Weekends here can be dizzyingly slow. They can also be full of parties. Ask just about anyone here what's to and they'll say, "Party". In the absence of other goings on, folks gather and dance and drink a fair amount and so we get to know each other fairly quickly. It's nice.
Last weekend our new teammate Greg had his twenty-somethingth birthday and declared it a Funk party. Oddly enough, in the average Chinoise (the FG equivelant of a bodega) one can find neon afros, giant gaudy sunglasses and even hair picks, so the revelers were well equipped. James Brown, Jackson Five, P-funk and Aretha made audio appearances. The party throbbed along until at least 3AM when I hit the road. By then a good portion of the funksters had moved, mostly clothed, into the swimming pool which had long since turned murky.
Perhaps it was the weekend before that that a bunch of us campus folks got together to turn some unused greenhouse space into a veggie patch. Afterwards we grilled at my (and Seth's) place. More and more people arrived and before long there were conversations running concurrently in French, English, Spanish, German and Portuguese. Love it. Probably much of this confluence of international minds and talents represents western glut and a waste of resources (is it really necessary/worth it to fly in a climber from Brooklyn?). That said, it's an amazing group of people and I feel lucky to have stumbled into the fold.
Besides parties there is the beach. On weekends I try to take at least one long, beach stroll before it gets too hot. The beach is wide and clean but yields to a milenia-thick layer of goopy sediment. At low tide the goop sprawls miles out from the coast. Egrets poke along snatching out this and that. The sky is intense looking with clouds that are somehow always severe even when not at rain-capacity.
Walking East from campus along the beach plops you on the edge of the older part of town. As a general rule, the architecture in Guyane comes in two styles; colonial and boxy. Kourou is almost nothing but boxy. It's one of the ugliest places I've been. Parts of it rival communist Russian housing. If it weren't for Lifesavers colors and kooky giant satellite dishes everywhere, the place would be really hard to look at. There are also dirt-floored, tin-roofed shanties that recall pleading Sally Struthers ads. It's mind bending that this exists just kilometers from where a good portion of the world's satellites head skyward. Inland is the Saturday market, one of the better bakeries in Guyane, an open air fish market, and restuarants (about ten of them) that range from Chinese to Moroccan. I settled in a creole nook and ordered an iguana.
I suppose I shouldn't have been, but I was surprised when it arrived that it looked an awful lot like an iguana. The chunks of meat had distinctly lizard looking skin. I recalled my Americorps colleague, Regina. She was posted in Harlem and would lament when she forgot her lunch on Wednesdays. She was vegetarian and reported that Wednesdays were foot days in Harlem. Chicken foot, pig foot, etc. Peering into the stew I could imagine how she must have felt. The stew was dotted with half a dozen or so eggs that I supposed were also iguanan. These were so squishy and leathery that they couldn't be pierced with a fork. The best I could manage to do was to pin one down with a fork and slice it open. The insides were a lot like boiled, mashed and spiced egg yolk...and they were yummy. As for the iguana, it was tender and tasty, skin and all. At the first bite it proved to be irresistibly tasty. I took my time with it and considered that Michael Pollan probably would have approved.
Iles du Salut
Twice in Guyane I’ve woken up not knowing where I was.
This weekend it was a rumble that roused me. I opened my eyes and saw a 100 pound panacle of coconuts menacing me from above, Democlean Sword-like. Apparently I was in a hammock. I poked my head over the side and saw the source of the rumble. A wall of water was headed my way. The question that took shape in my mind was simply “what the fuck!?”. And then the rest came to me.
My collegues and I had arrived a few hours earlier by catamaran and I was taking a little sieste. We were on Ilse Royal - one of three islands that make up Les Isles de Salut, the infamous French penal colony. Just beyond my toes I could Isle de Diable which housed political prisoners and a few c.f.b.j.’s – Convicted for Being Jewish.
I’d slung my hammock between two coconut palms that projected from the side of the cemetery wall. I think the cemetery was reserved for wardens and family - convicts got the heave ho and became chum. Coconut trees are everywhere on the island. Everywhere. And coconuts are too. Much of the island is undulating mounds of coconut. I’ve never seen anything like it. And this saturated-fat landscape supports a colony of rats that would raise the eyebrows of any New Yorker. They are a smaller and cuter forest variety, but intensely numerous. The population is so dense that it’s difficult to find a coconut that hasn’t been bored into and eviscerated. Living along side the rats are their larger cousins, Agoutis interspersed with feral chickens.
Coarse shell makes up the beach’s substratum. There is no mineral sand to be found, just the remains of billions and billions of creatures. Supported by creatures-past is a knobby field of smooth black rocks that range in size from basketball to Volkswagen. You don’t get into the ocean as much as clamber into it and if it’s low tide, you take a beating. The serf batters the rocks and mists. The mist is so thick that looking west after waking up from my nap I thought that other parties had fires going.
One arrives on the Isles by way of a tranquil 45 minute boat ride. The catamaran makes its first stop at Isle Royale, former home to low security prisoners and the administrative center. One of the larger buildings has been converted into a fairly posh hotel. The church – painted back in the day by an inmate convicted of forgery – has been restored to its former glory. A diesel engine that probably runs ‘round the clock keeps the hotel a/c running and powers water desalination. The opposite side of the island (maybe 300 feet away) houses three large dumpsters sopping with the detritus of fanciness. It’s also where I came across two types of monkeys splatted on branches, waiting for the heat to subside.
After a few hours, a smaller boat scoots over to Isle de Saint Joseph. The boat returns to the mainland but you can sling a hammock and make the return another day. I.S.J. housed prisoners that were thought to warrant tougher love, ie years of solitary confinement in cells exposed to sun and rain, whipping, beheading and the like.
None of the publicly accessible structures on I.S.J. have been restored. Stone construction befitting Goldsworthy frames almost the entire island. A broad sloping ramp and a steep, narrow stair (both of smooth black stone) lead to the flattened top of the island. On top is a grid of thick-walled cells separated from the sky by iron bars. It’s here that a hundred years of inmates alternately burned and froze, piled rocks, got sick and died. These days, trees gobble the walls. The paint is shedding. The walls themselves are shedding. The day when there won’t be much left seems not too distant.
This weekend it was a rumble that roused me. I opened my eyes and saw a 100 pound panacle of coconuts menacing me from above, Democlean Sword-like. Apparently I was in a hammock. I poked my head over the side and saw the source of the rumble. A wall of water was headed my way. The question that took shape in my mind was simply “what the fuck!?”. And then the rest came to me.
My collegues and I had arrived a few hours earlier by catamaran and I was taking a little sieste. We were on Ilse Royal - one of three islands that make up Les Isles de Salut, the infamous French penal colony. Just beyond my toes I could Isle de Diable which housed political prisoners and a few c.f.b.j.’s – Convicted for Being Jewish.
I’d slung my hammock between two coconut palms that projected from the side of the cemetery wall. I think the cemetery was reserved for wardens and family - convicts got the heave ho and became chum. Coconut trees are everywhere on the island. Everywhere. And coconuts are too. Much of the island is undulating mounds of coconut. I’ve never seen anything like it. And this saturated-fat landscape supports a colony of rats that would raise the eyebrows of any New Yorker. They are a smaller and cuter forest variety, but intensely numerous. The population is so dense that it’s difficult to find a coconut that hasn’t been bored into and eviscerated. Living along side the rats are their larger cousins, Agoutis interspersed with feral chickens.
Coarse shell makes up the beach’s substratum. There is no mineral sand to be found, just the remains of billions and billions of creatures. Supported by creatures-past is a knobby field of smooth black rocks that range in size from basketball to Volkswagen. You don’t get into the ocean as much as clamber into it and if it’s low tide, you take a beating. The serf batters the rocks and mists. The mist is so thick that looking west after waking up from my nap I thought that other parties had fires going.
One arrives on the Isles by way of a tranquil 45 minute boat ride. The catamaran makes its first stop at Isle Royale, former home to low security prisoners and the administrative center. One of the larger buildings has been converted into a fairly posh hotel. The church – painted back in the day by an inmate convicted of forgery – has been restored to its former glory. A diesel engine that probably runs ‘round the clock keeps the hotel a/c running and powers water desalination. The opposite side of the island (maybe 300 feet away) houses three large dumpsters sopping with the detritus of fanciness. It’s also where I came across two types of monkeys splatted on branches, waiting for the heat to subside.
After a few hours, a smaller boat scoots over to Isle de Saint Joseph. The boat returns to the mainland but you can sling a hammock and make the return another day. I.S.J. housed prisoners that were thought to warrant tougher love, ie years of solitary confinement in cells exposed to sun and rain, whipping, beheading and the like.
None of the publicly accessible structures on I.S.J. have been restored. Stone construction befitting Goldsworthy frames almost the entire island. A broad sloping ramp and a steep, narrow stair (both of smooth black stone) lead to the flattened top of the island. On top is a grid of thick-walled cells separated from the sky by iron bars. It’s here that a hundred years of inmates alternately burned and froze, piled rocks, got sick and died. These days, trees gobble the walls. The paint is shedding. The walls themselves are shedding. The day when there won’t be much left seems not too distant.
Take Off
Returning from the field last Thurdsay, we passed a bizarre array of military equipment followed by a convergence of parked and parking cars and a steady flow of people herding their way up a hill. An Ariane 5 rocket was scheduled to launch. On campus we stashed everything in the lab then walked outside and stared west. It was approaching seven PM. The sky was completely clear.
The sky turned yellow to the west followed by the sound of a small armagedon. The shuttle came into view a few second later streaking up and then over to the East. It pounded an Eastbound trajectory with a speed and fireball that were otherworldly. Knowing that we’ve been doing this as a species for some time now did not prepare me for what a feat it is. It seemed truly beyond human. The rocket was hundreds of miles away within minutes. The stages separated and then winked out of sight leaving a corkscrew of smoke trailing to nowhere.
The sky turned yellow to the west followed by the sound of a small armagedon. The shuttle came into view a few second later streaking up and then over to the East. It pounded an Eastbound trajectory with a speed and fireball that were otherworldly. Knowing that we’ve been doing this as a species for some time now did not prepare me for what a feat it is. It seemed truly beyond human. The rocket was hundreds of miles away within minutes. The stages separated and then winked out of sight leaving a corkscrew of smoke trailing to nowhere.
The project
The aim of the project I am working on is to better understand how geography affects plant communities. (I think I’ve heard this referred to as phylogeography). Those differences could be differences between the pant communities, difference within a species, forest structure, carbon trapping capacity… Once the data is collected it can be crunched to look at any number of things; do trees grown in nutrient poor soils produce larger amounts of defense chemicals, etc, etc.
The soil types here vary widely and plant species do too. Guyane, small as it is, hosts some 1,200 to 1,600 tree species. New York State is almost twice the size of French Guiana and has fewer than 150 tree species. The number of species here depends on who you ask, the day of the week, the latest publication, etc. The variability in those numbers has a lot to do with the fact that there isn’t yet a good answer to the question, “What’s a species?”
The looks at plant communities in three distinct soil types:
× Bas-fond - low areas that are often inundated
× Terra-firma - richer soil that is generally not inundated
× Sable-blanc - white that are very low in nutrients.
The plan is to work in areas that have all three soil types, set up multiple plots in each of the soil types and repeat that protocol in different parts of Guyane. Trees as small as 8cm in circumference are identified to species within a small area. This gives a picture of the woody plant diversity.Trees 60cm and larger are i.d.’ed to family or genus within a larger area, provides a picture of carbon storage.
When I say, “we identify” I mean of course, they – they who are tropical botanists. The degree to which they can identify these plants is staggering. They look at the various characteristics of the bark, make a shallow cut and look at the sap, smell it, feel it’s texture, look up at leaves through binoculars, tap the trunk, feel the bark, see how it peels and so on and so forth. They can often identify a tree to species within seconds. When they have trouble, we collect a sample of foliage with pole pruners, a throwline or…a shotgun.
In the Midwest I was bothered by how many trees I was removing. Now I’m shooting them. This is one of those things that takes a little getting used to as an Arborist, but it quickly seems to make a lot of sense. Taking aim at the twiggy bits at the ends of a branch brings down small samples quickly. Sometimes all the botanists need is a single leaf for a positive i.d. I can get my throwline (a 2mm line with a weighted sac) over a branch 25-30 meters up, but it often takes a long time and brings down branches far bigger than what we need so in some ways the shotgun is a gentler tool. When we get to the reserve of Nouragues with it’s no shoot policy, I along with one other climber will take the place of the shotgun.
Paris Markets
In many conversations about what works in Europe and why, people have pointed out to me that most of Europe isn’t as diverse as the US and that a homogeneous population is bound hum along with fewer ripples. I can’t claim to know Paris, but in my brief stay it seemed like it “worked” and is incredibly diverse as well.
I was sorry that I didn’t have more time to get beyond the ivory center of the old city but glimpses of various markets showed what might be a more representative cross section of the Paris as a whole.
I was sorry that I didn’t have more time to get beyond the ivory center of the old city but glimpses of various markets showed what might be a more representative cross section of the Paris as a whole.
Training day
I was out of practice. By the end of day one in Paris, my face was exhausted from speaking through a pucker.
Paris Metro
Like NY’s subway, the Metro in Paris is a mish-mash of different lines built at different times to different specifications. So like NY, the Paris Metro runs different styles of trains. Despite the differences between the lines there are some trends, and they alluminating. Paris’s roomy, vaulted stations - fully tiled with white beveled ceramics – shrug off the dungeon feeling and stay cleaner than the NYC stations. These must be significantly more expensive to build and probably to maintain too, representing an investment in mass transit that we have yet to make. (The stations weave around underground a lot like the streets do above ground).
Photo credit: http://www.track0.com/japh/archive/2004_11.html
Photo credit: http://www.panochrome.fr
The trains are generally smaller than NY trains. Even when they are not particularly crowded, you'll sometimes find yourself closer to you neighbor than you would in NY. On trains with bench-seats at right angles to the car-length, the seating in amazingly close. Plopping down in a seat directly across from another passenger, either you will both have to position your legs off-center or one of sits with knees akimbo while the other’s are in between. It’s um…intimate.
The lines that I rode required that a rider push a button to open the door. Only activated doors open up, saving on heating/cooling. And this is probably really weird, but one of my favorites things about all of Paris is that Metro doors can be opened just before the train has come to a full stop. Practically, it has the advantage of preventing passengers from getting on while others have yet to get off. Aesthetically, it makes each stop a bit of ballet. People hop off the moving trains as they must have from trolley cars in the days of yore. I could have happily watched that dance all day long. I seemed indicative of a place that has faith in its public. In NYC, trains come to a complete stop, wait the few seconds required to fend off litigation and then open. The NYC system protects us from ourselves. The Paris Metro says, "Go ahead, leap!" The emergency electric shutoff - accessible to anyone - likewise showcases Parisians' trust in themselves.
For all of the criticism of bloated French bureaucracies, lovely bits of laissez-faire are everywhere.
Photo credit: http://www.track0.com/japh/archive/2004_11.htmlPhoto credit: http://www.panochrome.fr
The lines that I rode required that a rider push a button to open the door. Only activated doors open up, saving on heating/cooling. And this is probably really weird, but one of my favorites things about all of Paris is that Metro doors can be opened just before the train has come to a full stop. Practically, it has the advantage of preventing passengers from getting on while others have yet to get off. Aesthetically, it makes each stop a bit of ballet. People hop off the moving trains as they must have from trolley cars in the days of yore. I could have happily watched that dance all day long. I seemed indicative of a place that has faith in its public. In NYC, trains come to a complete stop, wait the few seconds required to fend off litigation and then open. The NYC system protects us from ourselves. The Paris Metro says, "Go ahead, leap!" The emergency electric shutoff - accessible to anyone - likewise showcases Parisians' trust in themselves.
For all of the criticism of bloated French bureaucracies, lovely bits of laissez-faire are everywhere.
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