Sometimes, rainforest creatures come to you…

My first night of a 4 month field season, I settled down to sleep listening to the buzzes and squawks of the jungle night, mosquito net carefully tucked in all around my mattress. After a while, in the pitch dark, I felt the net trembling, as an animal climbed down the cord that held it up. Then it climbed down the net itself, and then – I’m not sure if it was the first night or later on once this had become routine – it ran across my toes. Welcome to the rainforest, where the creatures come to you.

A few minutes later I heard it knock over all the things I’d unpacked onto my shelves in an attempt to settle in to my new home. It turned out to be an opossum, a large mousey marsupial, which was encouraged on its nightly forays by a long-term resident at the field station who lived in the room next to mine, who left apple cores out for it to find.

Earlier in the evening I’d discovered a very effective (for someone who isn’t good with spiders) energy saving device above the lightswitch. spider lightswitch

It was a good introduction, as various animals were frequently found in the station buildings, from the boa that settled in a couple of metres beyond my desk in the library, to the (absolutely massive) tarantula that appeared in my bedroom (some may wonder why an arachnophobe would live in the jungle), the frogs and geckos that patrolled the bedroom walls, the curly centipedes that would drop from the palm thatched dorm roof, the cockroaches that could be found snacking on soap in the middle of the night, and once a tiny black scoprion in the middle of my bedroom floor.

I became quite attached to one particular creature that I shared a cabin with for a while, although the first time I saw it – a black frog appearing in the toilet bowl when I flushed it – it made me jump. He would appear as the flush was pressed, swim hard against the current to avoid being swept away, and disappear again under the rim afterwards. It took me ages to figure out he wasn’t living just out of sight in the bowl, but up in the cistern. What the toilet offered over the forest I don’t know, but he was always there, swimming away. Until one day I was devastated to see him swim not quite hard enough, and disappear down the pipe. I was happy to see him again a few days later, or if not the same frog, another who shared its taste in cisterns.

My field assistant once encountered a jaguar a few metres away when he made a night-time trip from the dorm building to the bathroom cabin, at CICRA’s satellite station CM1. The two buildings are separated by a short stretch of grass. As he was about to return to the dorm, he spotted huge eye-shine in the beam of his headtorch, and could even make out the markings on the jaguar’s face. The eyes moved down to the ground, and back up again, as if sizing up prey. The following morning dawned grey and rainy, meaning no mist-netting could be done, and I wondered why he was up and wide awake so early. He hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

CM1 bathrooms are evidently treacherous places, as this photo from good friend and fellow CICRA resident,  Brian Phillips, shows. Might make you re-think how badly you need to go.

snake chain

Advertisements

The best commute in the world, and searching for a subflava in a gold mine

One of the main questions we were investigating was the importance of rivers in structuring populations of our chosen antbird species (the Peruvian warbling antbird Hypocnemis peruviana, yellow-breasted warbling antbird H. subflava, and the chestnut-tailed antbird Myrmeciza hemimelaena). In other words, how connected are individuals on one side of a river with those on the other? Are they equally likely to mate with those on near and far sides of a river? And if there are river effects, do these differ between species, depending on their ecology and behaviour? (These are questions at a local scale, that form part of broader questions relating to the diversification of Amazonian birds; more background information about the project is given in an earlier post.)

It is possible to look at population connectedness by using genetic analysis of blood samples. In a technique analogous to DNA fingerprinting, individual patterns of genetic markers can be described for each bird. Instead of using these to work out the relationship between two birds, the distribution of markers within a whole population can be assessed. Clusters in the data reflect groups of individuals that are more closely related to each other than to other groups. These clusters can then be matched with their geographical location, and if they fall on opposite sides of a river, then this would suggest that the river is a barrier to gene-flow (interbreeding) between populations.

Our analyses are still not complete, so the final part of the story is not yet known, but all this meant that we needed to cross the river to collect samples. Instead of setting off into the forest in the morning, we would descend the 250 stairs from the high upland terra firme, down to the riverbank. We’d scramble into a boat, and if the engine started quickly, we’d be on our way in the dawn twilight, watching the sky change colour, and the mist rise from the river. It was only a short journey down river, either 10 minutes to the village of Boca Amigos, or 20 minutes to a satellite station belonging to CICRA, known as CM1. But it was a beautiful way to travel to ‘work’, one that I never failed to appreciate, and one that was always different depending on the weather and light.

Boca Amigos is a small village, home to a handful of families, with most houses also seeming to double as a shop or bar. There’s a small school, and a football pitch, as can be found in every Peruvian community no matter how small. We’d arrive before many people were up, and would quietly walk between the houses to reach the trails into the forest beyond.

The journey to Boca, and our exploration of the surrounding forest, also brought home one of the less beautiful aspects of life in the Amazon: gold mining. We would pass mining dredges on our way downriver (in fact we could hear them, generators running late into the night, from CICRA).

The price of gold keeps on rising, and the opportunity to make a decent living in the jungle by mining gold continues to attract migrants, particularly from the Andes. The work is tough and relentless, but profitable. It results in huge mounds of gravel, deforestation, and leaves behind desolate expanses of bare ground, and pits filled with polluted water.

The cheapest and easiest way to extract gold is to use mercury. Mercury is therefore being constantly washed into the river, entering the forest ecosystem and food chain, and is likely to be having a terrible effect not only on the forest species but also on human health. The whole issue of mining is complex and controversial: the needs of people and the protection and conservation of the rainforest requires a careful balance, which has not yet been reached. It is an issue right across Amazonia. Although the blue-tarpaulin covered mining camps that we walked through behind Boca were small-scale, some mining operations have an impact on a much greater scale, and anyone who has flown between Cusco and Puerto Maldonado will have seen a huge scar in the otherwise mostly unbroken rainforest canopy.

Mist-netting around a gold mine was not something I had expected when I set off for Peru. It was shocking to see the devastation of the mines. We would climb over huge felled trees, and navigate around the pits, trying to hear our species singing above the noise of the generators.

We found birds adjacent to the mines, and were defecated on from a great height by a group of howler monkeys who objected to our presence, so jungle life continues in the adjacent forest. This gave some hope that once abandoned, the mines could be reclaimed by the forest. But I have no idea how long it will take for all traces of the mines to be gone, as the ground has not simply been cleared, but excavated, and the effects of mercury – invisible and far-reaching – are likely to persist for much longer. Working there also gave us a more personal perspective on the whole situation. We exchanged buenos dias with miners as they were preparing their breakfast, bemused at the site of us with our microphones and mist-netting gear, and they came to our rescue when our boat engine wouldn’t start. It is easy to say that the mining should be stopped – and heartbreaking to learn about the extent of the destruction across Peru and beyond – but is not easy to achieve, especially whilst also ensuring the livelihoods of those who currently depend on it. A much more in-depth and eloquent report on gold mining can be found on the Smithsonian magazine website, and an award-winning new film, Amazon Gold, documents the destruction of the Peruvian rainforest for gold. The trailer below is well worth a look.