Conservation, Captivity

There is something about zoos that is at once inherently sad, yet touches on our most basic curiosities. For many people, a captive environment is the only place they will get an up-close view of certain animals. It gives us a glimpse of their otherwise mysterious behavior, sounds, and activities – bewildering, endearing, dangerous, intelligent.

A tapir’s searching snout, the rambunctiousness of baby raccoons. Jaguars stretching in enlarged mimicry of the average housecat, the familial resemblance in the depth of primate eyes, the familiar fingers. The elegant span of a peacock tail, a toucan’s splendid multi-colored beak, iguanas lounging in streams of sunlight. Without seeing this beauty, would we have the desire to preserve it, to ensure its continued existence? Would it be vital, or merely background noise, the faraway cry of something disconnected from our selves?

Zoos educate visitors and can provide a sometimes necessary tool for conservation, protection and propagation of species, provided that there is adequate space and cleanliness, as well as proper treatment. But, when does our innate curiosity and desire to help cross the line from conservation and education into the realm of mere captivity and entertainment? What is protection and conservation? How little space is too little, how many animal roommates too many?

In El Valle’s Nispero Zoo, as in many zoos across the globe, this fine line is walked. However, tucked away within the zoological property, and funded in part by visitor admission fees to the zoo as a whole, resides a conservation project absolutely essential to the survival of some of the country’s most emblematic and endangered amphibian species.

The area surrounding Panama’s El Valle provides the habitat for an astounding (but dwindling) variety of amphibians, including the national symbol for conservation, Rana Dorada, or the Golden Frog. However, due to an invasive fungus that has been wiping out the area frogs, the number of species has dropped from 68 to 40 in recent years.

In an attempt to stem the losses, the fine folks at the El Valle Amphibian Conservation Center have taken to rescuing infected frogs, toads, and salamanders and treating them with an anti-fungal solution. This led to the development of a clean room atmosphere in which to house the amphibians, as well as an education and exhibition room, at least until some sort of solution to the spreading fungus is discovered and the frogs can be released back into their natural habitat.

Frogs, particularly the tropical variety, are infinitely variable and fascinating. Such spectrum of color, from vibrant and dangerous to subtle, earthy disguise. Massive, bulbous eyes and globular fingers and toes hide within their environment, tucked away in leaves, blending in or providing sharp contrast.

I, for one, am proud to visit the local exhibits, the fruit of conservation efforts to protect native creatures. But, without the surrounding zoo, and the ethical dilemmas that go hand-in-hand with a zoo’s existence, would the conservation center remain afloat?

Without a simple answer, I will at least try to direct my money in the way of conservation rather than entertainment, preservation rather than exploitation. Because, should we deny our animal brethren a helping hand, their entire future could be in peril.

From Rich Soil

El Valle de Antón, a quiet town just off Panama’s well-worn tourist track, has unique geological roots: a volcanic caldera, which filled over time to form a lake, which sprung a leak and drained, leaving behind a valley full of nutrient-rich volcanic soil.

In addition to the soil, a horticulturalist’s dream sold as ‘tierra negra’, the area surrounding El Valle is home to a wealth of flora and fauna, making it a vital piece of Panama’s ecological bounty, as well as a lovely stopover for several days of conservation-related activities.

El Valle’s Orchid Nursery is essential in maintaining the more than 1300 species of orchids, some 200 of which are endangered, native to the area around the valley. Thanks to concerted efforts from volunteers, funding from Panamanian and Japanese orchid growers, and helping hands from local farms and residents, the Nursery is able to propagate, relocate, and protect the local orchids.

When I think of orchids, I typically think of the two or three varieties I am used to: white or purple, sometimes pink. And even if the color varies, the shape is typically similar. I had absolutely no idea of the plethora of shapes and size, the sheer variety that’s possible in the world of orchids.

From as big as the palm of your hand to tiny as the head of a pin, in colors vibrant and muted, the orchids provided visitors with a visual feast. Sprouting from mossy trees, growing nestled in the earth, or being cultivated and tended in pots, El Valle’s orchids displayed deep, flamboyantly-colored throats and lush petals with a dramatic flair. Well worth the donation to see to it that these bold actors of the floral world flourish.

So Long and Thanks for All the Arepas

For our final Colombian destination, we chose Cartagena. After two months of calling Colombia home, a much shorter time than anticipated due to some very unexpected changes in our plans, we were down to our last couple of days.

Cartagena oozes old world colonial charm. Buildings, facades crumbling and faded, repainted in vibrant hues, wind along narrow streets throughout the old quarter of town, a UNESCO World Heritage gem. The walled old city, surrounded by the coralstone protection of once-great fortress walls, maintains an air of Spanish colonialism infused with a taste of the Caribbean.

We roamed the city, took in the sights and the history. We indulged in our final Colombian arepas, corn-flour pancakes essential in the local diet, piled high with cheese and eggs. We sipped on juice made from local fruits. 

Church-studded, flavored with diverse history, Cartagena makes for a beautiful place to laze about, stroll around, and generally take in bit by bit. Scorching heat, high humidity, and a perplexing lack of water (of our three days in Cartagena, we only had water for a day), and heavy afternoon showers drove us into the hostel’s shady patio for much of the time.

Maybe not ideal by most postcard holiday standards (I certainly could have used another shower or two), but Cartagena served as a lovely sendoff in its own right, a beautiful goodbye to Colombia. And it gave us a bit of calm before our Central American whirlwind tour

Where Time Slows Down

Ah, old colonial towns. Whitewashed buildings, nearly blinding in the sun, topped with red-orange tiles, doors and windows painted in vibrant colors. A town square, complete with bubbling fountain, a magnificent church, and plenty of stands peddling foods, hats, ponchos, and produce of every shape and variety. Cobblestone streets make their way from house to house, leading onward dogs and cars alike. Residents recline about in shady patches.

This quaint scene has repeated itself time and again in our Colombian travels. The midday sun, soon to be quenched by afternoon rains, drives people into the shade and under the brims of hats. It makes you feel the need to slow down, to adjust to the siesta-loving pace of the locals. Here, time works at the speed of molasses, slow and sticky, irresistible. It is the time of slow-cooked meals and freshly made juice.

Nestled in among mountains and greenery, these are towns and cities built in clusters, settled into their individual nooks and crannies. They stack together, tumbling and climbing around hills and valleys. And, though each of the towns are so similar, each time we crest a hill the blues and greens that wrap themselves around these colonial towns, entangled with gauzy white clouds, catch me off guard. I am reminded that, although it may be difficult coming from a Western perspective, it is important to stop, appreciate places where time runs a bit slower, and just sip it all in. 

Colorsplosion!

This past weekend marked my six monthiversary as a non-smoker. To celebrate, I ran my first ever 5k. And I did it in a big, colorful way. 

Let me make one thing clear: I am not a runner. It’s not that I don’t like physical activity; I love to be outdoors, to push the limits of what I can do, to challenge myself physically and mentally. I have strength and flexibility in spades, and my lung capacity is finally recovering after eight years of smoking being a vital part of my cardio regimen.

But running, just plain old running, is something I find to be unbearable. Not only does it mean wearing shoes, to which I am generally opposed, but it is tedious and boring. I am just not athletic or competitive enough to have the desire to run. Where's the variety? Where's the fun?

And then a beautiful event crossed my path, scheduled for six months, to the day, after I quit smoking. The Color Run. It looked awesome, even if running was inherently part of the deal. So I got some friends together to form a team. I figured, support and commitment to others is important when you’re doing something you’re not naturally inclined toward.

As the day came, bright and early, six thousand color runners decked out in crisp, clean white t-shirts waited at the starting line. Young and old, in strollers, on foot and in wheelchairs, color runners came in all shapes and sizes. Donning knee socks, tutus, wigs, and wedding dresses, this crowd was ready to celebrate life.

Five kilometers, hundreds of barrels of colored powder, and a dash of early morning cardio later, and there was nothing clean or white to be seen. And then, just to be certain, we all rejoiced by throwing color up in the air, again and again, because you can never be colorful enough. 

Vibrant, multi-hued, full of joy and celebration about having healthy, beautiful human bodies. Non-competitive, full of high fiving and support. Totally worth a little bit of running and one helluva scrub-down post-run shower.

Kop Khun Kah

Thank you, Thailand, for eighteen wonderful months. Thank you for costing so little, but offering so much. Thank you for people so friendly and open. Thank you for incredible students, co-workers, and pets. Thank you for little bananas, sweet sweet mangoes, and introducing me to mangosteen. Thank you for monkeys and tigers and geckos (oh my!). Thank you for locals who draw eyebrows on cats and put T-shirts on dogs.

Thank you for helping me to become both an English teacher and a Yoga teacher. Thank you for cheap food and beer. Thank you for tuk-tuks and third class trains. Thank you for squat toilets and cold showers (because what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger).Thank you for "Thai time" and total chaos.

But mostly, thank you for helping me to triumph over Western pitfalls of stress and worry. Thank you for forcing me outside of my comfort zone, it has made all the difference.

Ratchafitti

Thailand must be a dream come true for graffiti artists. Blank cinderblock walls line every street, empty canvases just waiting for some color.

Back in Ratchaburi for the remainder of our time in the Land of Smiles, we have been utterly captivated by some of the street art around town. It greets you as you cross the river into the city, it's outside the mall, in empty lots and down side streets. With bold, eye-catching hues and unique images, the art stands out.

And it all seems to be done by someone named Pluto. Whoever this Pluto is, I admire the quality of the work and the depth of creativity. It makes me consider adding “learn my way around a can of spray paint” to my bucket list. 

Rewind: Christmas in Laos

Christmas 2010, Win and I were given an incredible, unexpected gift: a week off from teaching, contingent on our doing a “visa run” to Laos. Your typical visa run involves going to a Thai consulate in another country with a massive envelope of paperwork (Laos, apparently on best consular terms with Thailand, is the country of choice among teachers), waiting x number of days, and going back to Thailand with a Non-Immigrant B visa in-hand. However, having decided to get yearlong multiple entry visas, our visa run was a cake walk: leave Thailand, see another country, come back to Thailand and get a new 3-month entry stamp. So to Laos we went.

Twelve hours on a train, an hour waiting around at the border crossing, and a single sign telling drivers to start driving on the right, and we were in Laos. Flat, dry, and rundown, Laos’ capital city of Vientiane made for a lackluster first impression. Buildings, storefronts, even the stray cats, everything was sparse, dismal.

Aside from the presence of a bowling alley and the city signage having French flair – a trait that carried over to street, restaurant, and hotel names – Vientiane was very much like a small Thai city. The manner and language were similar; the architecture and tuk-tuk drivers much the same; there were the same orange-robed monks, the same women hiding from the sun beneath umbrellas, the same stray dogs rummaging through garbage. We navigated the city on foot, walked its streets, saw its museums. We ate its food, drank its beer, and spent its devalued kip (worth so little, I was withdrawing a million kip from ATMs the whole time, which was bizarrely satisfying in its own right).

After a day and a half, in what would turn out to be a moment of poorly executed planning, we boarded a bus to head into the heart of northern Laos.

Having been told that there wasn’t a bus leaving for Luang Prabang until evening, we were surprised when the ticket seller told us a bus would be leaving at 4 pm. As we stowed our backpacks and climbed aboard, it seemed a positive turn of events, catching a bus right as we arrived at the station. As the passengers were finding seats, the driver and some helpful hands started filling the aisle with packages, copious amounts of luggage, bags of rice, and all manner of freight, including three pieces of PVC piping, a foot in diameter and at least 12-feet long. In order to reach our seats, we now had to clamber and balance our way over piping, walking along armrests at times.

And so we set out, luggage shifting precariously in the aisle, Lao karaoke blaring and crackling from the speakers. Up and around steep, jutting hills, through luscious jungle foliage, encroaching thick and dark along the roadside, pushing its way toward the bus windows. As mid-afternoon gave way to evening, we passed through meager villages, clusters of single-room homes, many without furniture or front doors. The countryside wore its poverty openly. Bonfires served as stoves, simple elevated bamboo platforms as beds, possessions were few. Late into the night, long after the small village clusters went to sleep, the bus lumbered jerkily along half-finished roads, karaoke still blaring.

After twelve cramped hours, we arrived in Luang Prabang at 4 am. The whole town, all guesthouses and hotels, was sound asleep. We tried knocking on doors, calling phones, checking to see if anything was unlocked, all to no avail. So, we sat down somewhere well-lit to read and nap and waited for Luang Prabang to rub the sleep from its eyes.

Ill-timed though it may have been, our 4 am arrival had two unexpected benefits. First, as the sun started to peek over the mountains and the town stirred to life, we got to start our day off with fresh fruit-filled crepes, a treat one would be hard-pressed to find in Thailand. Also, we got to witness Luang Prabang’s famed procession of monks, numbering into the hundreds, lining the streets every morning bowl-in-hand, going from storefront to doorway, collecting alms, something many tourists wake early to see.

After schlepping around and scoffing at prices (“Only 40 US dollars a night”), we finally found a place to bed down for several days. It was a dank little hole of a room next to the guesthouse kitchen, but it was affordable. Luckily, as we discovered after napping well into the day, Luang Prabang was a lovely town, giving us little reason to spend excess time in our room.

Nestled between the Mekong and Nam Khan Rivers, The Unesco World Heritage city of Luang Prabang sits high above the flowing waters on its hilltop peninsula. It was my first tryst with a World Heritage City, a first fling that would, unbeknownst to me at the time, turn into a travel love affair.

Roaming around town, the architecture is awash in French colonial remnants; beautiful balconies, wooden shuttered windows, massive homes mixed in with smaller, more Southeast Asian structures. Cafes, baguettes, creperies, Luang Prabang embraced its heritage as part of the French colony Indochine, using it as a tourist selling point surely, but also full of genuine relics of its past.

French remains Laos’ dominant second language (though it is being steadily overtaken by English), and to hear the Laos (plural of Lao, referring to the people of Laos) speak French was a surreal experience. There was none of the harsh, nasally, pretentious quality that you get when listening to French or other Europeans speak; instead, the words were tranquil, a calm, steady flow, all rounded edges and curved letters. It was delightful to listen to, as if the Laos spoke French as it was intended, a beautiful, delicate language.

Mixed in with its French heritage, an abundance of Buddhist temples stood their ground, solidly announcing Luang Prabang’s Buddhism. Although, with the highest number of Buddhist monks per capita (a statistic I might be making up, but there were certainly an impressive number of monks), the predominance of Buddhism in the area announces itself. Everywhere we walked, groupings of orange-robed monks, from small male children to wrinkled elderly men, meandered along the streets. In all of Thailand, never had I seen so many monks, especially child monks, all in one place.

Despite the attempts around town to appear more festive, garland and lights and trees appearing in large numbers, it wasn’t a particularly Christmasy Christmas. And, with near-tropical temperatures, it certainly wasn’t a white Christmas (although I don’t know that Southeast Asians would know what to do with themselves if it ever did snow).

In fact, we spent Christmas Day flying back to Bangkok through Luang Prabang’s ‘International Airport’ (a building so small it resembled a bus station more than an airport). The flight was my Christmas present to us, a way of avoiding 24 hours on buses and trains. Buying airline tickets also gave us time enough to spend three days soaking in Luang Prabang: enjoying its dichotomous culture, eating French, Lao, and French-Lao food (I even ate some buffalo), and most of all, just relaxing, reading, and relaxing some more.