent movies can desensitize you to pain and death, can nature documentaries desensitize you to wonder?

When she'd finished laying her eggs she filling in her nest and started back out to sea. She was clearly exhausted and kept stopping to rest, blowing out deep sighs of air that made her carapace heave. When she moved it was at a sprint: surprisingly fast, and clearly using all of her effort. She reached the surfline and for a while was visible as a rounded lump among the waves and foam. Then Drew called “Adios, mamasita!” and she was gone.

My next night at La Playita I almost died.

That's actually a bit of an overstatement, but it was damn scary and honestly dangerous. At the either end of the beach the water comes quite close to the cliffs, especially in the north, and there are huge rocks jutting out of the sand. Elisa, San Antonio, and I were doing our preliminary patrol before setting up camp. The tide was coming—or maybe it was going out—at was very high. I was thinking about this blog, and how I wanted to write a post all about La Playita, and how I would explain the beach is very unpredictable—how the tide will be only so high and you'll think your shoes are safe, but the next wave will come up and soak your sneakers without warning.

Just as I thought that a wave came out of nowhere. As it rose around our ankles I thought, Shit, the hem of my capris is going to get wet. But the water kept rising and I started thinking instead, Shit, were gonna die!

The wave came up to my waist and pushed me forward, almost knocking me over. I braced my feet in the sand, trying not to fall down, afraid that if I lost my footing I would be swept away. The water changed direction, sweeping back out to sea, and it almost took me with it. I stumbled and dropped to my knees, but by then the wave was gone.

La Playita, looking south

It had all happened in a few seconds, a few quick seconds full of alarmed shouts and disbelieving cries. We stumbled forward, sputtering, and then a second wave came, almost as high as the first. San Antonio had made it to the rocks and he grabbed my arms to make sure I didn't get swept away. I think Elisa was knocked over. After that we ran for it.

In retrospect it makes for a good story and a good adventure, and at the time it was certainly exhilarating, but it was very frightening, too—and of course we were soaked. I hadn't brought a change of clothes so I wound up borrowing Elisa's shorts—her own legging dried out a lot faster than my jeans—and wearing my raincoat over my bra. We hung up our wet clothes in the branches, but of course it had to rain and I think they were wetter in the morning than when we put them up.

The shelter

Rain is always a bad thing at La Playita. The trail down turns into a sea of sticky red-brown mud that clings to your shoes until you find yourself wearing a sort of mud-shoe—like a snowshoe but way less cool. This is actually something of a good thing, because the mudshoe helps keep you from slipping or sinking. I suppose this is a little like the medieval doctrine of signatures. Equilibrio Azul's tents are old an unreliable, and staying dry during the night is not guaranteed. Plus, while you crammed in a stuffy, hot, damp, smelly tent with two other people, you are always aware of the fact that if the weather would just cooperate, you could sleep outside. (This may change. Part of the reason I'm so late in posting is because today we went out to La Playita and rigged a little shelter that should keep us drier. I'm really excited about this.)

My second turtle had a radio transmitter epoxied to her back. This was a real adventure because we had stop her from returning to the ocean so we could saw it off her with a hacksaw. Needless to say, she didn't appreciate this. Turtles are really strong. You probably did know this. Epoxy is also very strong. This made for a very difficult combination, as San Antonio and I sat on her back or pushed against her shoulders and generally wrestled with her while Luis sawed at her carapace. I think it took about half an hour to get it off her.

La Playita is easily the most beautiful beach I have seen in my life. She is temperamental, true, and there are times when I dread going to see her. But there are times, like when I sit on rock, waiting between shifts, and watch the waves go in and out, that I can't think of anywhere else I would rather be.