Moving on...

This may be a bit premature (not to mention tempting fate) but at the moment - I feel pretty good about everything! It struck me the other day that there's a lot of baggage I used to have that I feel completely over. Of course everyone has issues. Things that happened at school that still affect you years later. Critisisms that make you explode at people. Topics that you never let yourself think about because it's too painful. But now...I can let my memories drift happily and it all feels fine. Maybe I'm delusional; I'm suspicious that confident well-adjusted people may be a Disney invention just like true love and happily-ever-afters.

However, despite my reservations, I would just like to say to all me ex-issues: I am like soo over you!

Secondary school, people dying, not being great at singing, temporarily losing a brother, being permenantly boyfriendless, not getting a first, having to leave my friends in Cambridge, having a tough time on the island, not knowing what the hell I'm supposed to be doing with my life....
...OVER YOU!
OK, well maybe not so much the last one. ¬_¬

Anyway, being able to say these things is great. Like I said, everyone has issues, but why don't you take a moment to think about those things that don't bother you anymore. Make a list. Laugh at them and call them names. Then give yourself a pat on the back and a chocolate biscuit. If you like you may also give me a chocolate biscuit.

Here's to moving on!

Off the island.

There was more that happened in the last few days but there was never time to write in the rush of leaving. One of the best parts of the whole two months was the trip to Santa Clara on Franco and Richard’s boat. It’s just next to Robinson Crusoe, round the back where the airstrip is – inhabited by seals and sea-birds. We found a pink-footed shear water nested under the single park-owned hut, and disturbed numerous crabs and a whole colony of fur-seals while making our way up the cliff. Getting onto the island was an adventure in itself – as in South Africa it was a case of steering the boat as close as possible to the treacherous rocks and leaping off when the sea brought the boat up to the level of the rocks. This time there was the added fun of still feeling sea-sick while doing it and then having to form a chain to get our piles and piles of bags safely off the boat and far enough away from the waves and rock-pools not to get wet. Then there was edging round some cliffs clinging on with our hands while trying to carry large bags, then trying to avoid the occasional huge waves and slippery algae over the flat rocks (most of us failing on both counts), then we (mainly Libby) molested some marine mammals in order to get past them, and finally all our things were carried up the cliff to the grassy plateau where the house was.

Due to most of us failing to keep our feet dry, our hiking boots were piled up in a wall above the newly built fire to fry them. Cooking began as things were unpacked, as did drinking. Unlike the rest of them I am unable to develop any sort of fondess for beer – but the guys had thoughtfully brought along some yummy vodka and orange. I generally blame Franco for giving me more of it than I might otherwise have consumed, all before the lentil dinner was ready. I then spent some time ranting at Franco in very bad Spanish about how beautiful the stars were. And they were – ours were the only lights for miles around – we were in the middle of the ocean with the entire milky way spread out above us! Libby and Richard went off to play with some very expensive night-vision binoculars (for the nocturnal shearwaters that occasionally flew over head making creepy noises) and I waved my socks in front of the dying fire.

When it got late and people were starting to bagsy bunks in the house (apart from the guys who kept getting up to shine a torch at the boat far below and worry about how much water it was taking in) I left my hiking boots on the edge of the now gently glowing cinders and crawled into my sleeping bag and onto a plastic foam mattress. Some time later someone helpfully decided to put more wood on the fire. Going outside Erin was greeted by the sight of meter high flames shooting out from my slowly melting left boot. She bravely kicked it out of the fire while Franco stood in the door way and told me cheerfully (as far as I could understand it) “your shoes are dead!” My shoe was indeed somewhat dead.

By bashing the deformed plastic I was able to squeeze my foot inside and hobble back to the boat. And then all the way back up the hill once we got back to town. The next day’s trip to Rabenaal required the borrowing of Franco’s rather large boots and wearing almost all the pairs of socks I owned. It was just lucky that the great boot melting only occurred near the end of my trip, since shoe shops are not abundant on Robinson Crusoe. On the morning I left I dropped the boots into the large metal bin on the side of the street.

Almost two months after arriving I one again climbed aboard the small plane and headed for the mainland along with Erin and about 20 boxes of live lobsters. Spiny lobster fishing is the main occupation of the islanders and us gringas had been lucky enough to be treated to a lovely lobster soup the night before courtesy of Franco and Richard. As we flew back to Santiago the lobsters probably increased in value by the mile. Needless to say I did not choose to purchase a lobster dinner while in the city. Instead I stayed at a youth hostel and found a market for cheap clothes shopping!

The end of the story for anyone who hasn’t noticed my sudden reappearance is that I’m back in England – just in time for another winter. J But in the mean time there’s blackberries and pumpkins and dew dripping cobwebs in the sun. And here there’s the internet and hot water, tv watching and driving lessons, my mum’s cooking (and my dad’s ain’t bad either) and my brother’s AS work, telephone conversations, familiar faces at parties and a houseful of friends.

I’d now rant about how wonderful my friends are but I don’t want to make them big-headed. So maybe I shall occasionally keep you updated about my life, or give you some interesting things I have written, but I make no promises. All adventures from now on are likely to be of the more mundane variety.

One more short section that I wrote in the last two weeks before leaving the island – once again away from work and back to how beautiful it is – and I think that’s what I ought to remember.

1^st October, continued.

The best part of all the work here and even (or especially) after all the painful hours of hiking up slippery hills, are the beautiful views. From every clear space you can see the sea – sometimes blue, sometimes dark grey, and from town, or from high enough, you can see all the small fishing boats anchored in the bay. I remember one scene I never took a picture of – the little boats silhouetted black against the reflection of the full moon in the water.

The other day, Kelly and I were returning from counting eucalyptus flowers, walking along an uninspiring red dirt road leading towards the town dump, when I saw white spray sparkling in the sun out to sea. Then there was a half-familiar spurt of white mist. “Look!” I exclaimed to Kelly as I fumbled in my backpack for my binoculars, while responding to her complete confusion by repeating “There! There!” in an unhelpful manner while pointing towards to the now flat blue sea. Suddenly it seemed as though, far away, a great white fish had leapt out of the water; somehow I wasn’t sure if I had imagined it. The second time the whale breached we both had our binoculars pointed at the right spot – it leapt completely out of the water – its glistening white belly turned towards us with a glimpse of its grey sides. Then to one side appeared a dark dorsal fin, so small that it almost looked like a dolphin’s. For ten minutes we sat in the dirt on the hillside watching and we caught splashes of tail and fin and blow-spouts and three more times glorious breaches. Kelly tentatively identified it as a humpback – a mother and child said one of the fishermen when we asked later. The splashes stopped and I was able to drag myself away just in time to run up to Plazoleta for an afternoon behaviour session – but it was so beautiful I wanted to stare at the sea all day in the hope of seeing it again.

The mountains, like the sea, are constantly changing in the light. My favourite times are when the tops disappear and you can see the clouds pouring down and swirling in the valley. There are times when you go into the forest at Rabenaal with a view of sun-lit hills, a sparkling sea and the buildings and boats of the town visible in the next valley. Then when you come out onto the cliff again the whole world has disappeared and all you can see is a narrow path floating in a great white space. Of course this means rain and dangerously slippery mud path on the way down, but it stills feels thrilling to be in a cloud – I wish it was solid so that we could swim home through the sky.

I love the forest at Rabenaal – it’s an hour and a half walk into next valley, far enough away from town to feel like you’re the only people for miles. From the ridge above, the Luma trees are a beautiful patchwork of colours from greens to reds. Under the canopy is a dark cool space stretching into the distance, carpeted brown with fallen leaves; The ground is smooth so you can run through the tree trunks, and there is such silence – all the wind and sounds of people and birds and all the sky and sea and sun blocked from entering. It feels like a great empty room, but endless and unexplored – just for you. It always makes me want to run. I always want to run when I am happy.

Have you ever tried counting the flowers on a Eucalyptus tree?

So, I promised you details about work...*sigh*...ok then – I’ll give you the brief run down

The Juan Fernandez Archipelago is the pointy top part of a volcanic mountain chain – on the cliffs from a boat you can see the stratifications as layers of lava were layed down and numerous conduits/pipes that cut straight up through the hills. Since the islands have always been completely isolated numerous unique species have evolved here that are found nowhere else in the world – including the Juan Fernandez Firecrown, the hummingbird which is the focus of the study. Since people have discovered the island they have introduced numerous species which compete with native vegetation (such as Maqui and bramble), contribute to soil erosion (grazing animals including wild goats and rabbits) and animals that directly harm native birds (cats, rats and coatis). People have also driven a native tree, the Sophora, nearly to extinction due to logging. The trees that now survive are those that were to twisted or innaccessible to be useful, and it takes several hours walking from town to find them. When they are in bloom the hummingbirds flock to the multitude of yellow flowers for nectar so that standing by the tree trunk is like being in a golden aviary. The only nearly terrestrial vertebrates native to the islands other than birds are an endemic species of fur seal – these were hunted for their meat and at one point considered extinct before an isolated population was discovered. The seals are now thriving and a few of them can usually be seen with their flippers raised out of the water, messing about near the shore in front of the town.

The other species of hummingbird on the island – the continental species which is probably the sister-species of the endemic – appears to have made it to the archipelago alone in the last couple of hundred years. Much of our work also applies to these birds and part of the aim of the study is to examine possible competative interactions and to determine whether the vegetation changes caused by humans may be of benefit to the continental species over the endemic. Behavioural observations of birds that enter specified areas during half hour periods will help determine possible differences in feeding strategy, energy budgets, and preffered food sources between the larger endemic and smaller contintal firecrowns. Aggressive interactions between birds are also noted. Ok, so now I sound like a journal article – jeez. Maybe it’s better to say: we sit around in the cold, someimtes in mud, and watch the pretty birdies. :-) Mud problems are solved by the use of waterproof trousers which are an awesome invention – like clothes you can get as dirty if you want and don’t have to wash! The cold is countered by numerous layers – although after hiking up a steep hill, the bottom layer usually stays horribly damp which doesn’t help. The birdies really are very pretty though. The endemic males are the biggest – completely brick red with darker almost-black on the edges of their wings, and when they face you head on a flash of irridescent gold or red on their forehead which gives them their name. The Green-Backed Firecrown males also posses this red crest but apart from this they are small and inconspicuous – dull green fading to grey underneath – much better camouflaged from a history of having to cope with predators. The endemic females are my favourite though –they are irridescent emerald green on top, and bright white underneath and on the edges of their tails when they fan them out. When sitting in a forest clearing you often hear the buzz of the female’s wings before spotting them doing crazy acrobatics in the air while feeidng on insects.

These humminbirds feed on both nectar and insects – and so we research both of these food sources. We count flowers on trees, determine nectar production, and trap and sort insects from various locations. Other work includes measuring trees and finding, measuring and regularly checking nests of both species.

There we go then – blah blah blah. I think next post I’ll go back to how pretty everything is.

1st October - and not a fresher in sight.

When I heard Kelly get up this morning it was already light and the cockrels were making their usual racket, however since I knew that Kelly and Libby were going off earlier to do behavioural observations I managed to ignore it all. I dreamt about whether I should be getting up interspersed with ‘cock-a-doodle-doos’ and the need to itch my flea bites. As people who have ever lived in a room next to me will know, I have a very loud cockerel alarm clock that was a present when I went to Uni to ‘remind me of home’. I now have a super-sensitivity to crowing noises in the early morning leading me to jerk awake in a panic several times before sunrise each day. Why can’t somone tell those bloody birds that they’re only supposed to crow when it’s time to get up, and while you’re at it how about persuading them not to do it right outside my window. Grrr.

Eventually Erin stuck her head in the door – “Erm, I didn’t know if you...” – I sat up and looked at my watch: It was 07:55 – five minutes before we were supposed to be leaving. I half stood trying to leap out of my sleeping bag and crashed into the celiling. Bunk-beds. I sat down again and wriggled. I have always prided myself on the fact that I once woke up at 8.55am in my first year and still made it to a 9 o’clock lecutre before it had started (this is where living really really close to your department comes in handy). So I launched into my usual super-speed get-ready which involves eliminating all unnecessary hygeine and tidiness. Erin told me that it was ok, I had time for breakfast so I grabbed the instant oats, sugar, milk, the coffee and the thermos of hot water. In a moment of inspiration I decided to combine all of these in a bowl. I mean, you know porridge? And you know coffee? Is there really any need for two separate items? Turns out yeah, there is.

When Chupa arrived I managed to say “Sorry – I to sleep” in beautiful Spanish which seemed to confuse him. He and Erin left and I grabbed my things and followed them out the door around ten minutes later. Due to the fact that they both walk ridiculously fast this meant I would not reach Plazoleta until at least 20 minutes after them, but luckily this didn’t matter so much for the nest-measuring we were doing. I located them in the forest just in time to help pull Chupa up a tree so all was well. I want to describe to you what it’s like here so I think I’ll start with the walk up to Plazoleta – it’s not the most beautiful one we do but we do it a hell of a lot. I’m proud to say though that it now takes me less time than when I started (or at least it seems shorter to me)!

So, let’s start out on our porch: raised wooden slats for kicking dirty boots against – and from there hard reddish mud in every direction (including under the porch and under the house where we hang our washing). So I go out the door and climb up onto the wider smoother area of earth that constitutes a lane, past numerous chickens (grrrr), a dog, and a couple more raised wooden houses on either side until I run out of road. I pick my way up and down between abandonded planks and small pine trees through a sort of in-between town area of nothingness until I come out onto another path. This one has stones and everything! On my left is a loud but invisible narrow mountain stream and beyond that a Eucalyptus-covered hill. Occasionally I may have to step over a rope tethering a horse or mule grazing on the verges. The path passes the last isolated house (home of ‘handsome man’ who we like to spy on from our window sometimes) and enters the park proper – marked by a wooden arch which reads:

Bienvenido

Parque Nacional Arch Juan Fdez

That’s the Juan Fernandez Nacional Park in case I haven’t mentioned this which is a UNESCO world biosphere reserve or something due to the high numbers of endemic species found here. It includes most of all three island of the archipelago – Crusoe, Selkirk and Sant Clara.

Anyway – having come out of the trees in town I now have a clear view of the mountains again. The slope that the path is climbing comes up from the sea, past our house, and merges into the base of the mountains where it finally loses the cover of Eucalytus, Conifer and Pines planted around the town. The native woodland has been pushed out of the valley so it sits in pockets at the bottom of the mountains, creeping up the slopes until not even the smallest plants can cling to the sheer rock faces. One great castle of rock sits directly above the town – wiry looking bushes clinging on where they can find a hold on its near vertical sides. On the narrow plateau on top, which is often hidden by low clouds, larger plants are able to live. On the crests of many of the ridges around the valley, one can see the sillhouetes of isolated palm trees sticking out into the wind looking completely out of place. I can’t think how a large palm seed would get to such a precarious position – and until relatively recently there was not much on the island big enough to transport them there.

As the path heads downhill slightly again it finds a park campsite, set surrounded by pines. Apparently there are enough visitors here in the summer months for many islanders to earn money from tourism; this time of year though, tourists are very rare. Past the campsite is a suddenly jungle-like swamp of enormous Gunneras, their giant leaves looking like a suitable backdrop for dinosaurs or Carboniferous insects. My imagination doesn’t take into account that angiosperms hadn’t evolved at that point. Past the jungle is a tiny idyllic meadow filled with forget-me-knots; the carpet of small blue flowers may be another introduced species but they smell heavenly. Finally I reach the narrow path, lined with stones, that winds in an arc through the forest. The most abundant tree here is the luma, which is the only species in which the native hummingbirds will nest. For this reason we spend a lot of time training our binoculars on clumps of leaves and scanning for the small green and brown bowls. I say small, but the Juan Fernandez firecrown is actually one of the largest species of hummingbirds and so their nests are noticibly larger than those of the continental Green-backed Firecrown. The nests are woven with moss, and those of the endemic species are speckled with dots of white spider’s web – though why they go to all that trouble I cannot figure out.

There you have muchos description - it's not so exciting but hopefully it gives you more of a feel for where the hell I am. The next topic shall be about the work to cover the 'what the hell am I doing' side of things. Oh the excitement - can you even wait?

Antimini is...

...either cold, tired, hungry or all three, all the time.
...in need of an Angie. After two months she’s taken to hugging a post.
...really really glad that she’s absolutely 100% sure that there is definitely. nothing on this island big enough to eat her. Definitely. (before sunrise in a very dark forest)
...at the top of a mountain at least ten minutes before everyone else! This is amazing despite the fact that she left about 20 minutes before them. She thinks she may actually be getting high on those endorphin things people are always claiming make exercise enjoyable. She stands on top of a rock in a cocky pose – “You’re late!”; “I arrive” says Gandalf in her head, “Precisely when I mean to.” (sunrise, 25th Sept)
...making arrangements in case she gets blown, or pushed by a goat, off a cliff. Please read ‘The Soldier’ by Rupert Brooke at her funeral. She doesn’t care whether it’s appropriate, she likes it.
...it sucks to be me.
...making her standard meal – dahl and rice!
...eating her standard meal alone with three empty places set around her. *sigh*
...so internet deprived that she’s even missing the complusory ‘is’ in facebook statuses and the way you have to talk about yourself in the third person.

Home (where there are no mountains)

Where I come from there are no mountains.
Just soft rolling hills
which aren’t so hard to climb.

Where I’m from the clouds stay in the sky
and the animals out of sight
and the people all work inside.

Where I come from there are parties
and I wear fancy clothes and impractical shoes
and my friends wait for me if I can’t keep up.

Where I’m from I can understand people,
we all speak the same language
so I can participate.

Where I come from I am capable and intelligent,
I know what I’m supposed to be doing,
and I’m not bad at it.

Where I’m from my friends laugh at my jokes
and I’m not miserable
or always moaning.

Where I come from I know who I am.

This isn’t me.


24th Sept