Unexpected Visitors

by DrDoyenne 2011

I’ve traveled to and studied many wetlands in remote locations such as Belize, Honduras, Panama, Australia, and Vietnam.  Even in mangrove swamps where saltwater crocodiles roam, I’ve never felt in great danger.  So being in the Okavango Delta where it’s essential to be locked in your quarters at night to avoid being eaten by the wildlife is quite a different experience.

The Okavango Delta is a blue and green oasis in the Middle of the African continent where the Okavango River delivers its waters from Angola to the sands of the Kalahari basin in northern Botswana.  This 55,000 square kilometer complex of permanent swamp, seasonal wetlands, lagoons, and braided rivers is home to the iconic African mammals: elephant, lion, leopard, cheetah, Cape buffalo, and hippopotamus.

The manager of the bush camp fixes us with a serious gaze and says that she must explain the rules of conduct to us.

“You may walk around the camp during the daytime, but never stray from the paths.  At night, you will be escorted by your guide to and from your quarters.  There are no fences to keep out the animals, so they freely pass through the camp.”

She pauses to see if her message is sinking in.  We both nod affirmatively and try to look appropriately alert and receptive to these instructions.

She continues, “Once in your room after dinner, you must not go out for any reason until the next morning when your guide awakens you at five am.”  Yikes, I think, 5 am?

I am also thinking at this point that the chances of encountering any large animals, ones that might be dangerous, seem pretty remote.  We spend hours upon hours riding around in a bush jeep looking for megafauna.  What are the chances that a lion or elephant will come waltzing into camp?

Well, apparently very good.

As we settle into our accommodation for the night, we take stock of our surroundings.  It is a large tent set up on a platform, but the tent frame is constructed of eight-inch diameter poles, and the flooring is comprised of heavy wooden planks—sturdy enough to withstand a modest earthquake.  There are windows on all sides with screens and canvas flaps to lower in case of rain.  An attached toilet and outdoor shower sit on a porch framed in Mopani poles that provide a privacy screen.  A bucket shower is lowered by ropes so that water can be easily added from the faucet; when raised, gravity flow sends the water out of the shower head.  Rustic, practical, and safe.

After putting our belongings away, we retire to the elevated verandah that overlooks the marsh.  At least, it once did. Now, there is a stand of hibiscus bushes and small Mopani trees blocking the view.  It’s quite warm, so I go inside to change into shorts and a sleeveless top.

As I’m standing in the bedroom adjacent to the verandah, I hear branches breaking and leaves falling outside.  I momentarily wonder if the camp has decided to remove the vegetation blocking our view.  Suddenly, a large grey form pushes through the undergrowth and trees right in front of our quarters and heads straight for the verandah.

I say to my husband who is still on the porch sitting in a chair, “Don’t move. Stay perfectly still.”  He doesn’t need much encouragement, as he’s already frozen as still as a Buckingham palace guard. 

Two more elephants appear and move leisurely toward our lodging, which no longer seems so substantial.  One good shove from one of these guys and this place will fold like a house of cards.

I watch the elephants carefully for any signs of aggression, but they seem intent only on eating a particular plant growing in abundance around our cabin.  One of the elephants comes right up to the edge of the verandah, its tusks almost touching the edge of the deck.  It could easily reach out with its trunk and grab my husband’s leg.  I have a flashback to the TV show, “When Animals Attack”, and video of circus elephants who’ve gone berserk and killed their trainers.

There is a strong, musky odor wafting through the screen door. As the elephant contemplates my husband, its ears flap, and I hear its stomach rumbling.  I see my husband ‘s body tensing and pressing as far back into the lounge chair as possible.  The elephant also takes note of me hovering on the other side of the screen door taking photos.  After a few tense moments, he moves around to the side of our tent and proceeds to rub his butt on one of the larger trees.

Just then, a troop of baboons appears in a gap in the bushes to the right of where the elephants entered.  They begin grunting and calling to each other.  There are several adults, juveniles, and a couple of babies clinging to their mother’s backs.  They are apparently following the elephants to extract undigested seeds and other delicacies from the elephant droppings (elephants have a very inefficient digestive system, we are told). 

The presence of the baboons, which have very impressive teeth and are quite capable of jumping onto the porch, galvanizes my spouse to abandon his position and slip inside through the screen door.  One of the other elephants notices and flaps its ears and swings its head in annoyance.

The elephants stay for a few more minutes, then graze their way back into the marsh with the baboon troop trailing close behind.  We look at each other and say, “Wow.”

I don’t think we’ll be star gazing from our verandah tonight.



An Uneasy Truce

by DrDoyenne 2010

It’s a strange feeling to be in a place where you could easily end up in the stomach of a large predator.  People living in urban settings usually have little to fear from local wildlife—other than roaches running amok in the kitchen.  Here in the Okavango Delta in Botswana, however, the list of dangerous animals is long, and the potential for humans and wild animals to cross paths is high.  The locals, both people and wildlife, must know the rules for such encounters to avoid chaos. 

Tourists, with their urban instincts, cannot be trusted to react appropriately in the bush.  So it’s quite ironic that African game parks put tourists in close proximity to dangerous animals—a sort of Russian roulette game in which the potential danger adds to the excitement of observing and photographing the wildlife.

Our guide, Tau, explains, “It’s not so much the animal, but the fact that people inadvertently blunder into an animal’s territory or don’t recognize the signs of aggression.”  Tau is explaining these facts to me as we pole across a lagoon in our mokoro, a type of dugout canoe.  Mokoros were once constructed from tree trunks, but now are made of fiberglass molded to resemble the original craft. 

Statistically, it’s the hippopotamus that is the most dangerous animal.  This water-loving mammal kills more people in Botswana than any other.  And it is a dominant resident in the wetlands of the Okavango Delta where we are touring. 

Tau continues, “See that group of hippos?” He indicates a pod of about twenty animals partially submerged, their heads just visible above the waterline about fifty yards away.  “They have been habituated to the sight of mokoros.  As long as we keep a specific distance, they stay calm.” 

I look at the hippos, which are watching us glide by.  They periodically grunt and splash, submerge and reemerge, always gazing intently at us.  Tau says, “If we happen to move too close, cross that invisible line, then they will possibly charge the boat.  Once we are knocked into the water, we become food for the crocodiles.”  As he says this, he makes the mokoro jiggle a bit, just to drive home the possibility.

The Nile crocodile is also an extremely dangerous animal inhabiting rivers, lagoons, lakes, and even isolated water holes in the Okavango Delta.  Yesterday, we stopped at a small water hole, which is a remnant of the floodwaters that cover the low-lying grasslands of the Okavango Delta during other parts of the year.  Just as I was thinking to myself that this water hole was too small and too shallow for a crocodile to survive, I spotted a scaly head and two eyes.  Judging by the distance from the snout to the eyes I estimated that it was between four and five feet long.  Not huge, but big enough to tear apart a soft-fleshed creature—especially if there are several crocodiles feeding together.

Just as we noticed the crocodile, a large bull elephant appeared on the ridge above the water hole and waded into the water to knee depth.  The crocodile had already submerged and was no longer visible in the muddy water.  The elephant took several drinks, siphoning up muddy water with its trunk. 

Tau pointed and said, “See what he’s doing?  He’s filtering the water with his trunk. The clear water, he sprays into his mouth, and then discards the dirt.”

The crocodile reemerged just a few feet from the elephant.  Suddenly, the elephant began stomping toward the reptile, flapping its ears and splashing water everywhere.  We all froze in case the elephant decided to include us in its obvious irritation at sharing the water hole with others.  Having made its point, the elephant continued thrashing across the water hole like a spoiled child, passing within a few yards of us.  It swung its head to look at us, ears flaring, as if challenging us to object.  But it continued on its way, finally disappearing over the horizon.

As we continue our mokoro trip, I scan the lagoon for crocodiles, but don’t see any.  That does not mean they are absent, just out of sight.  This lagoon is quite large and connected to the river during the flood season; so there are certainly plenty of crocodiles here.  Suddenly, a fish jumps out of the water and bangs against the side of the boat, almost flopping right into the mokoro.  Yep, plenty of food for crocodiles.

I get a completely different feeling from Tau and the staff at Camp #2, compared to Camp #1 where the guide and trackers seemed genuinely interested in our safety and in providing us with a good experience.  At Camp #1, our guide, Baruti, was very cautious and took care to see that not only we, his clients, were safe, but also his trackers.  Whenever a predator such as a lion was spotted, he had the tracker move from his observation seat on the front bumper to a position inside the vehicle.  And he always backed the bush jeep way out of range and sight of the predator during these transfers.

In contrast, the guides at our second camp seemed more cavalier and appeared to follow the rules less out of concern for us than for liability of the safari camp.  We had to sign a waiver, and I got the distinct impression that the instructions were intended mainly to let them off the hook if we got injured or killed.  “I don’t know.  They didn’t follow the guide’s instructions and ran when the elephant charged.”

We’ve been told that some animals such as elephants and lions often make mock charges at humans.  In such an instance, the worst thing you can do is run.  There is no way to outrun these animals, and any quick movement triggers their chase instinct. 

Tau laughs and says, “I tell a tourist to stand still.  Don’t run. They nod and say they understand; but as soon as I turn my head, the tourist is running away.”  He makes a comic pumping motion with his arms, imitating someone running frantically.  “You just can’t trust an inexperienced person to do what you tell them.  Their instinct to run is so great that they forget everything you’ve told them.”

I ponder this point while remembering the advice of our previous guide, Baruti, who went into somewhat greater detail.  He advised us that while the lion, leopard, cheetah, and elephant make mock charges, the Cape buffalo does not.  Faced with a possible mock charge by a lion, for example, you should stand your ground and make eye contact with the animal; then slowly back away to safety.  With a leopard, you should avoid eye contact, which they interpret as a challenge, and then back away.  In the case of a buffalo charge, you may as well start running because he always means business.  You’ll probably die anyway; so whatever you do, right or wrong, won’t matter much.

I’m thinking that this is a lot of information to process in a split second.  Your first thought (if your brain happens to be working) will be that your next move is going to determine whether you live or die or perhaps survive with horrendous injuries.  Was it the leopard that I shouldn’t make eye contact with…or the cheetah?  Talk about pressure.  Who wouldn’t just cut and run?

As our mokoro scrapes to a halt at the shoreline, I step out and walk up the bank, gingerly stepping over the roundish, deep holes in the mud created by the hippos’ feet.  They are still watching us, all their heads turned in our direction.  They’ve followed the rules and allowed us to invade their territory without challenge; we’ve followed the rules and not ventured too close or made any unusual moves. 

We turn and walk slowly back to camp, which is situated on a tree island in the middle of a mosaic of permanent wetlands and seasonally-flooded grasslands.  Tau, with his rifle slung casually over his shoulder, leads us in a single file.  I continually scan the ground and surrounding tall grass for any movement (this is black mamba territory), but only see a bizarre walking-stick insect that is about the size of a pencil and well camouflaged on a branch overhanging the path. 

The sun is high now, and the hot Kalahari sand churned up by jeep tires sifts into my sandals.  Everywhere are hundreds of tiny funnels excavated in the loose sand:  ant lion traps with a patient, voracious predator waiting at the bottom for an unwary insect to tumble into its jaws.  I momentarily consider the scale of the hunting going on around me, from microscopic organisms in the soil to megafauna stalking in the bushes. 

Soon, we are back in the shade of our verandah and ready for a cool glass of juice. 

Casio to the Rescue

by DrDoyenne

It’s embarrassing to admit it, but a number of years ago I got my boat stranded at low tide at my research site: an uninhabited mangrove archipelago off the coast of Belize. As an ecologist working in the marine environment, I should not have gotten caught unawares. These types of mistakes can sometimes have serious consequences, but that’s not the point of this story.

I actually wrote this story to illustrate how important it is to be flexible and creative in dealing with adverse situations. In other words, that there are multiple ways of getting out of a problem situation and to keep an open mind. Of course, one should still try to be prepared for such events—as much as possible.

Lulled into a sense of complacency by the small tide range in Belize (~20 cm), we had tied the boat up in a shallow area. I sent my post-doc, Jill, to check on the boat a couple of times during the day, but neglected explain exactly what she should be checking (I just assumed she knew). She came back each time saying everything was “fine”. However, the gentle waves were gradually pushing the boat higher and higher up onto the little spit of sand at the edge of the site.

When we finished around 4:30 in the afternoon, we discovered that the boat was stuck. The stern was still in the water, but the front half of the boat was resting on the sand. We could rock it side-to-side, but could not budge it when we tried to push it backward into deeper water. Nothing we tried seemed to help. It was just too heavy for the two of us. I was hesitant to call the field station manager at the Smithsonian’s Carrie Bow Cay Laboratory for help because the station was low on gas and oil, and I wanted to avoid wasting fuel by having a rescue party come out to help us push off.

I was pretty sure the tide was at its lowest point (it was lower than I had ever seen it), so we decided to continue working for another hour. I wasn’t worried. We would just wait until the tide turned, and there was enough water to lift the boat. Another hour should do it. Even if we needed to wait two hours—no problem. Even though the sun would be setting soon, there would still be light enough to drive back to the field station.

Big mistake. Either I miscalculated the tides or something unusual was going on, because when we returned at 5:30, the tide was much lower and the boat was completely high and dry. Whereas earlier there was some hope of pushing the boat off with more people, this was not possible now. I knew we wouldn’t be able to get loose until about 9 p.m. or so.

I called the field station and informed the manager of the problem. I suggested we wait another hour to see what the tides were doing. There was no point in sending a rescue party until the boat was at least partially floating. I also said I didn’t mind just waiting until the tide was higher.

You know the saying, “a watched pot never boils”? Well, I have a new one: “a watched tide never rises”. Especially when your boat is stuck and it is getting dark. By 6:30 pm, the tide had not turned. We scrounged for food in our packs. We had a piece of bread left over from lunch, some rice crackers, and some prunes and dates. We glumly chewed on these items as we recalled that empanadas were being served for dinner that evening.

To take our minds off the food and hot showers we were missing, we looked at the stars and planets that were now appearing overhead. We also noticed flashes of lights in the nearby mangroves. Fireflies. Quite a lot of them, flashing silently in the gloom. I thought about the fact that I would never have known about their presence had we not gotten stuck and had to stay until after dark. We next spotted glow worms in the seagrass beds. They give off a greenish phosphorescent glow. The females float on the water surface, spiraling around and around spewing out clouds of luminous green slime that attracts males, who shoot up from the sea grass bed. Upon reaching the female, the male releases sperm and the female eggs in a large burst of bioluminescence. I scooped up a couple in a ziplock bag for another scientist who was studying a related species.

At 7:30, we got a call on the radio from the station manager. He was on his way with several people to try to get our boat free. Failing that, he suggested we should leave the boat and return for it in the morning. After signing off, I said, “I’m not leaving the boat, even if we have to spend the night.” Jill yelped, “What!!” I was perfectly content to stay until the tide came in fully and the moon rose to drive back.

A little while later, we heard a boat zoom past us offshore, heading northeast. It was the rescue party, although we could not see them in the dark. We had no flashlights, so could not signal. I always have a flashlight with me, but I had taken mine out of my pack the previous night and forgotten to return it. The one time I needed it, of course, I didn’t have it.

After the rescue party rounded the northwest point, they called to ask where the hell we were. After some confusion, I managed to get across to them that they had already passed us and needed to head back south. The station manager asked if we had a flashlight or something to signal with. I jokingly said, “Only my wrist-watch.”

However, when I tried the illumination button on my Casio, I discovered that it produced an extremely bright light that was visible for quite a distance. As soon as we heard the boat, I stood in the bow and started flashing my watch light, aiming it in their direction. I felt a little ridiculous at first, then amused--as the similarity to the fireflies and glow worms occurred to me. However, to our amazement, it worked! They saw us from quite a distance away and were able to proceed straight to our position. We were all astounded at how well this watch worked as a signal light. What an amazing feature! I had not realized just how bright it was until then.

With five of us pushing, we were able to free the boat. We drove back slowly across the 2 km stretch of ocean, since the moon had not yet risen. Periodically, the bucket with the bag of glow worms radiated a ghostly green light and illuminated the deck in front of me. Our boat wake also sparkled with phosphorescent animals. We could just make out the faint, tiny glow of lights from the field station on Carrie Bow in the distance.

After a while, we pulled up to the boat mooring and disembarked. Dinner and showers (no longer hot, but we weren’t complaining) were waiting. Later in bed, I thought about all the lonely creatures looking for mates in the vastness of the ocean and pondered the evolutionary selection pressures that must have led to the development of bioluminescence. What better mechanism than a flashing light to advertise your presence in the darkness?

I pressed the illumination button on my watch to check the time and noted that the entire room was lit up by the light it gave off. I chuckled to myself and drifted off to sleep, with the after-image of the watch face floating like a ghost behind my closed eyelids.

My Dinner with Andrea

by DrDoyenne 2010

I hadn’t heard from Andrea since we were in graduate school together more than twenty years ago. So I was surprised to get her email saying that she would be passing through town and wanted to have dinner. I was quite curious about what had happened to her since I last heard that she had dropped out of science and basically disappeared.

I got to the restaurant early and found a table where I could see the door. Just a few minutes after I was seated, Andrea appeared in the entryway. I recognized her immediately. About 5 foot 10, slender, salt and pepper hair cut very short. She was wearing jeans and a black, short-sleeved t-shirt that showed off her well-defined arms.

I waved, and she rushed toward me.

I said, “Andrea, it’s great to see you!”

She smiled her crooked smile and replied, “You, too. How have you been?”

“Fine, just fine. Have a seat.”

When we were both settled, I said, “This is quite a surprise, hearing from you after all these years.”

Andrea’s expression was bemused. She replied, “I’ve kept track of your career, with the help of the internet. I’ve even read some of your recent publications. So I knew you were here at this university and that I would have a bit of time after my meeting to have dinner before I head off again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, I’ve been traveling a lot.”

The server came over just then and asked for our orders. Andrea asked, “What is your fish of the day?”

The server, a twenty-something, glanced at his notes and said, “Chilean Sea Bass.”

Andrea flashed an annoyed look at him, reached into her purse and pulled out a card, somewhat larger than a business card. She looked hard at him and held out the card.

“This is a list of sea fish that are not sustainably harvested and are in danger of being overfished. Chilean Sea Bass, otherwise known as Patagonian Toothfish, as you see, is on that list. Perhaps you could give it to the chef.”

He looked somewhat flustered, but recovered enough to ask, “Well, is there something else you would prefer?”

Andrea replied, “Let me just have a salad…the one with local tomatoes, figs, and feta. Just plain tapwater to drink.”

After the server disappeared into the kitchen, I looked questioningly at Andrea.

She sighed and said, “Actually, that conversation relates to what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-odd years. When I finished my doctorate, I got an assistant professorship, as you know. “

I nodded, but still looked puzzled.

She continued, “Things were OK at first, but there was something missing. I was doing research and publishing, but felt I was not really making a difference. Remember how idealistic we were? We wanted to go out and change things…save the environment? As the years went by, I felt more and more unsatisfied.

“Then I went up for tenure. I had published a few good papers and had gotten some decent grants. But the department members and the chair, all male, had never liked me. I was too out-spoken, I guess, and I never understood that my scientific output had to be outstanding, much more so than the male faculty. I naively thought that if my productivity was equal to the male assistant professors when they got tenure, that I would have no problem.

“Needless to say, I didn’t get tenure.”

I looked at her and murmured, “Yes, I had heard you didn’t make it. But then you seemed to drop off the face of the earth.”

Andrea snorted and said, “Basically, I did. But before I explain, let me ask you something. What do you know about sustainability?”

“Well, sustainability is the current buzzword and a hot topic in some circles. However, I don’t know much about the research on the subject.”

The server brought our drinks, white wine for me, water for Andrea.

She watched the server walk away, then turned to me and said, “You are right that it is a buzzword, but I doubt most people who use it really understand what it means. Or, I should say, they may know, but choose to ignore it because of personal interests.

“Take oceanic fish populations, for example. We know very well, based on both practical experience and scientific study, that when a species is harvested unsustainably, that is, at a faster rate than it reproduces, the stocks will be depleted to a point where recovery becomes unlikely. You can name species after species that are being overfished to the brink of extinction: Orange Roughy, Southern Bluefin Tuna… It’s so unnecessary.”

I nodded and said, “Yes, but isn’t that where sustainable harvesting comes in?”

Andrea gave me a pitying look. “There are huge ships that sail around the world, sweeping areas of the ocean clean of commercially valuable fish, as well as unwanted fish, which are then discarded. Huge numbers of sharks are caught, divested of their fins for ‘shark fin soup’, then dumped back into the sea to die. The people who run these operations don’t care about sustainability, just about immediate profits.

She paused and tapped the table, “Look. Fish produce many young because most don’t make it to a ripe old age. They’re taken by the thousands by natural predators. All the way from juvenile up to adulthood. However, the very oldest, largest individuals, especially females, are the big reproducers. By targeting the largest fish, we remove the important reproducers from the population. If the younger individuals were instead harvested, that approach would match how nature does it. But that’s not how humans fish. Regulations require that fish taken must exceed a certain length, designated for each species. So, the large, fecund individuals are removed, cutting the reproductive output of the population as a whole. It makes no sense.”

Andrea looked at me and said, “I published papers showing all this, but the facts were ignored. Little changed. Look at the bluefin tuna industry. Japan is the biggest consumer. A large bluefin tuna, 500 pounds, can bring $180,000 at market. The larger the tuna, the bigger the price. What incentive is there to go after smaller individuals?”

Just then, the waiter came with our food. We paused in our conversation for a few minutes, each of us taking a few bites and looking at our plates in silent contemplation.

I shook my head. “I had no idea that they were that valuable. But what about aquaculture or mariculture. Doesn’t that take some pressure off the wild populations?”

Andrea's eyes widened, and she looked at me in disbelief. “That’s the worst thing that you could do….promote farming of fish. At least the way it’s practiced in most countries. Here’s why. Let’s use shrimp farming, which is the worst of the worst, as an example. We’re talking about tropical countries here…Thailand, Vietnam, Honduras, just to name a few with huge shrimp farming operations.

“You start out with a natural ecosystem…a coastal wetland, which has extensive mudflats, tidal creeks, and a multitude of marine species that are collected from this system by local people and sold at market. It provides a livelihood and a sustainable food source for hundreds or even thousands of people in a coastal area. These wetlands also serve as nursery grounds for reef fish as well as a number of commercially important species.

“Then some big company comes in and buys up this swampland and converts it to shrimp farms. To do this, they cut down forests, excavate ponds, and build levees or ring dikes around the ponds to hold water. Wild shrimp are plundered from the local waters to stock the ponds. Without nursery areas, many species found in nearby coastal waters also decline.

“Note that it is now only one or a very few people who are benefitting. The diverse organisms that were sustainably harvested by locals from the original ecosystem are gone; only the single farmed species is produced…and these are not available for public harvest. Maybe a few locals are employed, but not nearly the same numbers as were sustained by the original ecosystem.

“At first, the productivity of the ponds is high, and the owner makes a lot of money. But then, within a few years, the diseases strike. White Spot Syndrome, which is caused by a highly lethal and contagious virus, can wipe out an entire shrimp population in a few days. There’s no treatment, at least no really effective treatment, so the infected pond must be eventually abandoned. They move on to another area, cut more coastal forest and destroy another ecosystem. In the meantime, the diseases, which have been incubated in the ponds, escape and affect the wild shrimp, devastating their populations.”

I shook my head. “I had no idea.”

Andrea interrupted me, “Wait, it gets worse. The soils in those coastal forests are often what are referred to as ‘acid-sulfate soils’. When they are mucked around with, drained, excavated…to build the ponds, they go through a chemical reaction that ends with the production of sulfuric acid, which drives the pH of the soil down to as low 1 or 2. And it’s permanent. No way to reverse it except possibly with extensive leaching, and that only dilutes the acid; it doesn’t change the soil chemistry. And nothing, no plants will grow in soils that acidic. These areas look like moonscapes.”

“And they just keep on expanding, moving to a different area, then abandoning it?” I asked.

“Yep.” Andrea said. Some countries, such as Thailand, have destroyed much of their natural coastal wetlands to create shrimp ponds. Other countries are rapidly catching up.

“I was in Honduras recently doing an overflight of the shrimp farms in the Gulf of Fonseca, taking photos, and documenting the amount of mangrove forest that had been converted to ponds. What you see in the air is quite different from what is observable on the ground. If you are just cruising around in a boat, the forest seems intact. However, if you take a bird’s eye view, you see that it’s an illusion. There is only a narrow fringe of forest left along the banks of creeks and rivers. The vast interior forest has been turned into ponds. You just can’t see it from the ground. That’s what I was assessing.

“When we landed at the local airport in Choluteca, there was a truck with several local shrimp farmers, all armed, waiting for us.”

I asked, “What did you do?”

“I told them we were surveying the damage done by the recent hurricane to both the forest and to the shrimp farms. I explained that our information would be used by the government to provide funds to aid in recovery and rebuilding of damaged farms. They bought the story.”

“Then what? “ I asked.

Andrea smiled. “Then we got the hell out of there.”

I asked, “You left Honduras?”

“Yes.” Soon after that incident at the airstrip, the shrimp farmers figured out who I was and what I was really doing. One or more of them put out a contract on my life. $10,000 US to whomever could take me out.”

I gasped, “What? You’re kidding?”

“Nope.” She said. “I heard later from Honduran colleagues that just an hour after I vacated my hotel room, some rough-looking characters, maybe hit men, showed up looking for me. I was very lucky.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “I’m glad you are safe.”

She said, “Well. For a while I am. But what almost happened to me tells you how serious these people are. Not all of them are unscrupulous, of course. Some are legitimate business people. But in some places, it can be dangerous to cross them.”

“Exactly what is it that you do?” I asked.

“I’m a consultant.” She said. “ People hire me to provide expert advice or to do a study. Conservation groups, NGOs, and private individuals. For example, a local group of homeowners in a coastal area of Mexico hired me to do an environmental assessment of the natural coastal habitats in their area that were targeted for conversion to a tourist resort. The developers were claiming that these areas were degraded already, so their plans would only improve things. I conducted a study, which provided locals with data to challenge the claims of the developers.”

“I see.” I said. “You work mainly for people trying to protect the environment?”

She replied, “Usually. I occasionally do a job for a large landowner or corporation. However, I explain to clients that I will report or testify to whatever I find—regardless of whether it is in their favor or not. I don’t twist the facts to satisfy the client.”

The server came over to clear our dishes and to ask about dessert or coffee. We both ordered hot tea, no dessert.

Andrea continued, “I’ve developed a reputation for good, solid work. Some groups have hired me for several jobs over the years and recommend me to others.”

I asked, “Do you have a home base?”

Andrea smiled and said, “No, not really. Some of my jobs take several months. So I’ll rent a furnished house or apartment for a time, then move on. Sometimes I camp, if I’m working in a remote location. In between jobs, I house-sit or boat-sit for regular clients who travel at the same time each year."

The server arrive with our tea. I slowly stirred sugar into my cup and waited for Andrea to continue.

She said, “I also serve periodically as a field station manager for a scientific organization that has a facility on a remote island off the coast of Belize. I don’t get paid anything, but get free room and board. In exchange, I keep the place running and help the visiting scientists with their research on coral reefs, seagrasses, and mangroves.

“I’ve picked up quite a bit of knowledge doing this, which comes in handy when I do my consulting work. I’ve learned new techniques or helped scientists work out a new method. Often they come with equipment that breaks down in the salty environment; or what they had planned just doesn’t work out for some reason—Murphy’s Law, you know. Then we have to figure out another way, using what materials are available at the field station.

“It keeps me on my toes. Do you know that I’ve had new species of fish and insects named after me? The scientists I’ve helped are so grateful to me for my help—or for pointing out the new species to them—that they name it after me: ‘andreii’.”

I said, “My life sounds positively drab next to yours. I teach courses to ungrateful students. I seem to be constantly writing grant proposals to keep my lab going. I no longer am able to do hands-on research because I have to be constantly chasing funds. Then there are the jealous colleagues who write nasty reviews…I think I would prefer armed shrimp farmers. At least I would know who was gunning for me.”

Andrea laughed and said, “Well, things are not always so exciting or rewarding. A lot of the stuff I do is tedious. Not all the scientists or clients I work with are pleasant. In fact, some of them are downright crazy.

“However, I seem to have struck a good balance in which I work when and how much I want. When I get bored with a situation, I find another stint somewhere else. Most of all, I am my own boss. I have only myself to answer to.

“I’ve been carefully saving and investing my money…and have a nice nest-egg. I should be able to retire in a few years. A long time ago, I purchased some land where I’ll eventually build something. In my travels, I’ve gathered a lot of information and practical experience, such as building solar systems and simple systems for catching and storing rainwater. I’m hoping to settle on my land and live as sustainably as I can. I know that’s a bit idealistic, and it won’t be easy. However, I’ll at least try it out for a while.”

I thought a bit and said, “I would worry about illness or old age and when I could no longer care for myself or maintain my home. The type of life you describe is demanding of time and energy—more so than the typical Western lifestyle.”

Andrea replied, “I’ve thought about that, of course. Trying to live off the land can be brutally difficult. I grew up on a farm, so I know it can be a struggle. However, I have enough funds so that I can have modern conveniences and not have to grow all my food. I’ll have choices—to do as much or as little as I want in the way of work.

“Growing old alone is the real issue.

“Everyone is eventually faced with that difficult situation—old age. I’m not married and have no desire to be. I have no children. Having a husband or children, however, doesn’t guarantee you will be taken care of in the end. Your children are probably more likely to put you into a nursing home than to move you into their home. Being alone, I think I’m in a better position to retain control of my life, especially if I’ve taken legal and other precautions. A while ago, I established powers of attorney—both medical and financial—in case I became incapacitated. I’ll have enough money to hire help or in the end to pay for full-time care. And…I’m not without friends. There are several who would come to my aid if need be. But that’s all a long way off. I prefer to take one day at a time.”

I looked at my watch. “I hate to end this, but I need to get home.”

Andrea smiled and said, “No problem. I’ve got a long trip ahead of me tomorrow and should get a good night’s sleep.”

After paying our checks, we both rose and walked to the door. We hugged briefly and promised to keep in touch. Andrea refused my offer of a lift back to her hotel, preferring to walk. I watched her walk away down the street, then out of sight as she turned the corner.

It occurred to me at that moment that Andrea had not asked me about my life, my family, or really anything.

As I drove home, I felt really sad and somewhat depressed. My feelings were partly due to regret that I had lost contact with Andrea all those years and the suspicion that nothing would change, despite our promises. I also felt a little unsettled—about my life and whether I would be happy with what I had accomplished at the end of my career. I sensed that Andrea was not only happy with her choices, but that she seemed to be….fulfilled.

She had not followed the herd and instead struck out on her own. She had forged her own path and made it work for her. I realized that this was a risky choice for her…for anyone...to go against the traditional science path. But it seemed to have worked out for her.

As I pulled into my driveway, I turned off the engine and looked into the kitchen window. My husband was there at the table with our son, probably going over some homework assignment. I felt a sudden rush of relief seeing them, both so intent on their task. Tomorrow, I would go to my office and find everything the same…familiar and routine.

I got out of the car and walked eagerly to the door, already anticipating the warm hugs.

Close Encounters of the Wola Kind

by DrDoyenne 1999

Eddie, a young Belizean fellow, stared at me with an unbelieving look in his eyes and said, “Snakes are no friend of mine.”

I had heard this statement over and over again from Belizeans, who are terrified of all snakes, poisonous and nonpoisonous, alike. They are certainly justified in being cautious around snakes of unknown identity, because Belize is home to an aggressive and very poisonous species, the Fer-de-lance or Tommygoff, as it is sometimes known. This snake reportedly runs down humans and bites them repeatedly. Then, the person dies within a relatively short time, bleeding from eyes, nose, ears, and other orifices as the hemotoxin causes multiple, internal hemorrhages.

I have conducted research on offshore mangrove islands in the Belizean barrier reef system for the past twelve years or so, and often see boa constrictors, which are common in this habitat. Locals refer to them as wolas. These boas are not poisonous and usually are relatively small (less than two meters in length). Thus, they are quite harmless and very beautiful, with intricate markings and a rosy-pink belly. I had come across one lying on the prop root of a red mangrove tree--where it blended perfectly with the grayish, mottled bark. The boa was stretched out to its full length of little over a meter, except for the tip of its tail, which was wrapped delicately around the root. It was blissfully sunning itself in a patch of light filtering through a break in the dense canopy and was perhaps waiting for an unwary crab or lizard to happen by.

I had my video camera with me that day and couldn’t believe my luck at finding a nice boa to photograph. After setting the camera up on the bow of my boat, I carefully approached the snake and picked it up. If you handle snakes gently, they usually will not bite. This one was remarkably complacent, and allowed me to lift it from its perch and carry it toward the camera without a struggle. As the boa gently wrapped itself around my hand and arm, I pointed out various features and described its habits. It was this video that had prompted Eddie’s astonished comment.

I was staying at South Water Caye in what was formerly a convent, but now was a tourist resort. The Smithsonian’s field station at Carrie Bow Cay, the next island south of us, had recently burned to the ground, and I was staying at South Water while conducting my research on mangroves. Eddie, who was in his late teens, worked for the hotel, and like many Belizeans, was essentially unaware of his country’s resources. The hotel’s boat driver, Jose′, was also young, in his early 20’s. I had been joking with these two since arriving several days earlier.

I walked into the kitchen at the hotel where Eddie and Jose′ were chatting with the cooks, Delsie and Annette. I said, “How would you guys like to see a video that I took today at Twin Cays (the site of my mangrove research)?” I usually try to explain what I do to local Belizeans, but it is often difficult for them to understand something that they’ve never seen. Few of them have ever been in a mangrove forest, even though their country has extensive stands. They are usually very curious, but have been told many scary stories about such places.

They all responded with enthusiasm. The cooks, who live in Dangriga, have only been to the islands where they work: South Water Cay and Carrie Bow Cay.

Delsie said, “I sure do want to see what’s over there.” The others nodded their heads vigorously and said, “Yes, yes. Please show us.”

Eddie wanted to be first, so I helped him adjust the earphones and instructed him to look into the viewfinder of the camcorder. I pressed the playback button and sat back. He watched intently, occasionally making surprised grunts. Then he got to the part with the boa. He looked up at the others and said, “She’s found a snake!” Then, “You’re not going to pick it up!” By this time, the others were clamoring for a look, and Eddie was trying to fend them off with one hand while holding the camera to his eye with the other. The short clip ended, and Eddie looked up at me with something close to disbelief in his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to see a wola in person, Eddie?” I asked. This prompted the comment about snakes being no friend of his.

The others took their turns looking at the video clip. Afterwards, Delsie solemnly said, “I would like to see the mangrove forest.”

I responded, “Well, we’ll see how my work goes. I’ll try to find some time to take you all on a tour.” Delsie and Annette both smiled broadly.

Eddie and Jose′, however, looked very apprehensive and said nothing.

Over the next few days, I teased Eddie and Jose′ relentlessly about their fear of snakes. On my way out one morning, I stopped on the pier where the two of them were working on a boat engine and said, “You know, I think you guys should come over to Twin Cays with me and see a boa in person. The video just doesn’t do justice to their beautiful markings.”

Like two rabbits caught in the glare of headlights, Eddie and Jose′ froze, staring up at me with wide, nowhere-to-run, eyes. Abruptly, both of them began babbling about all the work they had to do. Jose’ stammered, “We got to fix this engine and go into Dangriga to pick up some tourists. No time for sightseeing today.”

I laughed and said, “OK. Maybe I should just bring a boa back with me for you to see?”

Eddie and Jose′ exchanged horrified glances and blurted, “Oh, that’s not necessary. You shouldn’t bother yourself. We can see one anytime.”

I chuckled to myself and hopped into the Smithsonian’s boat. Soon, I was skimming over the turquoise water, headed for Twin Cays which was about two kilometers away. About half-way there, I startled an eagle ray that leaped out of the water just in front of the boat. I slowed, hoping I would see it swim under the boat. However, all I saw was a white, sandy area demarcating one of the seismic blasting sites in the lagoon between the reef and Twin Cays. Interestingly, these open areas in the turtlegrass beds have never revegetated.

Another ten minutes, and I pulled into the central channel of Twin Cays. I had about three hours of work to do, and quickly tied my boat up in the area we call “The Lair”, a dead-end channel where I had found the boa. Today, however, the boa was nowhere to be seen. I picked my way carefully through the prop roots to Hidden Lake where our decomposition bags were deployed. After a while, I had collected all the bags and stopped to videotape the dwarf forest in the island’s interior. I carried my samples back to the boat and headed back to South Water Cay for lunch.

Back in my room at the convent, I changed out of my muddy field pants into some shorts, an attempt to look somewhat presentable in the dining room. I joined the current crop of tourists at a large table in a screened-in dining area adjacent to the kitchen and below the row of guest rooms. People from all over the world come to Belize to fish, scuba dive, and visit the tropical forests. This week’s group of tourists included a young couple from Norway, another young couple on their honeymoon from upstate New York, and a group of elderly people from someplace in the Midwest. They were very curious about what I was doing over at Twin Cays. I told them a little about my research in between taking bites of fried jack, baked plantains, and coconut-flavored rice and beans.

I finished my lunch and excused myself from the table. Walking into the kitchen with my empty plate, I said, “Who’s up for a trip to Twin Cays?” Delsie and Annette quickly finished washing the lunch dishes and ran next door to get another cook, Charlotte. The four of us piled into the boat, and I steered the boat away from the dock. I looked back and noticed some of the tourists staring at us from the porch.

As we were cruising through the channel at Twin Cays, I suggested that we try trolling for barracuda. I had brought a hand line and a red Mira-lure, which drives barracuda wild. I instructed Annette to let out the line behind the boat. After only five minutes, a barracuda struck, and my companions started yelling at the top of their lungs. Annette was so flustered that she got tangled up in the line just as she got the fish close to the boat. I reached over, grabbed the line, and swung the fish into the boat.

Delsie crowed, “Those men think they can catch fish, and we can only cook ‘em. But just look at this.” Annette was grinning so hard, I thought her face would crack. This was a big event for them.

We skirted around the periphery of Twin Cays and stopped at the clear-cut site, an area on the northwest side where a local entrepreneur was trying to build a tourist resort. On a peat-based soil, no less. A colleague and I had been studying the effects of this disturbance on the mangrove forest and had established study plots in the cleared forest.

Anyway, the cooks were impressed with the clear-cut area, which had been filled with dredge spoil and planted with coconut palms. Wading in the shallows, they found a starfish, which Delsie wanted to keep as a souvenir. I struggled diplomatically to deter her from killing it. Finally, I said, “Well, it’s going to smell really bad for weeks.”

She reluctantly put it down, muttering, “I guess I’ll return it to the sea.” We next examined the numerous fiddler crabs scampering around the clear-cut area. Delsie stated, “These crabs we call the “bagerabooti”.”

I next suggested that we stage Annette’s fish-landing for the video camera, so they would have proof for the guys back at South Water as to their adventure. They thought this idea was a hoot.

We re-hooked the (by now stiff) barracuda and put it into the water. Annette stood at the stern of the boat while I waded off to the side for a good camera angle. At my signal, Annette began frantically pulling on the line, pretending to wrestle with the fish. Charlotte and Delsie were screaming and laughing so hard, they rolled out of the boat into the water.

We next stopped at Boa Flats to look for boas. This area is a sand spit at the south end of Twin Cays that has a stand of buttonwood trees, in which the boas love to sun themselves. Delsie, Annette, and Charlotte followed me out of the boat and into the sunny grove of trees and palmetto bushes. We circled the area, but when we didn’t spot any boas, the others quickly lost interest and sauntered back to the boat.

I looked more carefully in the spots where we had previously found boas, but to no avail. I had given up and was walking back to the boat when I spotted it. A baby boa, no thicker than a human thumb and about a foot long, was stretched out neatly on a mangrove twig just below eye-level. Its color and markings had so well camouflaged it that we had all actually brushed past it as we were searching. I carefully lifted it from the branch and carried it through the brush.

As I stepped into the clearing in view of the boat, Annette looked up and said, “I told you she didn’t find anything.” Delsie and Charlotte were dreamily looking off at the horizon.

I smiled and held up my hand with the boa. It took about two seconds for Annette to focus on the snake twined tightly around my hand. She yelped, “She’s got a snake in her hand.” Then they all squealed and stampeded to the stern of the boat.

I laughed and said, “Come on; it’s just a baby.” Annette’s curiosity got the best of her, and she slowly came to the bow of the boat.

“Wouldn’t you like to hold it?” I asked.

Annette first tentatively touched the boa’s back and finally took it from my hand, laughing excitedly at the sensation of the coils tightening around her wrist.

“Come on, Delsie,” I said, “ you have to hold it, too.” Delsie clambered to the front of the boat and tried to touch the snake, but was too frightened to actually hold it.

Annette scornfully teased, “Delsie, you’re afraid.” Finally, Delsie touched the snake with Annette holding it.

“OK,” I said. “There’s still someone who hasn’t touched the snake.”

In unison, Delsie and Annette said, “Charlotte, come hold the snake.”

Charlotte, who had been sitting in the stern of the boat, replied, “What? Me hold a living snake?”

We all said, “Just touch it.”

Charlotte reluctantly tapped the boa’s back and said, “It’s dry, not slimy!” She giggled and continued to examine the snake more closely.

I took the boa from Annette and said, “I think we should take it for a ride to South Water Caye so Eddie and Jose′ can see it.” They all hooted with laughter at this suggestion.

“How you going to carry it?” asked Delsie.

I grinned and unzipped my waist pack. The boa slithered inside and wrapped itself around my wallet and passport. I said, “Maybe I should keep a snake in here all the time to deter pickpockets.” Everyone thought this was hilarious.

We motored back to South Water, and as we pulled up to the dock, I said, “Let’s keep the boa a secret for the moment. I’m going to prepare something for Eddie and Jose′ before we tell them.” Everyone agreed.

I dashed to my room and pulled out a garbage bag from my supplies and filled the bottom with some of my decomposition bags, enough to make an impressive bulge. I tied the top of the bag and carried it downstairs to the dining room. Most of the tourists were assembled around the table having a drink. Eddie was lounging in the doorway to the kitchen.

I casually unsnapped my waistpack and set it on the table. Then I turned and carried the garbage bag to the far wall, depositing it on the floor next to the front door. I glanced over at Eddie.

“What you got there?” he asked.

I just grinned wickedly. Never have I seen anyone disappear so fast. About one second later, I heard the kitchen door slam. Delsie and Annette were laughing hysterically by the time I got to the doorway. “He jus’ about punched a hole in the screen door tryin’ to get out,” Delsie croaked.

I walked back into the dining room. I had all the tourists’ attention by this point. So I slowly went over to the Igloo and poured a glass of punch. All eyes watched as I walked over to the garbage bag and touched it with my foot. I then turned, strode to the table, and sat down. They all started talking at once, demanding to know what was in the bag that Eddie was so afraid of.

I replied, “I brought back a boa constrictor from Twin Cays. I thought everyone would be interested in seeing something from the mangroves”.” This announcement was met with great interest. I explained that I particularly wanted Eddie and Jose′ to see my find, and that everyone would have to wait until those two came back.

We didn’t have to wait long. Eddie’s head appeared through the screen of the front door. He had brought a friend from next door. Eyes riveted to the bag on the floor, they slowly sidled into the dining room.

I noticed Jose′ had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, but he didn’t move any farther into the room. Delsie and Annette were watching from the kitchen also. Some of the tourists were standing by now, craning their necks for a better view of the impending scene.

“Is there a really snake in there?” Eddie’s friend asked.

I said, “Take a look and see for yourself.”

Eddie muttered, “There’s nothing in that bag. She’s just pulling our leg.”

Eddie’s friend moved closer to the bag and said, “It’s just some laundry she’s stuck in a bag.” He gingerly touched the bag with his foot. “It’s not moving.”

Eddie, emboldened by his friend’s actions, sucked in his breath and walked right up to the bag. He pulled the tie off and opened the top. Peering inside, he said, “No snake.”

Walking toward my waistpack sitting on the dining table, I said, “No, it’s not in there; it’s in here. I swiftly unzipped the waistpack and pulled out the boa. All the tourists gasped. Eddie, his friend, and Jose′ all ran for cover.

As the tourists oohed and aahed over the baby boa, Eddie and his buddy came back inside and slowly approached the table. The Norwegian couple carefully held the boa, clearly fascinated with it. The honeymoon couple ran to get their video camera.

Eddie’s friend announced, “Let’s kill it!”

Everyone immediately started chiding him for this suggestion. The Norwegian woman said, “Oh, how could you want to harm something so beautiful? It is not harming you.” She protectively held the snake closer to her chest.

I gave a little speech about how snakes keep populations of mice, rats, and unwanted insects down. I also pointed out that only a fraction of snakes are poisonous, and even those won’t bother you unless you mess with them. My Belizean audience looked skeptical, but the tourists were all nodding their heads. I said, “Just never try to handle a snake unless you know exactly what kind it is. It’s best to admire them from a distance. If you see one, just let it go on its way. It is not interested in bothering you and just wants to get out of your way as quickly as possible. Even one that seems to be coming toward you may just be confused. It is not really chasing you. If you get bitten accidentally, stay calm and get medical help immediately.”

After much coaching by me and the tourists, Eddy and Jose′ finally held the boa, but with great trepidation. Eddie’s friend stopped insisting that we kill the baby boa. He asked, “If we let one loose here on Water Cay, would it keep the rats away?” I thought this was a major breakthrough.

I explained, “Well, there are other kinds of snakes (nonpoisonous) that would be better here on Water Cay. The boas are adapted to the mangrove forest. Besides, most of the people here are not as enlightened as you and might kill it if they saw one.”

Later, I sat in the kitchen with Delsie, Annette, Jose′, and Eddie. They were recounting the evening’s events, teasing each other about their reactions to the snake. Eddie asked when I would return the boa to Twin Cays. So I just couldn’t resist one last dig.

I looked at Eddie and said, “Well, probably early tomorrow morning. Later, I’ll bring back a full-sized boa for you to handle. The baby one was just for practice.” Eyes rolled. They were beginning to catch on.

I took the baby boa back to Twin Cays the next day and replaced it on the branch where I had found it. I had convinced Eddie and Jose to go over to the mangroves with me, but time ran out before I could take them.

Maybe next time….

Reincarnated Swiss Army Knife

by Maharani of Lodi, 1985


My Indian friends in Bharatpur explained to me that Hindus believe that after you die, Darm Raj drags your dead body off to the judgment place. Excluding a few saints, we sinners all have at least one or two things to account for and this is the story of one thing that is certain to come up on my judgment day.

One of the last of our ten field assistants hired, Mahindra or Mr. Mantu as I called him, and I were busily walking vegetation transects one January day. The weather was cold and so was the water. The vegetation surveys were big work and required walking through kilometers of waist or even chin deep water and rooted floating grasses. We were in B Block that day, on the home stretch of the last transect and the last quadrat between ourselves and lunch.

This work required an amount of paraphernalia, a one meter square quadrat frame, thermometer, meter stick, compass, clipboard, pencil, data sheets, and knife. A chronic problem is that something gets left behind at the last place sampled and one must retrace difficult steps back to the last sample site.

At the very last quadrat, I carelessly leaned over with the pencil pouch of my backpack open. Out of my backpack, like a freed trout, slipped my Swiss army knife into the meter deep water and grasses. I had had this same knife for more than ten years. Mahindra and I searched despondently with our feet for my knife for about 1/2 hour.

My knife was famous for several reasons. First of all, it was a knife that belonged to a woman. This was an unfamiliar idea to our workers. Also, Swiss army knives are pretty compared to other types of knives so they referred to my knife as the "female knife". They didn't consider it to be a bonafide knife but rather, a curiosity.

Ashok taught me to open the knife with one hand. In order to be a "danger man" you had to be able to do this. You first open the blade slightly while abruptly flicking your wrist outward. After months of practice, I was able to flick open the knife blade without having the knife dangerously bounce off the wall. Of course, you must grasp the knife firmly, which is hard to do as you are opening the blade with your thumb. Dick mastered this art immediately or maybe he already knew how as the cowboy from North Dakota. My Indian friends regretted teaching me the art of "danger knife", as they did not find it an appropriate female activity.

Dick and I made a trip to south India where I felt I needed to know the art of "danger knife". We were being carried into the jungle via autorickshaw on our way to a remote place called Auroville. The only reason I could think of that the autorickshaw man and his friend would take Dick and I and our luggage through jungle ravines on an autorickshaw was to kill us and to steal our belongings. I surreptitiously retrieved my Swiss army knife from my backpack pencil case, and concealed it in my hand. I knew what to do.

When the rickshaw driver stopped the rickshaw in the thick of the jungle, I grasped the knife until my knuckles turned white. Instead of jumping on us like in the movies, the rickshaw driver moved to the back of the rickshaw and removed the luggage. "That will be 50 rupees," he said. I looked up and saw through the jungle trees that we were parked in front of a house in the middle of the jungle. We had arrived in Auroville. Dick handed the autorickshaw driver his money and we walked to the house.

Feeling foolish, I opened my hand and showed Dick my knife. "I thought that they were going to kill us," I said with gulped laughter. Dick opened his hand and showed me his concealed knife. "I thought so too", he said.

Mahindra and I looked hard for the lost knife, searching diligently with the toes of our sneakers. As lunch loomed large in our stomachs, Mahindra suggested, "Mama can find this knife easily. Tell him to look for the knife after lunch."

In my favor, I at least hesitated at the suggestion. We all had exaggerated estimations of Mama's skills. Things that seemed hard for the rest of use Mama did with ease. I agreed. Mama would be able to find the knife more easily than we could. We marked the approximate location of the lost knife with pulled grasses and went to lunch.

I should explain about Mama. He is one of the least presupposing people on earth. I could have Mama do any job, which he would do with great care and without any complaint. He built all of my special equipment such as the goose platforms and goose hide. Mama was assigned the job of measuring plant lengths, which had to be done very carefully. I had him monitor goose behavior by watching them through the spotting scope. My advisor referred to goose behavior studies as "head bobbing experiments".

Mama was a farmer and a good one. He had more land than most of the other employees and he tended it very carefully. When I visited his house, his aged mother touched my feet. I told Mama, "Tell her that she shouldn't touch my feet. I should touch her feet."

When I told Mama to find my knife after lunch near the marked spot, he dutifully agreed. He left on his bicycle and I did some warm dry lab work. After a few hours, I asked, "Where is Mama?"

Mahendra said, "Looking for your knife."

To find the knife, Mama had held his nose and searched under the water in the fungus infected swamp water. He found it only after searching for several hours under the water. Mama returned with the knife and said without any trace of anger, "Here is your knife."

My knife became a badge of shame. I felt guilty every time I used it. Back in the States, I lost it one day when I had to extricate a slide from a slide tray with the screwdriver implement of the knife. I unceremoniously left the knife in the presentation room and it disappeared. Its current owner may now be beset with a curse similar to that of the Hope Diamond.

To me, Swiss army knives are like dismembered beings in horror movies. You see them everywhere, they all look the same, and even knives with the smallest portion of implements are alive. For me, they all invoke guilt. I bought a new one exactly like the old one.

When I went back to visit my friends after being away for 3 years, I produced my new Swiss army knife to cut a string. Laxmi said, "There is that knife that Mama found for you. You still have it."

"Yes," I said. "I will always have it."

Desynchronosis

by DrDoyenne 2010

….is otherwise known as jet lag. I just completed a long, international trip and am suffering from this annoying affliction, which is usually not a big problem for me. But for some reason, this trip really threw me for a loop.

As a scientist, I travel to faraway places frequently.  Sometimes for field work, other times for international conferences.  Jet lag is a problem when you need to arrive alert and ready to work.

I’ve searched in vain for a way to fool my internal clock into thinking that I’ve not crossed several time zones and that instead of yesterday at 10 pm it’s really today at 8 am. I’ve tried diet, meditation, and drugs with varying success.

On the internet, you can find various remedies, including mysterious homeopathic tablets. Yeah, right. Do they really think that I’m going to order some pills with unknown ingredients and that have not been approved by the FDA from a website called Pharmaceuticals R Us? On second thought, if they prevent jet lag, I might be tempted--even if they later cause cancer of the big toe (I can do without one or both).

These herbal supplements remind me of a time years ago when I was flying on China Airlines in what was clearly an ancient jet they had purchased from the Soviet Union (the message on the tray table about fastening your seatbelts was written in Russian). Instead of peanuts, the flight attendants passed out pills. I had seen a lot of things on flights, but this unusual handout startled even me.

I accepted the package of pills out of sheer curiosity. And who knows? They might even work for jet lag. The pills were separately enclosed in see-through plastic tabs glued to a cardboard backing. On the back was writing in both Chinese and English. Presumably, both described the same thing, but I had no way of knowing.

I was quite amazed to read the list of ailments that these little pills could cure:

Gastrointestinal distress

Worms

Female problems (all of them or just gynecological, I wondered?)

Migraine

Schizophrenia

Insomnia

Allergies

Cold sores

Bad breath

Cirrhosis of liver

Gas (I guess this wasn’t considered to be distressful enough to include in #1)

Consumption (that’s tuberculosis, in case you didn’t know)

and

Gunshot wound (Were you supposed to ingest the pill or sprinkle the ingredients in the wound? It didn’t say.)

I had suffered from several of these ailments at one time or another in my life (except for the gunshot wound and a couple of others), so I carefully scrutinized the gelatin capsules filled with an off-white powder and random dark specks.

My traveling companion was eyeing me suspiciously by then and finally said, “You’re not actually thinking about taking one of those, are you?”

I sheepishly said, “No. I just didn’t want to be impolite by not accepting them.”

In any case, jet lag was not listed.

Getting into the sun upon arrival, and never, ever going to sleep until the new bedtime rolls around are helpful in speeding the time adjustment. I’ve tried melatonin, but the jury’s still out on that one (and I’m not sure where the FDA stands on this). Diet and meditation don’t really work (for jet lag) in my experience, but they won’t hurt you, either.

There are drugs that do help with jet lag, and these are readily available from your local drug dealer—aka, your primary care physician. I’m talking about sleeping pills—Ambien, Lunesta, Siesta (OK. The last one I made up, but would be a good name, I think). These little gems also help you deal with the egregious conditions in economy class.

In the old days, airlines were not so concerned with filling up international flights, and you could often have an entire row to yourself to stretch out and sleep for the entire fifteen-hour flight. You could even get away with sleeping on the floor. Now, it’s rare to see a single empty seat, and everyone is crammed so tight that even with your seatbelt unfastened, severe air turbulence wouldn’t dislodge you.

Occasionally, I’m lucky enough to have an empty seat or two between me and the next person. However, the last time that happened, the elderly woman sitting in my row (who did not speak English and did not appear to be aware of airplane etiquette) spent the entire flight with her feet in my lap. I tried to indicate to her through pantomime that this arrangement was not mutually beneficial, but she just grinned and nodded at me enthusiastically. We eventually reached a sort of compromise. I would push her feet away, and she would gradually sneak them back onto my lap when I dozed.

This was the same flight that sat on the tarmac for seven hours prior to a sixteen hour flight to Tokyo or Shanghai (I forget which). I knew we were in trouble when the original flight crew disappeared five hours into this hiatus. Apparently, we exceeded their allowed flight time, and the airline had to send for a replacement crew. They weren’t concerned about exceeding the passengers’ endurance, apparently. You may have heard about these infamous flights, which made the major news shows and eventually led to rules prohibiting airlines from keeping passengers hostage. Someone finally had pity on us and brought on board a bunch of Burger King Whoppers, which they literally threw at us like they were feeding a pack of wild animals (which I guess we were by then).  I don’t know what the people who had pre-ordered special meals got. I eventually got to my destination, but you can imagine the condition I was in.

Anyway, it is in such circumstances where being unconscious is a plus. This is where a good sleeping pill comes in. However, if you’ve never taken one before, beware. Be sure you are sitting down (in your assigned seat, not the toilet), have emptied your bladder, and put away all breakable objects. The first time I took one was on a flight to New Zealand with about 100 thirteen-year-old exchange students (not mine). I remember pushing my seat back and dropping my napkin onto my dinner tray about five minutes after downing the pill. The next thing I knew we were landing twelve hours later in Auckland; my dinner tray had not only been removed at some point, but according to the person next to me, I had been served a mid-flight snack and breakfast. I was afraid to ask if I ate it.

Needless to say, these sleeping pills are great. You are blissfully unaware of all the indignities being heaped upon you in economy class. You don’t care if the entire row puts their feet in your lap. With my first sleeping pill experience, they could have done brain surgery on me and I wouldn’t have known it.

Of course, the best way to reduce jet lag and various indignities is to fly business or first class. Unfortunately, the upgrades we used to score occasionally have gone the way of the Dodo. You now need about a million frequent flyer miles even to get on the upgrade list.

I’ll put in a plug here for Air New Zealand, which has really comfy economy seats with a lot more legroom than your usual carrier; individual, sizable TV screens and huge choice of entertainment; and a number of useful webbed pouches in the adjacent seatback for water bottles, books, laptop, etc. Overhead compartments are actually built to accommodate roller bags. No seat is more than one seat away from an aisle. All in all, very well designed—for the passenger’s comfort.

Unfortunately, my most recent flight on ANZ was only four hours long and then it was back to the sardine can on another airline for a fifteen hour flight. I was spoiled. As I sat in coach, I kept thinking about that Seinfeld episode in which Elaine tries to sneak into first class. Just as she settles back into her seat and sighs, the first class flight attendant comes over frowning---and it’s back to economy. In the meantime, she’s missed the meal service in both sections (No soup for YOU!).

Hmmm. Maybe they wouldn’t notice me in business class? What’s the worst they could they do, kick me out over the Indian Ocean?

Oh, well. I came to my senses, downed my Ambien CR, and aimed my feet at my neighbor’s lap.

So, I’m still searching for the perfect jet lag remedy. If you’ve got one, I’d like to hear about it (and no, an alcoholic hangover on top of jet lag is not one I’m interested in).

I’ll also accept donations so that I can buy a first-class ticket on my next flight.