Ravoravoroved to a new blog!

Decided to shake things up a bit and start posting this blog on wordpress, starting in July 2011 - just a little fancier.  So: http://ravoravoroving.wordpress.com/.

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...

 

So, the resort's on fire...and the aftermath

The past 24 hours has been an interesting internal exploration of my attachment to material possessions… mainly prompted by the fact that half of Scuba Junkie's Mabul Beach Resort burned down in a blazing fire last night.  (I guess I'll summarize what happened first, in this post, and then, when my brain's settled, move onto documenting my deep and brilliant thoughts regarding material possessions...) 

I’d had a fantastic day of diving around Mabul Island, in the Semporna Archipelago off of northeastern Borneo.  I’d lazed on the beach a little.  I’d had a refreshing shower.   I’d hopped into the hammock outside of the dorm room next to mine (I was in #14, my lucky number!), and in the process met and chatted with some fascinating people, including a fisheries biologist who took time between contracts to be a dive master, and Kurt, Princeton ’08 (small world, ya?).  One of those serene, deeply fulfilling, “life is good” days.   As dinnertime approached, I returned to my room to wash my hands (my affection for animals meant that stray dogs had tried to nuzzle up against me whilst I chilled in the hammock), and decided to sit on the bed and check email.  My dorm mates were sitting outside, on our balcony, chatting with a guy from the next room over beers. 

Imperceptibly, the smell of burning plastic entered my consciousness.  Probably just another garbage fire…the poverty-stricken villages around Mabul Island regularly burned their trash.  One of my dorm mates closed the door so the smell wouldn’t get worse in the room.

Seconds later, another dorm mate rushed into the room.  “Grab all of your stuff.  There’s a fire.  Like, a REAL fire.  Get everything.”

Automatically, I packed my computer and grabbed my bag with my wallet and passport.  I started gathering stuff into my big pack, and then my brain froze.  I spent valuable seconds taking things out of the bag, then sticking them back in, thinking, “Do I really need this?  No, I should leave it…No, I might need it.”  I hesitated.  Should I even be packing?  Aren’t you supposed to just grab your passport and wallet and get the hell out?  No, we had time, right?  They would contain the fire.  I mean, it was probably silly to be bringing my bag out at all.  OK, Tara, just bring it, just get it and go.

I scanned the room, and some sort of autopilot turned on.  Shoddy sunglasses? No.  Notebooks?  Nothing too important in them.   Lonely Planet guide book?  Replaceable.   Go go go!  I sprinted out with my roommates.  Only then did I grasp the gravity of the situation.  Flames were stabbing out of the windows of rooms 16 and 17.  Rooms 13 through 24 were all connected, with thatch roofs over the entryways.  Smoke chugged into the air.  The manager of the resort was shouting: “Everyone to the beach!”, tears streaming down her face.  It was a blur of activitiy, panicked activity.

The fire was between us and the beach, so we had to run to the other set of rooms and then back to the water.  As we got to the beach, I gazed, stupefied, at the flames.  I wanted to take pictures.  Where was my…oh no.  I left my little point and shoot in the room.  Wait…oh no.  My new Canon, that I needed for my research.  I did not have $1000 to replace it, and it wasn’t insured (whoops).   It was under my bed in its bag.

This was incredibly, incredibly stupid.  I sprinted back past the fire.  Room 15 wasn’t on fire yet, so I dashed into room 14.  It was eerily dark, illuminated by the nearby flames, smoke starting to creep in.  I dove under the bed, grabbed my Canon, swept my hand over my bed and grabbed my point and shoot and its waterproof housing, and got the hell out of there.

Back on the beach, I found my way to the cluster of people who I’d become most familiar with.  My roommates.  The fellow Princetonian (“So…I think we should send these photos of the fire to Princeton’s weekly alum newsletter…”).  My dive buddy from the day.  Everyone watched the brilliant flames grow, defying the darkness of the night sky.  The wind blew mercilessly.  The resort staff and villagers were doing what they could, but that block of rooms was gone.

I felt faint.  The adrenaline, plus not having eaten in hours, plus my tendency to, well, faint (I hate it...I'm not a weak person, it just happens), all converged, and I had to sit down.  My brain feebly tried grasp the situation: “Oh. My. God.  This whole island is going up in flames.  The shanties just behind the rooms are just like tinder.  These people are going to lose everything.  I can’t believe this.  This is going to be such a tragedy.”   And, one by one, the items I had left behind popped up in my head.  Swimsuit.  The sarong I’ve travelled everywhere with for the past 5 years.  My Invisalign braces…shite, those’ll cost a lot to replace.  Running shoes.  All of my toiletries.  Not too bad, but still…if I’d thought straight, I could’ve gotten everything.  I vacillated between reenacting my evacuation and kicking myself for not grabbing more, and realizing how silly it was to let that bother me - this fire was dangerous, and if it spread, much more was at risk than a few of my possessions.  

Jeff, my dive buddy, had been in room 17.  He lost everything but his passport.  I stayed with him along with a small group of others, helping him talk through it, trying to comfort him.  “It’s all replaceable.  You have your passport.  You’ve already bought your flights.  Things will work out.”  In the meantime, I was trying to repress that sinking feeling in my heart every time I thought of another thing that I’d left behind.  I was kicking myself for not sprinting to the bathroom and then to the clothesline outside.  I was saying words that I knew were true, but they weren't comforting me...even though I'd saved most of my things.  “It’s just stuff, right?”

The opaquely orange flames had thinned out.  The outline of the building glowed deep orange as the fire subsided.  Beams crashed, spraying sparks.  Murmurings of the crowd diffusing into my wired brain.   “If that had happened four hours later, when everyone was asleep...my god…”… “’Where are we going to stay tonight?  It looks like rain…” … “I don’t know what I lost…I don’t know what I have with me…” … “What are we going to do now?”  The resort staff did a roll call.  Some walked around getting people’s reports: “It was about 5 minutes before dinner, and we smelled this really bad-smelling smoke. Like burning garbage.”  “I saw a light flickering on and off in that room.”  “Those women, they were using candles in their room!” 

I was thinking about the time that had passed.  It seemed as if time had been suspended.  Reality had been suspended.  The concept of time telescoped in my mind, zooming in and out, and it was all so surreal, and the panic was fading, and the stress was fluctuating, and…I had to sit down again.  I needed sugar.  The people around me were fantastic, contributing chocolate. But, as soon as I’d chomped down on that much-needed sugar, I realized how parched I was.  Ah, my Sigg bottle…is now part of the fire.

The staff started handing out water bottles. Scuba Jeff staff brought over more boxes of water bottles.  The fire finally slumbered.   We made our way to the resort next door, Borneo Divers, where the staff briefed us on the events and on the next steps.  Half of us were to spend the night at Scuba Jeff’s, and the other half at Aron Hayat – two “resorts” on the other side of the island that were almost empty.  The stark white fluorescent light in the meeting room cast grim shadows over tired, confused, stressed faces and scattered bags. 

Borneo Divers provided us with dinner.  The dining room was more cheerful.  I sat on a couch, still shaking.  I was surrounded by fellow tourists and by some of the Scuba Junkie staff.  The room buzzed with the same lines of conversation, interrupted by lulls where fatigue and shock took over.  But things slowly became more normal.  The Princetonian told his fire story, which was actually pretty funny (in short, he’d been in the shower and thought the commotion was caused by pirates attacking, and he’d considered barricading himself in the bathroom). I confessed to my fear of being in the middle of taking a huge dump when a fire or other disaster occurred.  Beer was poured and consumed.

Scube Jeff's

We made our way to our beds for the night.  A long line of people toting what belongings they’d saved, following the sand path across the island under the stars and palms, blue flashlight beams darting around.  Scuba Jeff’s was very basic, and they threw as many mattresses as they could into the rooms.  I was exhausted and felt grimy.  I wandered around a little, talking with people, but finally had to lie down.  I put my earphones in and scrolled to a random song – one of my friend Nathan James' trio's songs.  How nice to hear a familiar voice in such a strange situation.

I laid there, restless.  I thought about how I’d phoned a couple of loved ones, but not my parents - my mother has a tendency to freak out.  But I suddenly really wanted to talk to them.  I got up and walked to the back part of the jetty that Scuba Jeff’s was on, and dangled my legs over the edge as I dialed home.  As the phone rang, I realized that the water below was crystal clear…

It was so nice to talk to my parents and Danny.  My mother didn’t even panic.  But she said, “oh, Ta-Ta…you must have been so scared.”  And I realized I had been scared.  The whole night, I’d been pretty much on auto-pilot, but I didn’t really realize how I felt. And now I felt like crying. 

But then I pulled myself together. I was fine.  No one was hurt.  The surrounding villages were safe.  I had most of my belongings.  A feeling of unity had risen above the stress and panic among the resort staff and guests, and that evokes all sorts of warm and fuzzies. I’d talked to some of the most important people in my life that night, reconnecting with how much they meant to me.   And I was in Borneo.  Loving life, living the dream. 

“You know, Mama, I was really scared.  But I’m fine now.  I’m safe.  I have a bed to sleep in.  And…and…” (I looked around me, at the gorgeously transparent and placid water underneath me, and the thick, wondrous halo of stars above) “…it’s a really, really beautiful night.  It’s just…beautiful.”  Someone started playing delicate and soothing guitar music behind me.   I was a little spark of a soul among all of this beauty, these emotions, these thoughts, the events of the universe , and it all resonated and echoed under the pointilism stars in the cavernous sky, and I felt the spirit of everything in the world come gently together. 

Early morning from Scuba Jeff's jetty

Just… beautiful.

What's left of rooms 13-24

I've had a really lovely day today.  I visited the smoldering remains of my room (I confess, I was hoping by some miracle that some things survived, and I confirmed that this hope was laughable).  I documented all of my lost belongings, and it comes to at least $500, none covered by insurance (valuable lesson learned).  But, though there's a part of my that tries to nag and stress about the money (that's a big chunk of the grad student salary), I think I don't really care.  It's not really that much, considering what could have happened...and really not worth mentioning, considering how much I still have, especially when I think about the impoverished communities on this island.  I'm getting money back from Scuba Junkie, which they offered up-front to all of their guests.  I decided to spend more money and get a room at the fancy Borneo Divers, because I just needed somewhere nice to rest up, and they had a permit available for me to dive Sipadan (supposed to be an amazing dive site...and someone was nice enough to lend me her swimsuit for these couple of days).

Thinking about the "what ifs", imagining scenarios only slightly different from what happened, makes me realize what a close call it was (what if my roommates hadn't been on the balcony to see the fire?  What if I'd been taking a nap?).  That shakes me.  Walking around the island and smelling fire in the villages from cooking and garbage piles makes me really nervous.  But I've experienced enough happiness today to cast away those shudder-evoking thoughts.  I phoned my little sister, who I've been missing because I really wish she could join me for these adventures. I talked with my fellow Scuba Junkie-ites (turns out, surviving a fire is a great bonding experience), walked around the villages, sat on the beach, and had a lovely evening with some new friends.  On a tropical island. Life is good.  It's very, very good.

* Note: Just want to say that Scuba Junkie's a great company with awesome folks, and I would definitely dive and stay with them again (and they'll probably be the most prepared for fire, after this).  They handled this situation professionally, and, as I witnessed the quest of others trying to find alternate accommodations, definitely offered the best deal and service on the island. *

Sorry, I can't hear you - monkeys are jumping on the roof.

I’m in the Kota Kinabalu airport in Malaysian Borneo, fresh from an amazing workshop on coastal cetacean research and conservation in Kuching.  Somewhere between a discussion session being interrupted by langurs (monkeys) jumping on the roof, a morning jog on a jungle trail followed by a plunge in the fresh jungle pool, and a sunset mangrove tour accompanied by dolphins and two species of monkey, I was struck by how amazing the venue was – the Permai Rainforest Resort.  Just kidding.  I realized how amazing it was as soon as I stepped out of the shuttle from the airport and saw, through the fading daylight, the dense forest that ended abruptly on small, sandy beaches.

After our sunset mangrove tour

But beyond the spectacular setting, it was truly inspirational to be a part of this workshop – my first such meeting.  I met people whose papers I’d read and who I’d wanted to meet for many years.  I met students like myself, driven by similar interests and passions.  It was a fantastic sharing of ideas and experiences and vision, among people from the US, Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, and Myanmar.  It was sobering and frustrating at times, when we tried to deal with the muddle that is “conservation”.  But on the whole, it was really exciting.  And everyone was so friendly and warm.  It’s a great research community to be a new part of, and an added bonus is that I now know people and projects to visit while I'm spending time in the region over the coming years.

I even learned from a researcher from Myanmar that bad eyesight can be remedied by rubbing your feet and legs in salt every night:

"Really? Are you sure it works?"
"Yes. When I was 13, I had very bad eyesight.  A monk told me to do this.  Now, I don't need glasses.  Try it.  In 1 week, you'll notice a difference."

Unfortunately (well, I suppose fortunately), I can't test this myself, since I don't have bad eyesight just yet.  

Amazing how a week can seem like a nebulous unit of time, somehow irrelevant; how routine can seem so foreign; how “normal life” seems like another world.  I’ve been away from San Diego for just about a week, but my mind has trouble following the track of continuous time when I’m so far (in many senses of the word) from home. 

I thrive during these travels.  My mind is constantly stimulated and stretched and tickled, even if I’m not in the field searching for animals and talking to fishermen, even if I’m not in a workshop with the dedicated, bright, and lovely community of SE Asia cetacean researchers. 

The past couple of years of my intellectual activities can probably be best described as a process of punctuated equilibrium, with seemingly long stretches of stagnation while I struggle to maintain a high level of motivation and productivity but make few big break-throughs.  It is actually a source of anxiety for me; I am often beset with worries about my abilities to be successful in school, to actually accomplish what I want to (and what I confidently proclaimed to my thesis committee that I would not only accomplish, but accomplish with brilliance and insight the likes of which have rarely been seen before). 

But then I go on a trip to some far-off land.  The stress of the weeks (and hours) preceding each trip rapidly dissolves as I am immersed in a whirl of activity and excitement and adventure.  I rediscover my passion for my work.  I learn more about myself and about the world.  I concoct grand plans.  And I also gain perspective on my life in San Diego – perhaps the distance allows me a better vantage point.

So much for trying to write more succinctly.  I think I need to get ready to board my flight from Tawau, from where I’ll make my way to the Mabul Beach Resort in the Semporna Archipelago.  I need some days of diving and beach lazing to let all those ideas stirred up by the workshop settle into my brain, after all.