Since the first time we went out on horse back, I have recieved constant criticism for wanting to be a gaucho. Gaucho this, gaucho that; I can't go anywhere without hearing how gauchos do things. Everyone who knows about my gaucho aspirations always chip in a comment too. I am constantly being told to do things that will improve my gaucho qualities. "Go make a fire James, show us you're a real gaucho; Go drop off the horse really far away, and walk back, it's gaucho training." Even though I recieve borderline harassment for wanting this status, I have taken it on my behalf to learn as much about being a gaucho as possible.
The first essential of being a gaucho is to have a really big knife. Knives are your tools for everything. Their uses include sheep slaughtering, making kindling, a weapon if you are attacked by a band of criminals, and are always usefull if you get a stray thorn from a caliphate bush (which is bound to happen). These knives are nothing to play around with, although toy can also be added to the list of uses. The average gaucho carries two at anytime; one pocket knife, and another swordlike monstrosity, all of which are as sharp as scalpels. The larger ones are called facónes, and are deserving of the unique name. The first really huge one I saw was fashioned out of an old machete. The long steel blade had been ground down to the finest edge. It was awesome, and cut through an asado lamb like a light sabor. I keep wondering if a knife can ever be too sharp, but until one of my fingers gets sliced off from checking the edge, I'm going to assume there is no such thing. Another essential accessory to the knife is the sheath. Sheaths are nice because they don't allow things to get cut unintentionally. Since the invention of the sheath, horse deaths by facón transportation have dropped dramatically.
Secondly, you must be able to leap over boulders on horseback going straight down a mountainside at full gallop. By leaping over boulders I mean you need to have keen horsemanship skills. The most important part of your horsemanship skills is your ability to use a whip. Frequent cracks without hesitation is the choice method of use. Personally, I think the horses like being smacked around a few times. You should see them out in the corral galloping around, ready to be sattled up. Its like a dog wanting to go for a walk; a really abusive one. These are solid horses too; not just your run of the mill thorough breds. These mutt horses have blood lines from all the wildest of escaped cattle rustlin' stock. I'm pretty sure their diversity in backgrounds have allowed them to express all the best qualities of each breed, or at least the qualities that aren't phased by the constant whipping. All of them are strictly gaucho horses. They don't even need brands. If you aren't their owner, or at least have the approval of the owner, they will probably eat you. Don't even attempt to feed them an apple, they don't like them. They would much rather go for gringo flesh.
The third, and most important skill for the manliest of men in the world is to be proficient in Home Economics. Blade, and whipping skills, are no match to needle point proficiency. The average gaucho must be able to cook a hardy meal complete with fresh tortas (because you are judged primarily by the quality of the bread you make); make a saddle, whip, or chaps; and also be hospitable if any guests happen upon your puesto. A gaucho without a warm fire, and Maté on hand ready to serve should be totally ashamed, and probably should leave the country (and go to Texas or something).
So far, I have a few skills down. I can make a pretty mean torta, I have a pocket knife that is fairly sharp, and I can catch and saddle my own horse without getting chunks bitten out of me. The problem with learning this, is that it is just the basics. I still haven't gotten into the social aspects like the quaker dancing, or the art of dirty double speak. They keep asking me if I jump like a rabbit, and if I like meat raw or cooked. I'm definately going to have to do some further investigations.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Puma Day: Part two- "Can you feel it coming in the air tonight..."
If there were a sixth sense, intuition may be a strong candidate. At any moment it can warn you of coming danger, or make aware the danger that has already begun to unfold. It is hard to explain this phenomena, but it can be of great use to the person experiencing it.
It struck me one afternoon while checking the site of a freshly killed guanaco. As I walked through the strangely shapen landscape, a feeling of imminent doom sunk deep into my chest, squeezing in between my heart, and my stomach. As I took note of the steep, inescapable walls slightly angled to a single exit point, and hidden rock passageways leading to the middle of a long sloping corridor, it occurred to me that I had entered into a killing chute. This was an area specifically designed for death upon death of helpless victims by the merciless puma. In the middle of the chute was a large heap of debris, collected and stashed in a mountainous pile. A freshly slain guanaco lay hidden beneath the uprooted grass, neatly tucked into its camoflauged grave. The location was flawless in its construction. Even being there with three other people in the middle of the day, I felt like I was going to be attacked. As we unwrapped the grassy burial shrouds of the recently departed, a bloodied rib cage exposed itself revealing the damage the lion had done. The entire chest cavity had been licked clean, but the rest of the body was mostly intact. This cat was going to be here for days before leaving the kill. That's when it occurred to me, "This might be a good chance to see a cat."
The sun and the moon were playing games with the light. I couldn't tell whether the sun was still up just enough to barely illuminate the area, or if the moon was shining with sunlike intensity. I was beginning to drift off, slowly feeling the night coming on hard. Just when I was about to slip away, I heard a swish of the grass. I perked up a bit, but maintained my silence. I didn't want to move because whatever it was might spook if I made a sound. I wasn't sure if my imagination was playing tricks on me or not. Maybe I had accidently brushed against some grass or something? There was silence for a series of minutes, but then came a loud serious of crunches. The guest of honor had arrived.
The moon shown bright, but only bright enough to see the pale silhouette of the beast. Its smooth grey coat, and fluid like curves seemed to become one with the night. I stared hard through my binoculars, straining to see the motionless cat. The only thing that confirmed that I was still looking at the animal was the low sound of crunching bones echoeing off the canyon walls. The bones made hollow sounds as they tumbled back, and forth against its incisors. The cat was buried deep in the carcass. It was completely engulfed in eating, but from time to time, it would jerk its head up out of the animal, look around, then jam it right back down into a juicy hunk of guanaco. It started to get violent watching this cat work over the 250 pound carcass. The cat would grab enormous hunks of flesh, and start rocking back and forth with it, maneuvering its body for leverage. With full body motions, the cat would rip entire muscles from their bones. This cat was on a mission, and it wasn't going to stop until it had devoured more than its share. I sat there for forty five minutes, or morek, listening to the thrashing, and shifting of the gorging puma. It was very interesting observing the feeding habits of this mysterious cat. The most interesting part was that it seemed like it didn't want to be seen by anyone while stuffing its gullet with as much meat as it could fit. It was like a person who had gone on a diet, but had to have that late night chow session without anyone knowing. There was a faint dog howl in the background, a swish of grass, and then silence ensued.
I searched the carcass with the binoculars for a number of minutes. The cat had disappeared without a trace. The event had begun, and ended, with a swish of the grass, but everything prior, and everything after, was totally up for interpretation. I sat there debating what I should do. I wanted to get back to the Estancia, but I had no idea where the cat was. That was the scariest part of the entire episode. During the feeding, I had no problem sitting there within pouncing distance from the cat because I knew it wasn't at all interested in me. Now the situation was a little bit tense. The cat probably wasn't too hungry, but what cat could resist an after dinner play session. I slowly backed down from my rocky perch, ducking behind any grass I could find. Safety was just over the top of the hill, but I had to be out of site of the obviously advantaged cat. I crawled, stopping frequently to listen (like it would actually help). As I crested the ridge, I positioned myself against a rockface, making sure it couldn't attack from behind, and moved steadily down the rocky ledge. Out of site from the kill, I lowered myself to the other side of the wall, and slowly made my way back. Two hundred meters felt like miles as I stepped silently down the path. As I distanced myself from the spot, I gradually felt a calming feeling come over me. I made it back to the house safely, but was weary of every shadow until I was in the safety of my own room.
That intense feeling of not knowing what could happen was definately unsettling. After being within meters of a hungry puma, and not hearing it at any point other than when it was feeding, I have found a new respect for not only the stealthyness of the cat, but for the darkness and what it conceals.
It struck me one afternoon while checking the site of a freshly killed guanaco. As I walked through the strangely shapen landscape, a feeling of imminent doom sunk deep into my chest, squeezing in between my heart, and my stomach. As I took note of the steep, inescapable walls slightly angled to a single exit point, and hidden rock passageways leading to the middle of a long sloping corridor, it occurred to me that I had entered into a killing chute. This was an area specifically designed for death upon death of helpless victims by the merciless puma. In the middle of the chute was a large heap of debris, collected and stashed in a mountainous pile. A freshly slain guanaco lay hidden beneath the uprooted grass, neatly tucked into its camoflauged grave. The location was flawless in its construction. Even being there with three other people in the middle of the day, I felt like I was going to be attacked. As we unwrapped the grassy burial shrouds of the recently departed, a bloodied rib cage exposed itself revealing the damage the lion had done. The entire chest cavity had been licked clean, but the rest of the body was mostly intact. This cat was going to be here for days before leaving the kill. That's when it occurred to me, "This might be a good chance to see a cat."
It took me a couple of days to finally have the whole plan laid out, but it wasn't really much of a plan to begin with. The plan was to get to the spot when the cat was most likely to be there, and see how close I could be without spooking him. That's pretty much as far as I got. I had no escape plan. The only really solid plans I was coming up with was where to sit. The most exciting place I found was a rockoflauged hole near the death trench. Large stones provided sufficient body coverage for a very close up viewing, but was definately a little too close for comfort. The only problem with the spot was that I had no place else to go if the cat did stumble upon me. I kept having this reoccuring vision that I would look up, and the cat would be right above me with a toothfilled smile. Finally, by Sunday, I was mentally ready for the encounter.
That evening, the stake out was on. I dressed warm, layering from head to toe in the most stealthy clothing I could find. The kill site was a mere 200 yards away from the Estancia administration property. It wasn't too far that I couldn't get home, but it was too far for anyone to hear my screams. I set out about eight o'clock ready for the impending carnage. I moved downwind from the kill, making sure not to reveal my presence. Slowly moving from rock to rock, I peaked my head out from time to time to varify that the lion had not arrived yet. My heart was pumping fast, and the adrenaline was making me sweat. I could just see it, me popping my head up only to face a lion staring right back, again with the toothfilled smile. It was near twilight when I got to the spot that I planned on viewing the puma from. It was a different spot than the originally hidden rockoflauged spot, but I felt like I had a better chance at survival. It was 25 yards away; close enough to hear exactly what was going on, but far enough to sneak away if need be. I layed down, and ceased movement from there on out. No puma was going to get the best of me. My body turned stonelike, and I slowly became one with the hillside. I had melded with the ledge so much so, I stopped feeling my arm. Apparently it had become a rock as well with the lack of blood flow going to it. I readjusted myself, and decided I would just lay there as if going to sleep.The sun and the moon were playing games with the light. I couldn't tell whether the sun was still up just enough to barely illuminate the area, or if the moon was shining with sunlike intensity. I was beginning to drift off, slowly feeling the night coming on hard. Just when I was about to slip away, I heard a swish of the grass. I perked up a bit, but maintained my silence. I didn't want to move because whatever it was might spook if I made a sound. I wasn't sure if my imagination was playing tricks on me or not. Maybe I had accidently brushed against some grass or something? There was silence for a series of minutes, but then came a loud serious of crunches. The guest of honor had arrived.
The moon shown bright, but only bright enough to see the pale silhouette of the beast. Its smooth grey coat, and fluid like curves seemed to become one with the night. I stared hard through my binoculars, straining to see the motionless cat. The only thing that confirmed that I was still looking at the animal was the low sound of crunching bones echoeing off the canyon walls. The bones made hollow sounds as they tumbled back, and forth against its incisors. The cat was buried deep in the carcass. It was completely engulfed in eating, but from time to time, it would jerk its head up out of the animal, look around, then jam it right back down into a juicy hunk of guanaco. It started to get violent watching this cat work over the 250 pound carcass. The cat would grab enormous hunks of flesh, and start rocking back and forth with it, maneuvering its body for leverage. With full body motions, the cat would rip entire muscles from their bones. This cat was on a mission, and it wasn't going to stop until it had devoured more than its share. I sat there for forty five minutes, or morek, listening to the thrashing, and shifting of the gorging puma. It was very interesting observing the feeding habits of this mysterious cat. The most interesting part was that it seemed like it didn't want to be seen by anyone while stuffing its gullet with as much meat as it could fit. It was like a person who had gone on a diet, but had to have that late night chow session without anyone knowing. There was a faint dog howl in the background, a swish of grass, and then silence ensued.
I searched the carcass with the binoculars for a number of minutes. The cat had disappeared without a trace. The event had begun, and ended, with a swish of the grass, but everything prior, and everything after, was totally up for interpretation. I sat there debating what I should do. I wanted to get back to the Estancia, but I had no idea where the cat was. That was the scariest part of the entire episode. During the feeding, I had no problem sitting there within pouncing distance from the cat because I knew it wasn't at all interested in me. Now the situation was a little bit tense. The cat probably wasn't too hungry, but what cat could resist an after dinner play session. I slowly backed down from my rocky perch, ducking behind any grass I could find. Safety was just over the top of the hill, but I had to be out of site of the obviously advantaged cat. I crawled, stopping frequently to listen (like it would actually help). As I crested the ridge, I positioned myself against a rockface, making sure it couldn't attack from behind, and moved steadily down the rocky ledge. Out of site from the kill, I lowered myself to the other side of the wall, and slowly made my way back. Two hundred meters felt like miles as I stepped silently down the path. As I distanced myself from the spot, I gradually felt a calming feeling come over me. I made it back to the house safely, but was weary of every shadow until I was in the safety of my own room.
That intense feeling of not knowing what could happen was definately unsettling. After being within meters of a hungry puma, and not hearing it at any point other than when it was feeding, I have found a new respect for not only the stealthyness of the cat, but for the darkness and what it conceals.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Puma Day: Part One - The Fortress
As I looked over the edge of mountain, I knew there was no way we were going to be able to sneak in on the mother puma, and her kittens. The area was obviously a puma fortress with a lake serving as a mote in the front, A cliff for defense, and two well camoflauged drainages for escape.
For the past several weeks, Mark and I have consistently been looking for the tracks of Mojada, a female puma. These were needed to determine whether or not she was still taking care of two kittens or had lost one. He needs this data to determine the energy requirements of a puma, and these numbers could be affected significantly if all the cats are not accounted for.
Simultaneously, the first volunteers other than myself arrived. It was a whirlwind trip to spend two weeks in Chile, and the best they could think of was working at La Estancia. I don't think it was quite the experience they wanted, but it is really hard to have a full out experience in Patagonia without staying for an extended period of time. Because of these time limitations, we were trying to help these guys get the most out of their experience abroad. This made for a great excuse to go out and track Mojada down. Seeing a puma would totally make anyones trip.
Just looking for a puma would be very difficult, but we had an advantage with the previously captured pumas. All of the collars are equipped with a VHF transmitter which emits a signal that allows Mark to pinpoint their location. It lead us to an open grassland with some random trees, and some hills in the background. He said, "She's back in there," as we exited the truck. It was a quarter mile walk to where the puma was hiding. It seemed like it was going to be an easy venture to see these pumas, but it was quite a bit more than that. As we got closer to the site, the entrance became blocked by seemingly impenetrable terrain. A series of drainages covered in thick thorn ridden shrubs, surrounded by jagged cliffs, and an uncrossable marsh blocked our path to the puma, endangering our chances of getting to view these elusive creatures. Our best bet for getting a sighting was to walk all the way around the mountain. This was not surprising, and was almost expected considering Patagonia is all about doing things the hard way.
After we reached the potential cat site, we pin pointed the exact general location of the cat. "She's somewhere in there," Mark says. It was going to be difficult. We needed a plan. I really wanted to see the cat, but I was willing to give up a good view so these fellow travelers could possibly salvage their trip. Mark didn't want to make the decision because he didn't want to feel responsible if these guys didn't see the cat he promised. "It's always really hard when you split up into groups because half the people see the cat, and the other half doesn't." With this in mind, I came up with a plan to put the other voluteers on top of a point that would give them the best potential viewing; I sent Mark to walk up one of the other drainages, and I walked down the second drainage. We sent the other two down first to get into place, then I stepped in.
I felt like a special ops soldier. I crept through the trees as if the slightest of sounds would alert the enemy to my presence. I would wince each time the leaves crackled under my feet. As I got closer, I started hearing sounds of thuds on the ground, limbs casually being toyed with, and the occasional rustling in the grass. From what I could tell, the pumas were just enjoying a casual day of relaxation. I kneeled there for a few moments, then advanced. "How close am I going to be able to get before they know I'm here?", I thought. All of a sudden, the other two volunteers came tromping down the path that I had made, sounding the alarm for the cats to get ready to run; Well, new plan. The other two went up the hill to the right while I continued straight to the other side of a patch of trees. When I got to the other side, there was Mark, already through the drainage. I didn't say a word because he was listening to the reciever. "She's moving," he whispered. All of a sudden he spoke in a hurried tone, "She's going up the drainage," and we were off. Short sprints combined with quick stops to listen for the puma guided us through the drainage. A section of it was split by the ridge that the other volunteers were supposed to be sitting on, so I went up one side, and Mark went up the other. I was walking fast until I got to some thick scrub. A possible sixth sense told me I might be in the presense of a puma. Just then I looked up, and Mark was standing right above me on the ridge with the Telemetry. Indeed, she was right there. I looked at Mark, and he looked back with a grave expression on his face. "James, come this way...," he warned. I looked at the position I had gotten myself into, and was not very pleased. I was a mere stride away from where the puma was hiding, with no escape route due to a poorly placed rock. I quickly made it to the top of the ridge. We stood there amazed that we had caught up to her. "Once the other guys came down off their spot, and you came out of the drainage, she had an open route. I'm sure she walked right by you guys. Pumas do that; they like to play 'Cat and Mouse'," Marked confirmed. Right as he said that, he interrupted himself and yelled, "There she goes!". I didn't see her at first, but she quickly revealed herself, slinking over the top of the other ridge. "There you go James, your first puma," Mark said smiling. It was a very exciting time, but I couldn't get over how much it looked like a really big house cat. He said "Yeah, pretty much." One of the guys stopped at the ridge the lion had used to escape, and said "Did you see anything?" He neglected to see the fresh paw prints just beneath his feet. Mark told them how close they had come to the lion, and I think it may have blown their minds. In fact, it blew mine as well. I was within feet of it, and I still couldn't see it.
We left the other two to continue their hike, trying to make the most of their last day, while we walked back to the truck to have a victory cigarillo (Snickers for me). It had turned out to be a pretty good day.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
If Only It Were a Mad Lib
Part of my reason for coming to South America was to immerse myself in not only the culture, but the language. My plan was to learn the language, and then see what doors opened. I thought about the language very nonchalantly, and I took it as something that would naturally come to fruition. Now, I have feelings reminiscent of childhood. I think it's bringing back all the repressed memories of the times where I had something to tell my parents, but just didn't know how to say it.
Learning a second language is possibly the most frustrating thing that I have ever done. There is always something that I want to say, or something someone else says to me that would be as simple as opening a door if they knew english, but not having extensive coursework in Español, it's like the door is locked, and I'm sitting there trying to pick it with my thumbs.
The first week I was here was terrible. I spent an entire time with the restoration team. I was pretty wary about going out for five days without any other english speakers, but what choice did I have? The couple of guys I was going with seemed pretty nice. We would have fairly simple conversations, only using words that were very similar to english, for example: Presidente, Barack Obama, familia, parientes, etc. The problem was that my vocabulary was very limited.
Upon arrival, we met up with some other workers that were mining rock. It was being taken from the side of a mountain to be used as siding for La Estancia's future park buildings. After we introduced ourselves, a whole new speed in conversation emerged. Words were flying from person to person like bullets, and we were in a shootout. To make it worse, they were all interested in me, and yet I could tell them nothing. The friends of mine decided to become amateur translators for me, but they wouldn't tell them the things I wanted them to. Each time we would start a new conversation, it would always begin with people asking questions of me, and my so called friends cracking jokes about me. It drove me insane. The other Chileans would just sit there and laugh while I didn't have so much as a word for them. All I could do was just take it. Later we visited a gaucho by the name of Ruiz, and he had some friends over for lunch. They were more skeptical than the rest of the Chileans I had met. These were weathered country folk that were tired of Gringos coming to their country, and had no use for them. I sat in silence, knowing that I was just another gringo. I confessed to one of my bosses that I was having a really hard time communicating. He reassured me that it would get better, but it didn't. I sat there for days in silence being laughed at, ridiculed, and left with nothing except a dumbfounded look. I finally retreated to my room in a puesto that night, and started to read a book. I figured I had enough trouble throughout the day, and that giving my mind a rest would help.
The next morning I was fresh, and ready to figure out a way to communicate. I started by telling them one simple truth: "The more you talk to me in spanish, the more I learn." So we started out with a quick overview of commonly used chilenismos, which is chilean slang. Most of them translated would naturally be vulgarisms, but to uneducated gauchos, it was a substantial part of conversation. In fact, that helped alot. When one of them would come at me with a joke, I would call them a name, and the listeners would laugh hysterically because I got them back with their own language. That became pretty fun. They would laugh, and tell everyone all the bad words they had taught me. Later, I would use them, and everyone would laugh some more. It was kind of a circus act, but it worked. I did have a little trouble getting through to Ruiz though. It was hard for him to understand my accent, and I couldn't understand his 'Patagon' at all. During any given day, we stop at puestos, and ate with the hosting gaucho. During one of these times, Ruiz came out with an accordian. He played pretty well considering he had no formal training. Finally, I asked him if I could try, and he taught me a simple accordian melody. I kept fooling around on it for a while, and eventually came up with "La Cucharacha." They were totally impressed, and went on and on about how I was better in 15 minutes than Pablo (our boss) ever was.
Since those days, it has been a slow struggle to get up to a reasonable level of communication, but I have been practicing by reading a duel language book. The only problem with the book is that it doesn't explain what situations certain words can be trouble. For example: one night I had been reading, and learned the word "duro." Duro means a number of things, but in this case hard. So, being the adventurer that I am, I was going to test out my new word. That night, they were serving left over bread at dinner from when we had been out at the puesto. When I first grabbed a piece I said, "Pan duro." All the guys at our table just looked at me, and cracked very mischievious smiles. I thought I was just describing something, but Mark knew different, and decided he was going to turn it into an insult. He told Pablo (the maker of the bread) that I said his bread was duro. Well, then Pablo turned it around, and told the head chef, Maria, that she made "pan duro" which is a huge insult to a chef, compliments of me. The entire cafeteria erupted in laughter, but I don't think Maria was too happy. I spent days trying to get back on her good side because she also cleans my room. Finally, after a rough weak in the dog house, she got me back by refusing to give me a second helping at dinner , and then confessed that she was joking and the fued was over.
Learning something new always has its ups and downs, and in most of my situations, they have been downs. But with the arrival of more volunteers, the tides have turned. Now that the english speakers have the upper hand, we will see who's laughing at the end.
Learning a second language is possibly the most frustrating thing that I have ever done. There is always something that I want to say, or something someone else says to me that would be as simple as opening a door if they knew english, but not having extensive coursework in Español, it's like the door is locked, and I'm sitting there trying to pick it with my thumbs.
The first week I was here was terrible. I spent an entire time with the restoration team. I was pretty wary about going out for five days without any other english speakers, but what choice did I have? The couple of guys I was going with seemed pretty nice. We would have fairly simple conversations, only using words that were very similar to english, for example: Presidente, Barack Obama, familia, parientes, etc. The problem was that my vocabulary was very limited.
Upon arrival, we met up with some other workers that were mining rock. It was being taken from the side of a mountain to be used as siding for La Estancia's future park buildings. After we introduced ourselves, a whole new speed in conversation emerged. Words were flying from person to person like bullets, and we were in a shootout. To make it worse, they were all interested in me, and yet I could tell them nothing. The friends of mine decided to become amateur translators for me, but they wouldn't tell them the things I wanted them to. Each time we would start a new conversation, it would always begin with people asking questions of me, and my so called friends cracking jokes about me. It drove me insane. The other Chileans would just sit there and laugh while I didn't have so much as a word for them. All I could do was just take it. Later we visited a gaucho by the name of Ruiz, and he had some friends over for lunch. They were more skeptical than the rest of the Chileans I had met. These were weathered country folk that were tired of Gringos coming to their country, and had no use for them. I sat in silence, knowing that I was just another gringo. I confessed to one of my bosses that I was having a really hard time communicating. He reassured me that it would get better, but it didn't. I sat there for days in silence being laughed at, ridiculed, and left with nothing except a dumbfounded look. I finally retreated to my room in a puesto that night, and started to read a book. I figured I had enough trouble throughout the day, and that giving my mind a rest would help.
The next morning I was fresh, and ready to figure out a way to communicate. I started by telling them one simple truth: "The more you talk to me in spanish, the more I learn." So we started out with a quick overview of commonly used chilenismos, which is chilean slang. Most of them translated would naturally be vulgarisms, but to uneducated gauchos, it was a substantial part of conversation. In fact, that helped alot. When one of them would come at me with a joke, I would call them a name, and the listeners would laugh hysterically because I got them back with their own language. That became pretty fun. They would laugh, and tell everyone all the bad words they had taught me. Later, I would use them, and everyone would laugh some more. It was kind of a circus act, but it worked. I did have a little trouble getting through to Ruiz though. It was hard for him to understand my accent, and I couldn't understand his 'Patagon' at all. During any given day, we stop at puestos, and ate with the hosting gaucho. During one of these times, Ruiz came out with an accordian. He played pretty well considering he had no formal training. Finally, I asked him if I could try, and he taught me a simple accordian melody. I kept fooling around on it for a while, and eventually came up with "La Cucharacha." They were totally impressed, and went on and on about how I was better in 15 minutes than Pablo (our boss) ever was.
Since those days, it has been a slow struggle to get up to a reasonable level of communication, but I have been practicing by reading a duel language book. The only problem with the book is that it doesn't explain what situations certain words can be trouble. For example: one night I had been reading, and learned the word "duro." Duro means a number of things, but in this case hard. So, being the adventurer that I am, I was going to test out my new word. That night, they were serving left over bread at dinner from when we had been out at the puesto. When I first grabbed a piece I said, "Pan duro." All the guys at our table just looked at me, and cracked very mischievious smiles. I thought I was just describing something, but Mark knew different, and decided he was going to turn it into an insult. He told Pablo (the maker of the bread) that I said his bread was duro. Well, then Pablo turned it around, and told the head chef, Maria, that she made "pan duro" which is a huge insult to a chef, compliments of me. The entire cafeteria erupted in laughter, but I don't think Maria was too happy. I spent days trying to get back on her good side because she also cleans my room. Finally, after a rough weak in the dog house, she got me back by refusing to give me a second helping at dinner , and then confessed that she was joking and the fued was over.
Learning something new always has its ups and downs, and in most of my situations, they have been downs. But with the arrival of more volunteers, the tides have turned. Now that the english speakers have the upper hand, we will see who's laughing at the end.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The West Still Wild
The West has been a driving force in American history since the first settlements heard of the wide open spaces. Although promising, it was a place of solitude, reserved only for the soul requiring the absence of humanity. The hardships required to endure were deep and heart felt, but not shown through emotion, but through appearance. The hardened expression on the face of the cowboy is not because of his status as such, but because he has been forced to deal inwardly with all the emotions brought upon him. The hardened exterior providing the defense against emotions intruding or escaping. With such an absence of feeling, one must ask themself "Why come to a place of such desolation?"
To answer this question, one has to have seen what they have seen, or felt what they felt. It's not actually the land that is the west, but the mind of the individual who has experienced the west. Such pure desolation plants a seed of thought that continues to grow uninhibited. It excites romantic feelings that can only be felt through isolation and pain. The hardshell of the cowboy may not, in fact, be to protect against the negativity of feminine emotions, but to hold dear to what emotions he has left. The ones that have seen the land, the creatures, and the absensce of humanity.
This last Saturday, I didn't exactly feel the hardships of the cowboy or the gaucho (aside from a sore backside), but I did get to go on an experience known solely to a herdsman, which is as close to the idea of the West as I will ever get. Our goal was to drive a group of horses to the otherside of the valley on horseback. The herdsman consisted of three people, Luigi, Cristian, and myself. Luigi and Cristian are definitely descendants if not themselves gauchos, along with me the Gringo. Right from the get go, we were moving. The herd we were driving had taken off at a gallop and we were in charge of directing their movements. But they knew where they were going. They must have done this hundreds of times. All we had to do was follow the hoove prints. They did get a little off track from time to time, but with a quick readjustment, we set them back on track.
The trip was five hours out and five hours back. Plenty of time to practice my horsemanship. Along the way, there was a definite feeling of solitude, but not loneliness. It really gave a man room to breath and think clear of distractions.
After dropping off the herd of horses, we went on to our final destination; an abandoned puesto back in the crevaces of what is known as Guanaco Valley. There, we made camp in an old shed and ate lunch. We had cordero asado al palo which is sheep grilled over an open flame. To eat the meat, we had to cut it off with huge knives that had sword like qualities. The blade slide through the meat like butter. We sprinkled it with salt and it tasted delicious, the fat crunching like bacon in our mouths. Next to the puesto, a bird known as the Bandurria had made a nest. Cristian had never seen the eggs before, so I took it as my pleasure to take a picture of them.
After lunch, we headed back to where we had dropped off the horses earlier. There, we administered medicines, and exchanged our horses for fresh ones. We also picked up a horse in the process of being broken in for riding. Luigi explained the process of breaking in a horse to me, "First you have to catch them, then you touch them all over so they´re not afraid of you, then you begin to ride them, and after six months, the gringos can ride them." I thought that kind of funny, seeing how I was no longer a gringo, but a gringo gaucho.
My new horse was fresh and ready to run. I decided to take her out for a gallop and boy did she go. The other guys whistled at me to make sure I was ok, but I just pulled back on the reigns, turned around and waved. Along the way, I happened to be watching the ground, and stumbled upon some puma tracks. They were the most defined prints I had seen to date.
By the time we had returned, I knew my body was in for some pain the next couple of days, but it was totally worth it. I had experienced the life of the gaucho, and it was good. To top it off, I learned a lot of things. For example, after a long ride by horseback, I learned the origin of the word "hardass."
To answer this question, one has to have seen what they have seen, or felt what they felt. It's not actually the land that is the west, but the mind of the individual who has experienced the west. Such pure desolation plants a seed of thought that continues to grow uninhibited. It excites romantic feelings that can only be felt through isolation and pain. The hardshell of the cowboy may not, in fact, be to protect against the negativity of feminine emotions, but to hold dear to what emotions he has left. The ones that have seen the land, the creatures, and the absensce of humanity.
This last Saturday, I didn't exactly feel the hardships of the cowboy or the gaucho (aside from a sore backside), but I did get to go on an experience known solely to a herdsman, which is as close to the idea of the West as I will ever get. Our goal was to drive a group of horses to the otherside of the valley on horseback. The herdsman consisted of three people, Luigi, Cristian, and myself. Luigi and Cristian are definitely descendants if not themselves gauchos, along with me the Gringo. Right from the get go, we were moving. The herd we were driving had taken off at a gallop and we were in charge of directing their movements. But they knew where they were going. They must have done this hundreds of times. All we had to do was follow the hoove prints. They did get a little off track from time to time, but with a quick readjustment, we set them back on track.
The trip was five hours out and five hours back. Plenty of time to practice my horsemanship. Along the way, there was a definite feeling of solitude, but not loneliness. It really gave a man room to breath and think clear of distractions.
After dropping off the herd of horses, we went on to our final destination; an abandoned puesto back in the crevaces of what is known as Guanaco Valley. There, we made camp in an old shed and ate lunch. We had cordero asado al palo which is sheep grilled over an open flame. To eat the meat, we had to cut it off with huge knives that had sword like qualities. The blade slide through the meat like butter. We sprinkled it with salt and it tasted delicious, the fat crunching like bacon in our mouths. Next to the puesto, a bird known as the Bandurria had made a nest. Cristian had never seen the eggs before, so I took it as my pleasure to take a picture of them.
After lunch, we headed back to where we had dropped off the horses earlier. There, we administered medicines, and exchanged our horses for fresh ones. We also picked up a horse in the process of being broken in for riding. Luigi explained the process of breaking in a horse to me, "First you have to catch them, then you touch them all over so they´re not afraid of you, then you begin to ride them, and after six months, the gringos can ride them." I thought that kind of funny, seeing how I was no longer a gringo, but a gringo gaucho.
My new horse was fresh and ready to run. I decided to take her out for a gallop and boy did she go. The other guys whistled at me to make sure I was ok, but I just pulled back on the reigns, turned around and waved. Along the way, I happened to be watching the ground, and stumbled upon some puma tracks. They were the most defined prints I had seen to date.
By the time we had returned, I knew my body was in for some pain the next couple of days, but it was totally worth it. I had experienced the life of the gaucho, and it was good. To top it off, I learned a lot of things. For example, after a long ride by horseback, I learned the origin of the word "hardass."
Saturday, October 3, 2009
At the Peak of Exhaustion
On my first day off, Mark (the puma researcher) invited me to go along on a hike into the mountains behind the Estancia. He has captured five pumas and is monitoring them via radio-collar. The cat behind the Estancia is named Mojada. When monitoring the pumas, the GPS signals can indicate that a cat is holding a position due to a number of possible reasons, but mostly due to kill sites. Mojada happens to be a very good subject for such kill sites because she generally gets most of her meal taken from her due to Andean Condors. Therefore, she has a kill every couple of days.
I was thrilled to go along, but didnt realize to what extent I was going to punish my body. We departed at around 8:30 or so on what was only supposed to be a two mile hike...Ha Ha. Things were pretty easy going at first. We walked along a fairly easy trail crossing small mountain streams; enjoying the morning sun; talking about all kinds of things, but that was just the beginning. At our first stop, Mark checked the coordinates of the potential kill. "Only a mile left," he said casually.
We packed back up and headed straight for the brush. No more trails here. We were crawling through thorn thickets straight up the side of a mountian, and he was experienced at it. He went through them like it was nothing. I followed close behind, but as the incline got steeper, I started to drag a bit. The trees were thick, and I think it must have only been 200 or so meters long, but it was exhausting. Mark kept saying how he could see the edge, but I kept thinking to myself,"haha Mark, thats only a mirage. Its going to be funny when we have another whole cliff side to go through this needle forest." Well, it didnt turn out that way. He was right, but I think I would have taken more needle bushes over taking the next step in getting to the top. As we emerged from the forest, the mountain increased in the degree it sloped. We stopped for a second to catch our breaths (my breath) and were back on the ascent.
As we got closer to the top, the climate began to change a bit. The warm, mellow atmosphere at the base was none existant approaching the peak. The air had cooled to a crisp chill, and the wind picked up considerably. My legs were in a serious state of being overwhelmed by lactic acid. It reminded me of lactic acid workouts I did during track season. The pain would be so intense, my legs would be on the brink of collapse, but I had to just keep going. As we got closer and closer to the top, I started falling further and further behind. Mark had a good fifty meters on me by the time we got near the last cliff to climb.
On our last approach to the corridor of finishdom, the air became frigid and the wind turned gale force. The wind was so strong, it choked the air from your lungs, then threatened to hurl you over the side of the cliff. That is a terrible feeling to have
We finally made it, but the whole aura of the place changed instantly. The violent turbulence of the side we had just climbed turned eeriely calm, dropping down into a caldron of moss laiden trees with shadows scattered across a glaze of melting snow. We were on the hunt for the puma now. Marks walk became slower and more cautious as we got closer to the kill site. Lion tracks covered the snow, trails leading in all directions. We scanned the trees hoping to catch a quick glimpse of a just fed cat, but no lion could be found.
As we approached the kill site, a kind of rancid smell filled the air. Come to find out, it was the ravaged stomach of a large male guanaco. We continued on, following the drag marks of the once living, breathing animal, now reduced to stomach rubbish. Lions are very powerful animals, and this particular lion showed its brut force by dragging the dead guanaco over a giant log. One so large, even the biggest mountain man could not lift it. On the other side laid the picked remains of the dead guanacos and with, sure enough, condor feathers littered about the ground.
I was thrilled to go along, but didnt realize to what extent I was going to punish my body. We departed at around 8:30 or so on what was only supposed to be a two mile hike...Ha Ha. Things were pretty easy going at first. We walked along a fairly easy trail crossing small mountain streams; enjoying the morning sun; talking about all kinds of things, but that was just the beginning. At our first stop, Mark checked the coordinates of the potential kill. "Only a mile left," he said casually.
We packed back up and headed straight for the brush. No more trails here. We were crawling through thorn thickets straight up the side of a mountian, and he was experienced at it. He went through them like it was nothing. I followed close behind, but as the incline got steeper, I started to drag a bit. The trees were thick, and I think it must have only been 200 or so meters long, but it was exhausting. Mark kept saying how he could see the edge, but I kept thinking to myself,"haha Mark, thats only a mirage. Its going to be funny when we have another whole cliff side to go through this needle forest." Well, it didnt turn out that way. He was right, but I think I would have taken more needle bushes over taking the next step in getting to the top. As we emerged from the forest, the mountain increased in the degree it sloped. We stopped for a second to catch our breaths (my breath) and were back on the ascent.
As we got closer to the top, the climate began to change a bit. The warm, mellow atmosphere at the base was none existant approaching the peak. The air had cooled to a crisp chill, and the wind picked up considerably. My legs were in a serious state of being overwhelmed by lactic acid. It reminded me of lactic acid workouts I did during track season. The pain would be so intense, my legs would be on the brink of collapse, but I had to just keep going. As we got closer and closer to the top, I started falling further and further behind. Mark had a good fifty meters on me by the time we got near the last cliff to climb.
On our last approach to the corridor of finishdom, the air became frigid and the wind turned gale force. The wind was so strong, it choked the air from your lungs, then threatened to hurl you over the side of the cliff. That is a terrible feeling to have
We finally made it, but the whole aura of the place changed instantly. The violent turbulence of the side we had just climbed turned eeriely calm, dropping down into a caldron of moss laiden trees with shadows scattered across a glaze of melting snow. We were on the hunt for the puma now. Marks walk became slower and more cautious as we got closer to the kill site. Lion tracks covered the snow, trails leading in all directions. We scanned the trees hoping to catch a quick glimpse of a just fed cat, but no lion could be found.
As we approached the kill site, a kind of rancid smell filled the air. Come to find out, it was the ravaged stomach of a large male guanaco. We continued on, following the drag marks of the once living, breathing animal, now reduced to stomach rubbish. Lions are very powerful animals, and this particular lion showed its brut force by dragging the dead guanaco over a giant log. One so large, even the biggest mountain man could not lift it. On the other side laid the picked remains of the dead guanacos and with, sure enough, condor feathers littered about the ground.
It was a prime site for Mark to get data and he will get his chance probably in another day and a half or so. Mojada has had 38 kills in the last three months, which his pretty outstanding. She has become a specialist, feeding solely on guanacos. She will definately have another kill soon not only because most of her meals get eaten by the condors, but she has two kittens as well.
Would I do it again? Probably. Im probably going to be doing it as often as I can. Pretty soon, I should be scaling the cliff faces like a guanaco, but hopefully not just like one. Wouldnt want to be picked clean by lions and condors.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Vizcachadores
La Vizcacha, a rodent of significant size, was on the list of animals I had yet to see in the wild. It is a strange creature resembling which can only be described as a cross between a 4-H show rabbit and a Chinchilla and is about the size of a really fat housecat. They have long, brownish-red fur and are equpped with a long squirrel like tail. Carlos, my appointed guardian and boss during the day, led me to a spot that promised to be plentiful with vizcachas. They live in the rocky crags of the Andes, especially on the western slopes where they can sun themselves at their hearts desire.
As we searched the slopes from the base of the mountain, I was slowly losing hope of seeing one. We had walked 2 miles from the Estancia, and there were none to be found...at first. We patrolled the edge of the slope for a while until out of nowhere, one appeared. We looked at it for about a minute before we decided we needed a more picturesque view. There was about a 70 or 80 degree slope covered in bush-sized thorn thickets between us and the vizcachas. The rocks were jagged and they were completely unstable. They kind of had a flakeyness about them with patches of solid granite in between. One wrong grip or foot placing meant the other person was in for quite the trip back, you know, carrying the body and all.
The vizcachas seemed fairly nonchalant about us being there, but everytime we got almost within picture range, they would dissapear into the side of the mountain. Suddenly, vizcachas were emerging from under every rock and from within every crack, but we still couldnt get within range of our digital cameras. We split up into a high road team and a low road team so that if one person saw one from below, the other could approach it from above, hopefully without being noticed by the momentarily distracted animal. It became very frustrating at times. The animal would be out, then the animal would hide; Another would come out, the hidden animal would appear, then both would hide. Finally, I took a chance and climbed above one that had been hidden for a while to see if it might have appeared. Sure enough, there it was, but it didnt move this time. It just sat there because it finally realized we couldnt quite get to it. But this time, we were in range with our cameras. In fact, at one point, I was within three feet of a sunbathing vizcacha.
As we searched the slopes from the base of the mountain, I was slowly losing hope of seeing one. We had walked 2 miles from the Estancia, and there were none to be found...at first. We patrolled the edge of the slope for a while until out of nowhere, one appeared. We looked at it for about a minute before we decided we needed a more picturesque view. There was about a 70 or 80 degree slope covered in bush-sized thorn thickets between us and the vizcachas. The rocks were jagged and they were completely unstable. They kind of had a flakeyness about them with patches of solid granite in between. One wrong grip or foot placing meant the other person was in for quite the trip back, you know, carrying the body and all.
The vizcachas seemed fairly nonchalant about us being there, but everytime we got almost within picture range, they would dissapear into the side of the mountain. Suddenly, vizcachas were emerging from under every rock and from within every crack, but we still couldnt get within range of our digital cameras. We split up into a high road team and a low road team so that if one person saw one from below, the other could approach it from above, hopefully without being noticed by the momentarily distracted animal. It became very frustrating at times. The animal would be out, then the animal would hide; Another would come out, the hidden animal would appear, then both would hide. Finally, I took a chance and climbed above one that had been hidden for a while to see if it might have appeared. Sure enough, there it was, but it didnt move this time. It just sat there because it finally realized we couldnt quite get to it. But this time, we were in range with our cameras. In fact, at one point, I was within three feet of a sunbathing vizcacha.
Our talking, limited as it is, pretty much ceased to exist on the way back. We were both tired from all the spotting, and climbing after the elusive vizcachas. Now, we are both veteran Vizcacha hunters, or in español: Vizcachadores.
From the perimeter of civilization
James Bowden
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Mexirado
Imagine going to a town in the heart of the rockies. Its partly cloudy with a crispness in the air bordering frigidity. The chimneys are steaming with the fresh smoke of firewood. Without warning, a pack of stray dogs raid a series of trashcans for churros with no mercy right across the street. It phases nobody, and the pack goes about their day with a fresh meal compliments of the local restaurants.
I arrived yesterday by plane to a small airport about 50 km outside of the city of Coyhaique. I could only find two similarities between where we landed and Kansas. The first being gale force winds. The terrain of the valley we landed in is comparable to a vast aged parking lot. Its very flat, so the wind has a chance to pick up speed, and weather battered by so many winters that it had developed an extensive series of cracks which now hold streams of water.The winds were so strong during the time we were descending, I thought the water in the cracks was going to blow right out of its banks. The second similarity really made me feel a little more at home: cows. There were lots of cows. I love cows...The rest of the area around Coyhaique looks more like scrub lands with mountainous mole hills. There are a few large peaks, but nothing serious.
When we arrived in the city, I felt pretty good. I didnt have any trouble getting there, my bags were fine, no trouble with customs, and then I got to the hostal...which was locked. I thought to myself, "Alright, I will be ok until it gets dark, then I might have to break a window." Luckily a local car salesman helped me before I could get my hands on anything rigid. The next piece of bad luck was losing my debit card to a malfunctioning ATM. The cashier at the desk said it wouldnt work because it was upside down. The only reasonable explanation is that the difference in magnetic fields from the northern and southern hemispheres caused it to redistribute itself within the machine. Thats believable right? The city definately has the feel of a mexican town transplanted in place of Denver. If it werent for the mountains, and the smoke stacks, and it being bone chilling cold in my room at night, I would definately be in the street yelling "¡Viva la Mexico!"
I arrived yesterday by plane to a small airport about 50 km outside of the city of Coyhaique. I could only find two similarities between where we landed and Kansas. The first being gale force winds. The terrain of the valley we landed in is comparable to a vast aged parking lot. Its very flat, so the wind has a chance to pick up speed, and weather battered by so many winters that it had developed an extensive series of cracks which now hold streams of water.The winds were so strong during the time we were descending, I thought the water in the cracks was going to blow right out of its banks. The second similarity really made me feel a little more at home: cows. There were lots of cows. I love cows...The rest of the area around Coyhaique looks more like scrub lands with mountainous mole hills. There are a few large peaks, but nothing serious.
When we arrived in the city, I felt pretty good. I didnt have any trouble getting there, my bags were fine, no trouble with customs, and then I got to the hostal...which was locked. I thought to myself, "Alright, I will be ok until it gets dark, then I might have to break a window." Luckily a local car salesman helped me before I could get my hands on anything rigid. The next piece of bad luck was losing my debit card to a malfunctioning ATM. The cashier at the desk said it wouldnt work because it was upside down. The only reasonable explanation is that the difference in magnetic fields from the northern and southern hemispheres caused it to redistribute itself within the machine. Thats believable right? The city definately has the feel of a mexican town transplanted in place of Denver. If it werent for the mountains, and the smoke stacks, and it being bone chilling cold in my room at night, I would definately be in the street yelling "¡Viva la Mexico!"
From the perimeter of civilization
James Bowden
Monday, September 14, 2009
"I'm a loner Dottie, a rebel..."
What do you do when you're fresh out of college, broke as a joke, and the student loan sharks are circling with the scent of unsubsidized promissory notes? Some may say "get a real job," and then proceed to live vicariously through Bear Grills, but I say nay. Leave the real world behind and become your own Bear.
For the next six months, I will be living in a tent in some of the most sparsely populated regions of southern Chile. During that time, I will be assisting scientist and volunteers in the re-establishment of wildlife communities decimated by ambitious sheep ranching. The emphasis is the preservation of two native species, the huemal deer and the puma. This conservation program was funded by Doug Tompkins.
Since the summer of 2008, I have known about Doug Tompkins, a top advocate of deep ecology, and the owner of large quantities of land dedicated to conservation in Chilean Patagonia. I learned of this interesting character from another interesting character named Wes Jackson. Wes is the founder of "The Land Institute," which is a perennial agriculture research center located in central Kansas. The first time I met him, he asked me what I wanted to do after I graduated. I, having only an inkling, replied that I wanted to visit South America for a while. Little did I know, Wes Jackson is kind of a big deal. People know him and he knows people. He began by telling me a story about Doug owning such vast amounts of land in Chile, that a dictator (I'm thinking Pinochet) would take his prisoners into the most remote areas and throw them out of helicopters. I mean, he really sold me on the place. Although a little intimidated, I still felt like that was my chance at traveling to South America. With a lot help from a former professor (whom I am indebted to), I began planning for what has now become a six month venture that ensues Tuesday September 22nd, 2009.
I have had a strange attraction to South America for sometime now. It must have been the years of Discovery Channel taunting me with the mysterious jungles, native peoples, and the ever lurking Chupucabra. The thought of becoming some sort of forest woodsman/jungle hermit is really quite attractive, and even more so now that I graduated. I graduated from Bethany College which is located in the most popular Swedish-American colony in Kansas let alone the U.S. I am a fellow swede myself. What does a recession mean to a swede? Everybody else is finally getting with the program. Full blood swedes have been pinching pennies for years. Good thing time is free.
Anyway, I will be making entries as often as possible, but I will only be near civilization a few times a month. I'm looking forward to my next entry. It should be pretty interesting.
From the perimeter of civilization
James Bowden
For the next six months, I will be living in a tent in some of the most sparsely populated regions of southern Chile. During that time, I will be assisting scientist and volunteers in the re-establishment of wildlife communities decimated by ambitious sheep ranching. The emphasis is the preservation of two native species, the huemal deer and the puma. This conservation program was funded by Doug Tompkins.
Since the summer of 2008, I have known about Doug Tompkins, a top advocate of deep ecology, and the owner of large quantities of land dedicated to conservation in Chilean Patagonia. I learned of this interesting character from another interesting character named Wes Jackson. Wes is the founder of "The Land Institute," which is a perennial agriculture research center located in central Kansas. The first time I met him, he asked me what I wanted to do after I graduated. I, having only an inkling, replied that I wanted to visit South America for a while. Little did I know, Wes Jackson is kind of a big deal. People know him and he knows people. He began by telling me a story about Doug owning such vast amounts of land in Chile, that a dictator (I'm thinking Pinochet) would take his prisoners into the most remote areas and throw them out of helicopters. I mean, he really sold me on the place. Although a little intimidated, I still felt like that was my chance at traveling to South America. With a lot help from a former professor (whom I am indebted to), I began planning for what has now become a six month venture that ensues Tuesday September 22nd, 2009.
I have had a strange attraction to South America for sometime now. It must have been the years of Discovery Channel taunting me with the mysterious jungles, native peoples, and the ever lurking Chupucabra. The thought of becoming some sort of forest woodsman/jungle hermit is really quite attractive, and even more so now that I graduated. I graduated from Bethany College which is located in the most popular Swedish-American colony in Kansas let alone the U.S. I am a fellow swede myself. What does a recession mean to a swede? Everybody else is finally getting with the program. Full blood swedes have been pinching pennies for years. Good thing time is free.
Anyway, I will be making entries as often as possible, but I will only be near civilization a few times a month. I'm looking forward to my next entry. It should be pretty interesting.
From the perimeter of civilization
James Bowden
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