Tuesday, August 27, 2013

La Tortuga

     The primary purpose of my time in Honduras is to learn about and contribute to the work ProTECTOR (The Protective Turtle Ecology Center for Training, Outreach, and Research, Inc.) is doing in sea turtle conservation. My main goal for the four weeks I am here is to simply get acquainted with the culture, the communities, and the turtles so I will better equipped to return to Honduras in the following years for my masters work. The particular study I am helping out with this summer is looking at Olive Ridley sea turtle populations.
     As a ProTECTOR volunteer one of my primary tasks is to patrol the beach at night with Noemi and Lelyn (The other volunteer) in search of turtles. Upon finding a turtle (La Tortuga in Spanish) we will tag it (Via a small metal tag with a unique value so we can identify it in the future), measure the length and width of its carapace (The top section of a turtle's shell), take pictures of the specimen, and gather a small tissue sample for DNA for genetic analysis in the lab. After carrying out these procedures we will then wait for the turtle to nest (All the turtles we are working with a females coming to the beach to lay their eggs) and measure nest parameters and the number of eggs. The turtle will then be released to return to the sea.
     I don't know if you have ever seen a sea turtle close up, but these animals are massive. Adult females such as the ones I am working with can have carapace lengths of 60-85 cm (>2 ft), and weigh a prodigious amount (90-100). Carrying them, consequently is quite a chore. You have to pick them up by the sides of the carapace, flip them upside down and put them on your shoulder like a bag of flour, all while the animal is flapping its fins madly like one of those tin monkeys with the clanging tambourines (Think Toy Story 3 or Phantom of the Opera). Then, when you finally get them where you want them and are trying to take your measurements, you have to contend with constant squirming and efforts by the turtle to escape. One person's job (Me it usually turned out) was to simply hold the turtle to the ground (An action that is far harder than it sounds).
     So far we have found a total of four turtles since I have been here: three last night and one the night before. Last night we also had the opportunity of getting one of these turtles to nest in a nursery we created (Santiago's nursery) specifically so Noemi can do some of her experiments with the hatchlings. We are not, however, the only ones looking for the turtles. In Honduras and much of Central America turtle eggs are considered a delicacy and earnestly sought after for consumption. Consequently when we go out at night to monitor turtle populations there are generally a fair number of natives out searching for eggs; even staying up late into the night and early morning for the chance to collect the eggs (A typical clutch can be upwards of 90 eggs). If sea turtles were as prolific or adaptable as chickens or other such egg laying animal such predation would not be an issue. The sea turtle would simply keep laying more eggs and eventually enough would escape the clutches of the poacher to escape to the sea. As it is sea turtle populations as a whole are very low in Honduras due primarily to high juvenile mortality (Many animals eat turtle eggs) coupled with massive poaching throughout the country. Pollution is also a growing concern for sea turtle populations as the turtles will often choke on plastic bags or ingest broken plastic bottles. The particular species I was studying, however, is the turtle species of least concern (In the Vulnerable category) and very prolific throughout the world, meaning they are not likely to go extinct anytime soon.  

     Rather than end on that rather blah note, I will instead post a picture of the turtle we found last night to lay eggs in our hatchery. Adios!
  

Saturday, August 24, 2013

The craziest ride of my life

     In my previous post I said that I had the most exhilarating and crazy ride of my life. Turns out that wasn't exactly true. Yesterday I set out with Dr. Dunbar (The President of ProTECTOR), Noemi (A third year P.H.D student from Spain), and another volunteer. We left Teguc about 2:30 headed to the small village of Punta Ratón on the southern Coast of Honduras. We sped through the twisting city streets, stopped briefly at a supermercado for supplies and headed south to the coast. The road we took was the only paved road to the south and was, consequently, very busy with tiny cars, beat up SUVs (Mostly Toyotas), bicyclists, motorbikes, and massive trucks. Constant passing was the order of the day, often around steep curves and sheer cliffs. We twisted ever upward into the mountains passing small huts, farms and businesses. Every mile or so we would pass a dilapidated convenience store proudly displaying Coca-cola or Pepsi emblems and promising instant refreshment for the weary traveler; a stark testimony to the pervasive capacity of capitalism. Trash was a ubiquitous part of life in every town we passed, often lying fallen in the street or smashed on the ground, integrated into the ecosystem around it.
     For the first time since landing I saw the true beauty of the Honduran landscape. Amongst the crumbling houses, piles of garbage, and rusting cars sprung magnificent pines, deciduous trees of every stripe and color, elegant bamboo shoots, and exotic yucca and aloe vera. The forest rolled across the landscape calling little if it encountered tall hills or low valleys.
     As we were coming down from the mountains we ran into an evening storm. And what storm it was! In Honduras, as in much of Central America, the annual weather passes through two distinct seasons, a dry season and a wet. We happened to be in the wet season (May-November) and consequently would have to deal with storms for the entirety of our stay. They say storms are huge in the Midwest. They lie. No storm I have ever seen in Ohio or Michigan even comes close to the magnificence of this one. For several hours torrents of rain poured upon the earth, obscuring our vision and enriching the earth. Now I know why such biodiversity exists in this place. Nourished by the tremendous heat, humidity, and these amazing storms, life flourishes. Lightening hit the ground so close to me that I could feel it. Brilliant sheets of lightening rippled across the clouds like fingers of God, scouring the sky with their brilliance. Never ending sheets of rain scoured the concrete and formed vast pools along the road.
     Abruptly the truck we were following pulled to a stop. A car coming the other way, apparently, had lost traction and crashed into another vehicle. As we sat waiting for traffic to begin moving again, other vehicles began to “alternative” methods of getting around the accident from driving on the shoulder to passing into the other lane. Needless to say, it took some time for us to get moving again. Gradually we passed down from the mountains into the Southern Lowlands around the Gulf of Fonseca. (Named after the famed enemy of Columbus, Archbishop Juan Fonseca ). As we neared the coast the vegetation began to change. Palms, bananas, and bamboo began to appear more rapidly as the land flattened. The main river we were following grew larger in size as it slowed down and picked up water from tributaries. Towns began to look more rural than than in the highlands, more dependent on the land and less on the city.
     After some time we turned on a bumpy dirt road that lead directly to Punta Ratón. And when I say road I use it in the loosest sense possible. Imagine the bumpiest road you can think of, multiply that by ten, add several ponds and deep crevasses and you begin to get a picture of the road we traveled on. We did not so much avoid the potholes, as chose those holes we liked better. Nearing the end of our journey we drove out onto the beach, the waves softly lapping on our right and pulled into the house where I, Noemi, and the other intern would be staying. All I could see of the landscape in the dark was swaying palms and banana trees. Exhausted from the journey, I ate some bread, set up my mosquito net, and fell asleep.
     I awoke to find one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Punta Ratón looking towards Isla del Tigre

Friday, August 23, 2013

An introduction to Honduras

     This week began my first introduction to the wild, wonderful land of Honduras. Culture shock doesn't even begin to describe my first day in Tegucigalpa. The city is a rolling sprawl of raw humanity across a bumpy landscape of green and brown. Surrounding the city are rugged hills (Or colinas) covered in houses, trees, antenna towers, and to my utmost astonishment wind turbines.
     After landing and clearing customs (Substantially easier than U.S. Customs I might add), I walked out into the arrival area and was immediately washed in a cacophony of sound, color, and heat. I was supposed to meet Lidia Salinas here, the regional director for the ProTECTOR project I was volunteering with (More on ProTECTOR later). As I sat waiting in a strange country for a woman I had never met before, surrounded by people speaking a language I did not know, and sweltering under a very hot sun in 100% humidity, I could not help but wonder what in the world I was doing here. Me, a fresh out of college, ignorant American from Washington State in the bustling, tropical city of Tegucigalpa, Honduras. What was I thinking? After a period of waiting (Mostly consisting of me attempting to fend of taxi cabs wanting a fair) I eventually met Lidia's sister Anna who had come to pick me up. Next came the most exhilarating car ride of my life. If you can imagine an intricate, but disjointed dance of cars, buses, people, and motorcycles all attempting to occupy the same place at the same time with no regard to any traffic laws, you can begin to get an idea of what driving in Tegucigalpa is like. We zipped through narrow alleyways, over crumbling bridges, and past dozens of native's selling produce and knickknacks. Evidence of decay and disarray was all about: bumpy roads, polluted rivers, disheveled houses, and yet great beauty existed here as well. From the broken pavement and behind the barbed wire fence sprang beautiful flowers of vivid hues and enormous size. Beautiful niños and niñas in their school uniform laughed as they walked to school. Quaint tourist shops and local business rang with animated conversation laughter. In the midst of chaos life flourishes.
     That night I went out to the supermercado to buy groceries for the week and to find something for dinner. Food! I can barely describe how luscious and delicious Honduran food is. Fried plantains, fresh pineapple, and bananas right off the vine. Frijoles, tostadas, and tacos slathered with queso and fresh aquacartes. The people of Honduras truly know how to eat. That night I ate something incredible. Not sure exactly what I was eating, but it had fried plantains, lettuce, some amazing sauce, in a fried churro wrap. It was also a foot long. Needless to say it tasted amazing after a long plane trip and crazy day. In addition to this unknown tasty churro thing I had a cup of horchata, a sweet drink of rice, cinnamon, and sucar. It was a bit too sweet for me but very tasty. I went back to the room where I was staying that night, took pictures of the surrounding city, and collapsed in exhaustion on my bed. (Note: I will not be able to post a ton of pictures due to the slowness of my internet connection)

Tegucigalpa


   

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Thinking about food

I have recently been thinking a lot about food and why as Americans we seem to care so little about what we're eating or where its coming from. If it's edible and "tasty" we eat it. Even those many people who care greatly about what they eat (i.e. how many fats, calories, carbs, nutrients, vegetables, fruits, grains, etc. they are digesting) seem to care very little about where it comes from or how it was grown. In what other sphere of life do we do this? If you were to hire a plumber, for example, you would care very much that he actually knew how to fix pipes and was not some random guy in overalls. You might even ask him what his credentials were. The same applies for buying a house. When purchasing or renting a house you don't just see a house you like and immediately get it. You take the time to survey the neighborhood, ask about the house's history, and check into its structural stability. My point is that people generally think about the history and character of what they are paying for. Why should it be any different with food? When was the last time you actually considered where everything on your plate came from? Is it even possible to trace your food to its origin?
     I recently finished an excellent book on this very subject by Michael Pollan entitled The Omnivore's Dilemma. In the book Pollan undertakes an arduous journey took eat/cook/create three meals based on three primary food chains, the industrial, the organic, and the hunter-gatherer. For each meal he attempts to trace each ingredient to its origin (i.e. field, animal, forest, etc.) and follow its journey, with all its twists and turns, to his plate. Along the way Pollan gives an excellent critique of the problems and advantages of each food chain and comments on his own experience. Pollan, to his credit, does not specifically condone a particular food chain or completely lambast another food chain but leaves up to the reader to make their own decision. 
    This book was a breathe of fresh air in an otherwise stagnate atmosphere of fad diets and rampant food ignorance. I learned much more in this book than I ever wanted to know about where my food comes from and, consequently, have changed the way I view, eat, and think about food. Don't read this book if you don't want to seriously question what it is you eat. It has changed how I eat and it most likely will change how you eat to.
      After reading Pollan's book I decided to try my own form of creating a meal and following a food chain to it's origin. Since I would soon be leaving to attend a vegetarian grad school (Loma Linda, CA) and thus in all likelihood not be eating much meat, I figured now would be the best time to attempt this task. Near Au Sable in the small town of Kalkaska there is a wonderful little farm called Shetler's Diary farm that raises grass fed, no hormoned (And yes I realize that isn't really a word but I am going to use it anyway) milk cows. Never have I tasted such wonderful milk or had the chance to simply pause for an afternoon and pet calves. In a crazy attempt at following Pollan's example I decided to buy one of their steaks and cook it (Note: I had never actually cooked a steak before) While there I also picked up a half gallon of whole milk and received (Wonder of wonders) a free jar of buttermilk to tenderize/marinate the meat (These people are awesome). This past Friday night I marinated the meat in the buttermilk plus rosemary, minced garlic, and pepper (Courtesy of my fellow roomate Josh) (And yes I realize that the rest of these ingredients I did not trace to the source) and refrigerated the meat till morning. Saturday night I, with the help of my friend Paul Wiemerslage, grilled my steak on a charcoal grill. As I sat eating that delicious meat (Which incidentally tasted amazing)  and sharing it with my friends, I could not help but think of the cow that died to give me this meat. It, unlike most cows, did not spend the majority of its life eating corn in a confined feedlot, but, nevertheless it still died to bring me this steak. The cow, a living, breathing, beautiful creature of God that exists to bring him glory was killed to fill my stomach. What do I think about that? Still not sure but working on it. I recently read an amazing book on the subject, On Animals: A Systematic Theology: Volume 1 by David L. Clough, but I don't really have room in this post to go into everything I learned from that book. Another post perhaps. In the meantime you can salivate admiring a picture of the steak I cooked and ponder where your food comes from.

Delicious Grass Fed Steak from Shetler's Dairy Farm


Some Useful links
The Omnivovers Dilemma