Visa

The plan was to return to the States in early December but another opportunity presented itself. Turns out, it's less expensive to buy a new ticket out of Suriname than to change the date on my existing one, so I watched the date on my return ticket come and go. (I've now officially overstayed the visa-less limit for France).

Today was attempt no.2 at getting a visa to Suriname. As I did last Thursday, I showed up at the consulate at quarter to nine. The shoe-box sized space opens at 9am to the already assembled mob. At five past nine I received a ticket bequeathing me the 36th place in line. This allowed enough time for the slow enjoyment of an omelet and The World According to Garp in a nearby cafe.

Last Thursday at the Consulate I tried for a tourist visa; I did not yet have the ticket to the States that I'd need to get a transit visa. I told the guy across the desk from me that I was planning on dipping into Suriname for a few days before heading back to FG. He asked for flight information, which threw me for a curve; to get from FG to Suriname is a 15 minute ride in a little boat, cash and no receipt. When I pointed this out, he asked for proof of my future departure from FG. Shit. It was around this time that I knew there was going to be a polite battle and that I would lose.

I asked him about the many ways to travel that don't involve tickets, "As it happens, I'm planning on biking back to Brooklyn," I conspired. "Surely there is a way to accommodate such travelers." I practically winked when I said this to let him know that I knew he was too smart to con, and here was a chance for him to be stand-up guy and make the system work for someone. His middling bureaucrat nod said, "I'm sure you're a nice guy, and I'd like to help". His middling bureaucrat smile said, "but I'm not here to help people, I'm here to dot the i's." Getting up, I smiled a smile that I hoped didn't say, "You are largely what's wrong with the world" and then spent the next three hours making my way back to Kourou. It didn't help that I'd left for Cayenne at 4:40 in the morning.

Today I had the good fortune to sit across from a more sensible guy (and had proof of a return ticket). The guy took a cursory glance at my paperwork, curiously charged me 20 euros less than the going rate and sent me on my way.

I headed "across town" and hopped in a taxico bound for Kourou. With a bridge out, the route between Kourou and Cayenne takes a significant detour on a narrow and partially rutted road. The road is narrow enough that vehicles stick as far to the outside of the lanes as possible to avoid each other. The outside set of wheels are often half-off the narrow road so vehicles proceed leaning significantly.

The taxi-co's are privately run vans that leave whenever they are full. The driver of this one was a sinewy, older guy who seemed pretty down to Earth. He headed out of Cayenne at a reasonable pace, talking loudly in a creole that I can't understand, seemingly to no one in particular. I opened up The World Acording to Garp and passed out. A jerk - and the muscles in my neck responding - woke me up. The driver had slammed on the brakes as a vehicle went careened around us. Our driver had just gotten spooked. After that, he came to a near-stop every time a vehicle passed in either direction, and he did it with a jerk. What had been a long drive suddenly became a lot longer. Adding to the duration was a detour from the detour. The driver pulled off on an anonymous road, pulled over and hopped out to collect mangoes. Love it or leave it.

What Debate?

While the health care debate rages in the US, I've become increasingly familiar with the French system. Most recently I sought out the "Hinie" (H1N1) vaccination. (I'll be hanging out with my sis's newborn soon and the vaccination was strongly advised).

I'd heard that the vaccination was being offered in the local gymnasium and pedaled that way. Following the handwritten signs led me to a blood-donation style set up where I answered a few questions and walked away 15 minutes later protected from the dreaded Hinie. I wasn't asked to pay a dime.

This kind of access to health care costs France exactly half of what the US spends per capita.

The Shake

I think I posted on the shake before, but I mentally come back to it all the time.

Racism here has a different quality to it. There seems to be less shame about it which is oddly nice. It makes the subject easier to approach. It also seems not as deeply entrenched. Sidenote; I got swept up in a population census earlier in the week. It was about an hour's worth of questions and a good number of them related to how I felt I was treated socially, professionally and commercially with respect to my race. Interesting.

Sitting in a cafe in Cayenne a year or so ago I was surprised to get a handshake from a stranger. He walked into the cafe, made eye contact with every person in the cafe, said hello and gave a handshake (or the double cheek-kiss) to one and all. Eventually I came to learn that this is standard protocol. Even if you do not know someone well, or at all, you acknowledge them. This is especially true in an office setting where every morning each person who comes in shakes hands with every person they come across. It's a little striking at first; compared to the standard US wave or nod that encompasses one and all. The protocol has a leveling effect that I think wears on race issues like a steady drip on a stone.

Daily Grind

(Sorry for the poor image quality. These were taken with a phone loaned to me during convalescence).

One way to describe a forest around here would be to say “It is characterized by this tree, and this tree…and these 600 other species as well”. It’s grindingly specific. Alternatively, by measuring traits of those 600 species one can say things like, “this forest is characterized by trees with higher/lower than average wood density” or “trees in this area are particularly efficient at grabbing Nitrogen”. Some of this is purely academic but bits can also used to demonstrate that say, a forest established after logging has lower wood density and therefore traps less carbon than the forest that it is replacing; a decent argument for conservation or at least for a modification of current practices. Much of the trait-work is done on a macro level – measuring bark thickness, chlorophyll content, etc. Nutrient analysis on the other hand is done on the micro-level and requires a chunk of lab-time.

For the nutrient analysis leaves are dried and then crumbled and crammed into metal cylinders the size of shot glasses.

Each cylinder is loaded with a metal ball the size of a pinball and then sealed up. A pair of these cylinders are loaded into a machine which rattles away at 24 times per second for two minutes. After this rapidfire pounding, the leaf is reduced to a powder.

The bulk of the powder is transferred to little eppendorf tubes. The rest joins the pile of every-shade-of-green...or is used as eyeshadow.

BTW. The foot is way better. With a little convincing it can now be squeezed into my Croc and I can keep it a little below waist-level. I’m getting around crutchless with minimal limp.

I probably should have mentioned in the previous post that very few people die from Bothrops bites. Wiki says that they kill more folks than any other reptile in the Americas, but that’s mostly a function of the frequency of encounters. They’re just really common. (The team saw two others last week). The mortality rate is in fact way low. The title of "Most Dangerous Reptile" also has much to do with Bothrops’ attitude. They don’t budge. They’re of the opinion that there’s no reason they should move for you, and they’re right. That’s all well and good if you see them, but they’re pretty cryptic when they are not moving; the ground is always a collage or brown and Bothrops is as well.

Case in point: last week Chris started to bend down to collect a root sample. Seth pointed out there was a Bothrops coiled around the base. Yikes.

A Funny Feeling

The team met around seven AM at the lab on the Kourou campus. We loaded up the mini-bus and a car and headed to a research plot that we'd established a few weeks prior in NW Guyane. The plan was to collect samples for “traits” which include things like leaf toughness and surface area, wood and root density, bark thickness, wood moisture content, herbivory, chlorophyll content, etc. In a half hour or so we were on the road and a couple hours after that we turned off the main road at Lausat and into the research area. We plowed through some white sand and at the forest edge a branch found the car's fuel tank and punctured it. We transferred people and equipment to the bus, ditched the car and continued on. After a short hike we arrived at the plot where we collected samples until around 6pm. Running the traits took until 1AM. The plan was to do a plot a day until the end of the week.

Thurs 18 Nov, mid-day:

Up and to my left, beeds of liquid form on two plastic nubs. The beeds drop into little liquid reserves which drain in turn through plastic tubes into the top of my left hand. With a little huffing and puffing I can look out the window over my left shoulder and see the prison where Papillon stayed, the Maroni river and Surinam. That hurts too much to be worth it right now. To get anywhere I sprawl on the floor and drag myself, so the scenery is not foremost on my mind. The walls are banana yellow and slightly ridged like someone dragged a comb downward while the cement was curing. Lavander, lime-green and mango round out the color palate. I’m sharing my room with a guy who snores a lot and loudly and spends waking hours sitting with his back to me.

Yesterday morning, we were on our way to sample the second plot when a strange set of feelings coursed through the top of my foot. First pressure, then a pinch then a stabbing, all in the space of a second. I looked at my foot frantically for answers before seeing the answer slither away in the periphery. Bothrops (link).

I could see two holes in my calf-high rubber boot. This totally exploded my notion of jungle safety; I’d thought that rubber boots trumped fangs. As Chris tells it I called, "Hey Chris, I just got bitten by a snake that I think was a Fer de Lance" in the way that someone might say "Hey Chris, there are seven of us and only two tins of sardines". He didn't quite believe me at first. I shrugged off my pack, took a seat, removed my boot and got comfortable. Seth took out his bite kit and applied suction.

In a flash, the team had fashioned a gurney from two pole-pruner poles and a poncho and soon enough I was getting hefted out.

What had been a speedy 45 minutes in, was a two-hour grind going back out. ¾ of the way out I nearly cried with appreciation. You couldn’t hope to get bit in better company. Given their brains, muscle and determination I had no worries about getting out. Chris, in a stroke of genius, put on his backpack and stuck the poles through the straps. He was up front, calling out tripping hazards and keeping a quick and steady pace. In the rear where my heavier top end was situated, the remainder of the team handed the gurney off to one another in seamless rounds.

Early in the morning the team had split. Two team members dropped the rest of us off and continued on with the bus. When I got bit, Ben ran all the way out and to the other site where he bashed in a window to get at a cell-phone. Thanks to his fleet feet paramedics were on scene nearly an hour before I made it out. The hospital was an hour away on a roughish road. I spent a decent amount of that time airborne with clenched jaw. Greg (French/Irish) came along as moral support and translator. Even in a non-emergency, Greg’s company is unparalleled.

In the hospital I got prompt treatment with few questions. I think the French love treating Americans for just that reason; they love to point out the disparity.

Morphine followed within the hour and was as lovely as always. My brain loosened and went for wonderful little romps in different directions. The pain doesn’t go away entirely, it just doesn’t matter. Greg stuck it out with me for hours despite having hauled my ass out and not having eaten all day. It was ten past nine when I got bit and well after dark when he left.

Before Greg left I was settled in a room upstairs. In the debriefing I was informed that Bothrops venom blocks clotting. Accordingly, I would not be able to eat with a knife or fork, have hot foods or anything not in a paste form and I had to be careful while chewing. Biting one’s lip would be an embarrassing way to go. I was not allowed to brush my teeth...for four days.

Thurs 19 Nov, afternoon:

The first blood test showed my clotting capacity at 20% of norm. I am drinking lots of fluid which all seems to all go directly to my left foot and calf. From knee down, I look like a Botero.

Last night’s meal was so unsavory I couldn’t do it. Breakfast was cold tea. When I took the cover off lunch I burst out laughing at the two gooey piles, one pale green and the other a sort of pink. I had no idea what they were before the tasting. The pale green was taters with veg. The pink was a pile of whipped hotdog. I swear.

Thurs 19 Nov, afternoon:

In these situations I often find myself gushing with appreciation. Sprawled on the bathroom floor and considering how to drag myself up and into the bottom of the shower, I looked up at the sink and contemplated how great it is to be in a place with clean, running water. The care is bizarre, but it’s caring and pretty good I think.

Once I got set up in a room, I was left with a one liter “pistolet” to pee in and over night a larger container to empty that into. In the dark and wee hours I managed to botch a transfer and poured piss over my mid-section. I arrived here in underwear, pants and a right sock, a bandana through the right belt loop. Out of clothing options, I swapped out my pants and underwear for a bedsheet and spent the remainder of that sleepless night in a chair. I've spent the day comfortably wrapped in the sheet, scooting around, looking like Ghandi.

Thurs 19 Nov '09, 5:20PM:

The doc just swooped in and said my clotting is up to 50%. Like most docs, she worked quickly. She poked, prodded and squeezed my calf and foot. The pain was exquisite. I panted and giggled uncontrollably. The swelling has claimed my thigh.

Thursday dinner: Beef and peas

Friday 20 November 2009 9:20 AM.

Chris and Benoit made the two and a half hour trip out here to say hi and droped off all sorts of goodies. I now have a stack of books and my computer with hours of podcasts of soothing, liberal radio. This morning the swelling seems a bit diminished and the color perhaps a bit more foot-like. Breakfasts are great for their absence of whipped meats.

Friday Lunch: Fish and ?

Fri 20 Nov '09, Afternoon.

The difficulty isn’t that I can’t weight my left foot, the difficulty is that if I even drop my zeppelin of a leg below my waist it throbs with pain. There is no room left in it for a pulse. Chris joked that I’m going to have stretch marks. He might actually be right. Going anywhere - anywhere being the two meters to the bathroom or the two meters to the porch - means dropping to the floor and scooting. But it means scooting with an IV and whatever else I might want; book, piss pot, water, soap, etc. It involves a lot of moving things a foot, scooting, moving everything another foot, scooting some more…Getting down to or up from the floor sucks but the scooting suits me fine. It does seem to alarm the staff, which is nice because it means I get checked up on every time someone passes by and sees me dragging myself across the floor. It’s a convenient way to get the pistolet emptied or water refilled. This morning I met the disapproval of someone on the nursing staff for having dragged myself to the balcony. I was splatted on my back like the victim of an improperly packed parachute. Despite the obvious trouble I have getting around, some staffers continue to do things like place the water up on a table a meter or so away instead of next to me. I think they’re just not accustomed to viewing the floor as an acceptable living surface.

Chez Papillon in the background

Fri 20 Nov '09, 6:50.

The doc swung by on her way out. I take it as a good sign that she doesn’t feel the need to visit me more than once a day and even that, in the afternoon. This aft she told me that my clotting factor as of this morning’s test was at 65%. That means I get soup with actual chunks of stuff in it and that I get to brush my teeth tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll pull a fast one and sneak in a gentle scrub this eve. On the flip side, she was not pleased to see that the swelling really hasn’t gone down. I’m not too pleased about that either. The top of my foot is a patchwork of fall water-colors; yellows and reds. I noticed for the first time that my viens look unusually dark lurking under the tight skin. I know only enough about necrosis to be scared of it, and I’m a little scared. So far I’ve thought very little about it, but it has occurred to me to wonder about a one-footed life. Usually the wondering is in question form; would I still climb trees? Would I move back to NY and if so, would I get a discounted Metro-card? How would I transform my prosthesis into a miracle of gadgets; a street-cleaning garbage stabber so that I could clean the city as I hopped along. Certainly a bottle opener…how are bikes outfitted for monopeds?

The sun dropping behind Surinam has turned the North wall all kinds of lovely

Fri 20 Nov '09 7:10PM. The guy next to me gets bread with his dinner and it’s not even pureed.

Sat 21 Nov '09 10AM.

Laying back in bed this morning I luxuriating in a long, slow love session with my tooth brush, which culminated in that fresh from the dentist feeling. The doc just paid a visit and was impressed with the state of things. The swelling has gone down enough that the skin on my foot is starting to look like a rumpled paper bag. I can make out where ankle bones might be. It’s still a funny patchwork of red and yellow, it looks better on the whole and is less uncomfortable. She gave me the green light to head home this afternoon. The rest of the team has been planning a serious birthday party for me which I’m pretty psyched to be able to attend.

Sat 21 Nov '09, 6:30PM.

Home again, Home again, jiggity jig.

Post Script

For my b'day the Peruvians, Marcos and Elvis, made ceviche and grilled fantastic meats...that were not pureed before consumption. Three cakes, one with over a kilo of chocolate!

Bocci: Team France vs Team Peru vs Team USA

Tuesday 24 Nov '09, mid-day:
Swelling is going down in bits. The color is still...variable. My foot now shares some properties with the green foam used in flower arranging. Squeeze it and the impression stays. There's a tiny isosceles triangle where the fang found it's mark.

Nouragues Wrap Up

We got helicoptered out of the Nouragues reserve yesterday after a two-week botanizing marathon. The heli-man made a point to bank sharply, hug hills, skim tree-tops and point out illegal gold-mining operations. We were shoe-horned in among damp and fetid backpacks but the flight still wasn't long enough.

At Nourague's Inselberg station two plateaus spread out beneath the camp - Le Petit Plateau and Le Grand Plateau. Each plateau is gridded by paths that delineate 1 hectre parcels and along the paths are 160, 1msq nets that have been intercepting falling fruit for nearly a decade. Since the nets' installation the station manager has gone out every two weeks, collected their contents and shipped them off to Paris. The years-long collection has generated an amazing record of the plateaus' phenology. Our goal for the two weeks was to identify to species as many trees as possible within a 15m radius of each of these nets. This will bring the phonological data into sharper relief and add another layer of information to subsequent studies on the plateaus. The operation required four teams:

1. Botanists with eagle vision, keen smell and a staggering mental catalog
2. Griffers with curved tree spikes, harnesses and pole pruners
3. Pro-climbers
4. A cartography team

The botanists made the first pass and identified the vast majority of trees to species. The standard set was that 2-3 botanists had to feel 100% certain of an ID for it to pass muster. If not, the tree got flagged for collection. The spike team followed and collected what was reachable by climbing relatively short and thin trees. The climbers followed to clean up what was left. Team cartography updated the map and tree locations.







At the end of the day, back at camp, the botanists would would go over what had been collected by the griffers and climbers to take another stab at identifying things that they hadn't been able to in the first go-round. Initially, including data entry and plant pressing, work didn't finish up until midnight or 1am and we were back on the trail by 8am. (I was generally passed out by 10pm...but was up early to brew strong coffee for the sleep deprived botany crew). As the project progressed the botany team learned more species, needed less collected and was able to sleep more. At least one sample of each collected species was pressed by the head of the herbarium from the Paris Botanic Garden. She took those with her to incorporate into the collection of 10 million samples that she and her 20 full-time staffers are currently re-sorting.

Among things to be collected there were often groups of trees not too distant from one another. In those cases we (Benjamin and I) would climb one tree and slowly make our way across from one tree to the next at canopy level. (Canopy level was generally in the 9 to 15-story building range). I hadn't done this kind of thing before and as it turns out, it's just about the best way imaginable to pass the time. "Up there" is a truly different place. It is airier and moving and home to very different things. It is a collection of crows nests, a hanging garden and a zoo.

Day one my arms cramped themselves into a right angles and my hands, into fists. I hadn't climbed regularly for three months. The second and third mornings arrived a kaleidscope of upper-body ouch for both me and Ben. After that it was all gravy. Seth, a PHD candidate from Berkley was my steady "Anchor Man" for the two weeks. He learned a host of knots in no time and took easily to the fancy rope-work required below to facilitates traverses above. In down time he left no leaf unturned.

New York On My Mind

I was walking along the main loop around Central Park. A novice roller-blader picked up more speed than desired and started crying out like you wouldn't believe; sounds that were completely uninhibited, guttural, animal. Just before opening my eyes I realized I was still in the Nouragues reserve. The mayhem was standard Spider Monkey fare.