Death by Mango Sticky Rice - Trat/Rayong visit, Part 2

(Continuation of previous post)

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LAO HEN LOMA! (We saw dolphins!)

The next day, I finally got to go on the water to see the ‘waddies, as the EMCR folks were doing a quick photo-ID survey.  And it was my best experience with this species!  It’s really a shame that my Canon ran out of battery, and that I’d thought it was a good idea to leave the charger in my stored bag in Bangkok.  (It’s also a shame that my point-and-shoot is out of battery, and the battery charger is nowhere to be found.  I thought I’d brought it with me…perhaps it’s in charger heaven, along with the smartphone charger that I lost in the Mabul Island fire and and MP3 charger that I lost…somewhere?). 

Hauling the net

We boarded a medium-sized fishing boat that EMCR hires from a local boat owner for these surveys, painted bold blue with garlands of flowers looped over the  bow.  Chugged out of the river port and out to the sea, bordered by lines of white sand underneath delicate, feathery dark-green trees.  After cruising around for a while, with no dolphins to be found, the boat captain decided to set the boat’s seine net, saying that dolphins often are attracted to boats that are fishing.  The crew of four fishers got to work, throwing the large net off the boat as the captain drove in a large circle.  Then the captain drove into the middle of the circle, and we were off!  Driving in a series of figure 8s and loops, the boat tilting with each curve, round and round to scare the fish into the nets.  It’s a good thing I wasn’t feeling seasick.

Delicious fresh fishes

The crew hauled the net, and a couple of dolphins showed up.  But they proved skittish, and we decided to move on.  After more hours of searching (during which the captain said the dolphins are never this elusive, and I started to wonder if I was a harbinger of bad dolphin-watching fortune), the captain and crew set the net again.  At this point, I was tired and my mind felt a little numb, which tends to happen after unsuccessfully searching for dolphins for extended periods of time.

But this time, the dolphins were more friendly.  As the net was being pulled up, glistening fish trapped in the mesh, two large, gray, muscular backs, alert and graceful, cut through the blue water.  And my fatigue instantly vanished.

Our vantage point from the roof of the boat, plus the fact that the water here is less turbid than at my other sites, allowed me to see the dolphins frolicking underwater.  Amazing. I’ve never seen that with Irrawaddy dolphins before.  Ekh nicely let me use one of the team’s 3 Nikon cameras so I could get some shooting in, which was fun.  The crew was throwing fish to the dolphins (apparently this is something that fishers here often do), and the dolphins were cavorting around after the shiny morsels, spinning, swooping, gliding gracefully through the translucent water.  Two dolphins became four, and four became seven (including a calf!), rolling around us, surfacing to show dorsal fins with a variety of scars and cuts, occasionally raising their unbelievably adorable faces out of the water – chubby little faces with earnest eyes and peaceful ‘smiles’.  I’d never realized how agile these guys really were. 

Right before my camera died...but had some awesome pics on the Nikon!

As the dolphins’ interest in the boat faded, we headed back to land. 

CHILLIN’ BY THE RIVER IN RAYONG

After some more fishing village visits in Trat, along with a quick visit to the Department of Aquaculture center, we came to Rayong.  A small, sleepy town on the river and along the seaside.  The EMRC folks brought me to a homestay along the river – a couple of large, solid houses with airy, clean rooms and shiny wooden floors and cavernous interiors, with a serene terrace built on stilts over the river.  The people here are warm and kind, and though they don’t speak English, they’re eager to communicate (with the aid of vigorous gestures and my limited Thai) anything that might make my stay more comfortable.

I walked along the narrow road leading to the homestay in the early evening yesterday, past dispersed food stalls, small stores, and homes, catching glimpses of the nearby river between buildings.  Someone drove past me on a motorbike and abruptly stopped – it was Khun Nut.  “Kun bai tii nai ka?  Bai tii ‘market’?” (Where are you going?  Going to the market?) she asked.  I hadn’t planned on it, but I figured why not.  I hopped on the back of the bike, and we rode along the shadowy street, over a bridge, past a temple, and to the small outdoor market set up on a gravelly field.  Walked around looking at the food on offer while she bought food for her family’s dinner, including four ears of salted boiled corn.  She asked the vendor to split the corn in half, and handed two of the ears to me.  So nice!

After Nut brought me back to the homestay, I wandered to the terrace with my corn.  The friendly people who run the homestay ushered me to a table and presented me with a feast of fried tofu, rice, sweet-chile-and-peanut sauce, and stir-fried sweet squash.  I relaxed, watching the day fade away over the river while the homestay folks enthusiastically played something similar to Blackjack behind me.  Tonight, once again, the people here hovered over me as I enjoyed the dinner and dessert they gave me, making sure that I had enough food, plenty of water, and an obscene amount of mango sticky rice.  Basically, I was force-fed one of my favorite desserts.

Managed 1 more photo on the dead battery...homestay terrace

I wish I had a multitude of lifetimes.  I’d use at least a couple of years of one to settle down in a community like this, get a little motorbike and explore the coastline, get a small boat to cruise out to the nearby islands, play cards with these friendly folks, and cook meals with ingredients from the market in a cozy riverside home.

Oh, hey Cambodia! How's it going? - Trat/Rayong, Part I

Back in Bangkok after a quick visit to Trat and Rayong.  Wrote the following yesterday...it's insufferably long, so, I split it into 2 posts:

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Wise words from the road:  Always bring your camera battery chargers with you.  Always.

Tonight, I find myself in a small, but clean, bedroom in a house on a river in a small Thai town.  Soulful karaoke singing alternates with high-spirited whoops and dancing on the large riverside terrace just outside.  Makes me reflect upon the vast array of rooms I’ve temporarily called “home” during this trip…this is the 13^th.  From buzzing metropolises to small market towns to tropical island paradise, I’ve assembled a seemingly random patchwork of homes away from home.  And tonight’s part of the patchwork is a homestay on the Prasae River in Rayong town. 

Spent today in the Eastern Marine and Coastal Resources Research Center (EMCRRC) in Rayong, collecting more information on research in Trat Province and catching up on other work.  I realized, last night, that I will be back in San Diego next week!  Crazy.  After fondly thinking of all of the friends and family who I’m excited to see again, and happily dwelling on all of the fun things I plan on doing when I’m home, I also realized that the next few months are going to be inexorably busy.  So…I’ve been working particularly hard today, so I can enjoy the fun vacation I’ve planned for my final 5 days in Thailand and so I can hit the ground running when I get back stateside.

Pad thai @ JJ Market...aroy maak!

The past week has represented the final “work” phase of this trip, starting with some Thai lessons in Bangkok (I’ve found Thai to be the hardest language I’ve tackled…grammatically, it’s simple, but the writing and tones are daunting…but I’m working on it).  I made sure to get my daily servings of khao niao mamuang (mango sticky rice) and vegetarian street food.  I also might have let the shopaholic within me get a little out of control...

Then I bussed down to charming Trat town, where I wandered around the river walkway (with monkeys frolicking on the other side of the river), crowded teak buildings, sparkling temples, and the cacophany of smells and sights and sounds of the small, but lively, night market.  My reason for visiting Trat Province was to meet with local researchers at the EMCRRC, who have worked closely with my collaborator and committee member Dr. Ellen Hines and with whom I will be working in the future, and to visit local fishing villages with them; basically, to scout out this field site, to get a feel for what it will be like working here so that I can better plan future fieldwork, and to learn more about the work that EMCRRC is doing with the dolphins and fishing communities.

SAME SAME BUT DIFFERENT – TRAT’S FISHING VILLAGES

The dreary morning after I arrived in Trat, three researchers from EMCRRC picked me up – Khun Ong, Nut, and Ekh.  Though Ong is the only one comfortable with speaking English, I enjoyed the company of the whole contingent immensely – they were remarkably sweet and affable.  We drove down to four villages south of Trat town, talked to village heads and walked around.  I was immediately struck by how different the villages here are compared to the ones I’d just left in the Philippines. Here, the homes were sturdier and larger; the walkways were cleaner; the boats were more expensive.  These people were not rich by any means, but the contrast with the poverty I’ve seen in the Philippines and Madagascar was remarkable.

Another contrast with my other field sites is the presence of large fishing boats; restrictions on boat size for near-shore fishing seem to be more lax here than in the Philippines.  Interestingly, the number of large boats has decreased here, due to rising fuel costs and decreasing catch sizes.   These large boats often employ Cambodians, who cross the nearby border in search of work.  I hadn’t been aware of this, and it certainly raises a plethora of intriguing questions related to social and cultural aspects of these communities.  I might need to find a field assistant fluent in Cambodian…

I added a new type of fishing gear to my growing vocabulary of SE Asian fishery practices: a series of conch shells strung onto a long rope.  The target species is a small octopus, which seeks shelter in the cozy-looking depths of the shell’s coils, little suspecting that these inner recesses, seeming to offer protection, are a façade, are trickery – DEADLY trickery; that innocent cephalopods lured to these shells by the promise of refuge are, hours later, yanked mercilessly from the sea, screaming in confused surprise and desperate protest (but it sounds like a little pathetic, nearly inaudible, adorable and cartoonish ‘squeak’ to people).  Perhaps I’m being a little dramatic. 

Several people in the villages guessed that I was Japanese (they were half right!), and expressed their sincere concern for the Japanese people following the catastrophes there.  It was very heart-warming.

We stopped by the duty-free market on the Thai-Cambodian border at Hat Lek, where I gazed upon Cambodia (“Hello, Cambodia!”) after meandering through stalls filled with sunglasses, phones, antiques, hula-hoops, stuffed animal monkeys clinging to one another with velcro hands, and tasers, among other wares.  As we drove back north, Ong rolled down the window for the immigration check, cheekily saying, “Sa wat dii ka. I. am. Thaaiii.”

Helloooo, Cambodia!

Dinner was at the night market in Khlong Yai, where Ong explained the variety of food stalls (I’ve eaten at food stalls many times before, but there were many mysteries still remaining for me that only a visit with a local guide could clear up) and the three EMRCers taught me some more Thai.  Something about eating food freshly cooked at a rickety stall, while sitting upon a flimsy plastic chair at a simple metal table, gazing upon the bewildering array of food and drink on offer in the neighboring stalls, makes for a superb meal.  Especially with good company!

Take me to your fishers!

At a relatively calm point in this whirlwind, 6-week work & play tour of Southeast Asia – toward the end of an 11-day visit to the small coastal city of Bago on Negros Occidental, Philippines, before heading back to Thailand later this week.  I’m here to conduct interviews of fishers along to coast of Bago and neighboring Pulupandan as part of my dissertation, asking them about their fishing livelihood, knowledge of and interactions with Irrawaddy dolphins (called lumbalumba here), and perceptions about conservation, all neatly (more or less) packaged in a 30-minute questionnaire. (see previous post for some context).

Bago City market

Fortunately, I have two lovely field assistants (and they also seem to enjoy being bodyguards, as well) who are navigating me through the decidedly non-Tagalog local language (Ilonggo) in my quest for these interviews and vegetarian food.

"No killer highway"... during a calm spell

We’ve been taking whatever means of transportation most easily presents itself (rattly trikes, loudly colorful jeepneys, clunky buses) to the part of the highway closest to our selected fishing villages.  I love these rides – time to sit back and think and let the sights and sounds of the passing landscape gently flit into my brain.  A farmer working in a rice field.  A huge set of speakers set, inexplicably, in the middle of an empty field. Stands of fruit and vegetables.  Students walking to school.  A wide assortment of vehicles constantly honking, driving recklessly…(“No killer highway. Only reckless driver,” warns a billboard.  I try not to think about it too much).

When we descend from our chariot, we wander around until we find bystanders to help us find the local barangay hall or the nearest fishing village.  We sometimes visit the barangay halls (here, the fishing villages are sections within larger 'villages' called barangay) to get what information exists on the local fisheries (it's very common to hear, "You'll find the poorest of the poor in these villages.  This barangay is poor, but the fishing villages are even poorer").


When we're looking for the fishing villages, my jaunty assistants ask, "Where’s the nearest fishing village? We’re looking for fishermen to interview.  Do you know where they are?”  People are happy to point out the way, or even sometimes guide us personally until we find our first interviewee.  We walk along dirt roads through open fields, under palm trees, between bamboo fences, arriving at clusters of small houses made of nipa and bamboo, walking by people going about their daily lives - getting water from the pump, repairing fishing nets, playing bingo or mah jong or card games, lounging in the shade, fixing boats and houses.  The mood is always tranquil, especially when compared to the bustling highway and the center market of Bago.  People look at the two unfamiliar young men and the foreigner they’re escorting, but never stare rudely.  Children tend to be awestruck, shy, or almost cheekily friendly ("Take our picture!!!").  My field assistants start asking around for interviewees, with confidence and friendliness tempered by politeness.

It’s amazing, verging on ridiculous, that we waltz into these villages, walk up to complete strangers who have never seen us before and who have no idea what we’re doing, and say, “Hi! We’re doing research on fishers and dolphins.  Can we interview you?”, and they agree, usually with no questions or reluctance.  Even though a 30-minute interview is relatively short for this type of research, it’s still a lot of time for someone to willingly give to a few strangers.  I have very mixed (mostly negative) feelings about paying people for interviews, and bringing beer or cigarettes is rife with potential problems (e.g., I refuse to contribute to lung cancer through my research), but I feel that I really should show my appreciation for their time after the interview is through.  I’ll have to figure it out before I return later this year.   Research involving fisher interviews often involves a group of researchers dashing through a village, pestering fishers for their time, and never returning to even explain what those interviews contribute to.  I don’t want to be one of those people who just mines the fishers for their information and leaves.

We conduct the interviews on the beach, in homes, outside of sari-sari stores, on piles of nets, wherever.  Sometimes family members gather around, with the smaller children staring wide-eyed at me.  Curious crowds occasionally grow around the interviews.  Sometimes we interview fishers as they repair their nets, cutting and sewing and tying knots so quickly that I can't follow their progress as their hands busily buzz around the delicate nylon mesh...and all the while, they converse naturally.  I know if I tried to do that, I'd end up tangled in the net....Tara bycatch.

Now that I trust that my assistants understand the questions well and know how to conduct the interviews, we split into two teams; I sit in on the interviews, alternating which assistant I join to make sure that consistency between the two is maintained.  Though I don't speak Ilonggo (I'll admit, I drastically underestimated how different it is from Tagalog), I follow the interviews closely by watching the fishers as they respond and looking at the responses that my assistants write down.  If something seems odd, I'll interrupt and ask for clarification, or think of follow-up questions to ask.  If a fisher gives a very long-winded response to what should have been a simple yes-or-no question, I'll ask for a translation of the response and ask follow-up questions based on that.  I'm constantly writing my own notes in the notebook.

When you think about this research in an abstract way, fishers are your sources of data.  Each fisher is another sample.  But, of course, they are people, with aspirations and disappointments and dreams and regrets just like anyone else, living very tough lives.  And that makes questions like, “If you had the opportunity, what kind of job would you like?” and “Do you want your children to be fishers?” potentially intrusive.  I’ve heard a lot of fishers laugh about that first question: “I’d be President!”.  I’ve heard some say, “Fishing’s fine by me.”   But I’ve also heard some fishers wistfully say that they’d like some other jobs, but only know how to fish.   Similarly, most fishers say that they don’t want their children to fish: “I don’t want them to experience this life.  It’s very hard and dangerous.  It’s not fulfilling.  I want them to finish their education and live fruitful lives.”

I hate to make them reflect on their livelihood with regret.  One of the things that always profoundly affects me is the regret that people feel for dreams that never came true, talents that never had an opportunity for use, hopes for a life vastly different from reality.  I’ve already cut out several questions that are often used in interviews, deeming them too personal to be worth the data I would get.  I’ve left those two questions in because I am genuinely and deeply interested in what the answers are.

Part of the commute

It's fascinating to see how different the responses to some of the questions are, between villages and even between fishers in the same village, fishing in the same locations.  Some say they've never seen the dolphins; others say they see them regularly.  Some are quick to blame a local alcohol factory's pollution for the decrease in fish catch over the years (this decrease is probably one of the most consistent trends reported), while others dismiss pollution as a threat and say that illegal fishing is the main problem...and still others say, "Illegal fishing here? Not a problem - the bantay dagat (sea police) enforce the regulations."  Interviews can be frustrating in that way - it forces you to assess how much you trust your respondent.  Are they being willfully misleading?  Are they convinced that they are correct even when their memory is incomplete or biased?  Do they fully understand the questions?  But, for studying these small-scale fisheries, interviews are a practical and valuable tool, provided you recognize the caveats of the method and constantly assess the quality of the data.

It's particularly interesting to come in as an outsider and witness different views of contentious issues, where I have no real context on which to base my own opinion.  For example, an alcohol factory was recently shut down in one of the cities where I'm working, putting many people out of work.  When I was here last year with Team Lumbalumba, we heard tales of the political motivations behind the closing and the hardships that the now out-of-work factory employees had to deal with.  And then we heard the other side of the story: the factory had been polluting the local waters, as demonstrated to us by photos of a nasty-looking black plume of effluent along the coast.  Fishers had complained about the impact on their livelihood, and the environmentally-minded mayor made a decision for the good of the local marine ecosystems.  On each side of this issue are people who earnestly believe that their slant on the story is true.  It's definitely a good exercise in keeping an open mind.

Conducting these interviews is a good lesson in communication, too.  Again, when I’m sitting in my office, thinking in abstract terms about what kind of data I want to collect, I throw around terms like “overfishing” and “profitability” and “sustainability”.  When I get to the field and have my field assistants translate those terms into a different language and explain them to fishers (who – suprisingly! – don’t use the same terminology that marine ecology and conservation academics do), I appreciate the value of knowing exactly what I mean by the words that I say.  It’s fascinating how concepts can be misinterpreted, and I find myself more bemused than frustrated.  It also helps that my field assistants are very bright and learn quickly.

On a related note, it’s very hard sometimes to not feel like a complete egghead, with my clipboards and notebook, asking swarthy, “old salt” fishers – people of action, people of the sea! – questions as part of my 20^th year of school.

I’ll definitely have to work on handling the smell of drying fish and shrimp, though…I’ve always been very sensitive to the smell of seafood (it's a very visceral reaction - I can't help it), and I struggled to maintain a pleasant demeanor during an interview that was just downwind of salted shrimp drying in the sun.  I’m a marine biologist who gets seasick, and a vegetarian who doesn’t like salad, conducting research in fishing villages even though I hate the smell of fish and shrimp.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me...

I've mentioned this from my entries about Malampaya Sound last year, and the same holds true here: even though these villages are poor and their inhabitants lead tough lives, the people are so warm and lovely.  I've found that people wherever I've traveled are amazing and friendly, but I'd say that people in the Philippines are the happiest, most joyful people I've come across, and the easy smiles and laughter can still be found shining through the poverty of the fishing villages (and the monotony of 30 minutes of interview questions).

So...what is it that you do, exactly?

Sorry for the dearth of photos...internet here (love my SmartBro USB modem!) is somewhat slow.

* Update: Decided to stop being lazy & compressed some photos

I've realized that many of my friends know that I dash away to exotic locales pretty regularly, but perhaps they don’t know what I actually do while I’m there.  Apart from working on my tan while sipping fruity cocktails while I’m taking a break from frolicking in the bright blue sea.

So...here it is: I come from a background in behavioral ecology of mammals and birds, with some oceanography thrown in thanks to 2 years of classes at Scripps Institution of Oceanography.  I’m now in the 4^th year of what will likely be a 7-year PhD (7’s my lucky number, entered 2007, graduating 2014?), and, with classes behind me, free to focus on my dissertation.  My research now focuses on the issue of “bycatch” of coastal dolphins and porpoises (“cetaceans”) in artisanal fisheries in developing countries. Bycatch is the accidental capture of non-target species in fishing gear; artisanal fisheries are generally defined as small-scale fisheries for subsistence or local markets.  Such bycatch is actually a major problem for coastal cetacean populations in developing countries, and has contributed to the significant decline of the vaquita (small porpoise in the Gulf of California) and the likely extinction of the baiji (Yangtze River dolphin).

Irrawaddy dolphin in Malampaya Sound

For my fieldwork, I’m studying a relatively little-studied species of dolphin, the Irrawaddy dolphin, that occurs in patchy populations (using that word loosely to mean geographically separated groups) throughout SE Asia.  It’s a cool species for ecological studies, just because it occurs in a variety of habitats (rivers, estuaries, inlets, coastlines), and I’m fascinated by how their social behavior and habitat use might be influenced by their habitat.  In terms of conservation, this species as a whole is ranked as “Vulnerable” by the IUCN Red List, but several “subpopulations” (i.e., geographically distinct groups) are listed as “Critically Endangered”; given their coastal and riverine range, they tend to overlap with human activity (such as artisanal fishing) and thus are particularly vulnerable to human impacts on their environment.  Also, because they do occur in small and geographically disjointed populations, the conservation ranking for the species as a whole can be misleading.  Tallying up the total number of dolphins in that species obscures the possibility that all of those small populations, individually, could decrease beyond the point of recovery; for example, 10 populations of 100 dolphins each might have a greater risk of going extinct than 1 population of 1000 dolphins.   As such, it’s vital that we understand the threats to these dolphins, and how to mitigate those threats.

Also, they are almost obnoxiously cute.  (I'm not going to deny that they are adorable and that endears them to me, but! I maintain that people who don't take marine mammalogists seriously because their study animals are cute are just plain jealous).

Apart from my pure curiosity about and attachment to this species, I’m also interested in whether local artisanal fisheries negatively impact the dolphins as a result of accidental entanglement (and subsequent death) of dolphins in fishing gear.  As part of that, I’ll be looking at the habitat use of the dolphins at some of my sites to see how they overlap with fishing grounds and other human activities. I’ll also be asking fishermen about bycatch.  But to “save the dolphins”, you can’t just focus on the dolphins – these fishing communities are poor.  That’s why I’ve taken a very sincere interest in understanding the social, cultural, and economic aspects of these fisheries, so that management and conservation can consider the entire ecosystem, including the role and needs of people.  It’s all very idealistic, and it’s very easy for me to be saddened and frustrated by the difficulties of reality, but I believe that it’s the ethical and, in the end, the most effective way to move conservation forward.

Thanks to generous collaborators, I’m able to study these dolphins and the potential impact of artisanal fisheries on them at four sites: Malampaya Sound (on Palawan, in the Philippines); Trat Province (Thailand); Mahakam River (Kalimantan, Indonesia); and the Guimaras and Iloilo Straits, also in the Philippines and where I am now.

Strong top-down management...

The Guimaras Strait site is fascinating because it is different from Malampaya Sound (where I was last year) in many ways - stronger enforcement of fishing regulations, closer proximity to major cities, and a more diverse suite of human impacts to the marine envrionment.  What’s also really cool is that the Irrawaddy dolphins (lumbalumba) here were only recently discovered to science – in 2004 (I believe), a researchers with SEAFDEC recorded their presence here based on a stranding.  Dr. Louella Dolar (who has truly been a spectacular mentor for me and has helped me enter the Southeast Asian cetacean research community) has been conducting research on this population (using that term loosely) over the past few years, and her team (which I’m excited to be a small part of), including Silliman master’s student Mark, is still trying to figure out where exactly the dolphins go.  Interviews with fishers can provide valuable information on their historic and present range. I've been on two dolphin surveys here with Louella et al. (also known as "Team Lumbalumba"), and it's been very exciting to learn more about this population.

The coastline of Pulupandan and Bago – part of the Guimaras and Iloilo Straits site, and where I'm working now - is not the most postcard-picture beautiful place.  The sea seems constantly turbulent this time of year, stirred by constant, cleansing, otherworldly wind that, together with the input from the nearby Bago River, renders the water a milky brown (I guess that’s what you get when you focus on a dolphin species that likes turbid water…sometimes I wish they preferred crystal-clear water over coral reefs).  The beaches are strewn with trash.  And poverty is painfully obvious in the fishing villages.  

But…I find a sort of charm in these villages.  Snippets of beauty catch my eye…clothes drying in the wind and sun, giggling children playing, gossamer-like nets hanging off of lines and bamboo fences, bright curtains and vividly painted walls and technicolor boats, graceful palm trees, all under the brilliant and still sun.  The same type of beauty has enchanted me in fishing villages elsewhere in the Philippines and in Madagascar.  I’d love to spend some time focusing on improving my photography skills so that I can one day make an exhibition showcasing the beauty of these communities.

I may not be languidly strolling on white-sand beaches in my bikini and brightly colored sarong while unbelieveably brilliant turquoise water washes over my feet (though you could be forgiven for thinking that, since I do that during the few vacation days I allow myself), but I’m still doing something that I find fascinating in pretty amazing places.  Maybe someday this work will make some kind of a contribution to conservation...