23km of Jungle October 20, 2008

“CALL ME KERO,” he says introducing himself, “like kerosene.” Kero, or as most know him, John, is a bicycle enthusiast. He has been in Equatorial Guinea for five years, working for HESS logistics, and hails from Canada where he spent his youth racing Enduro motorcycles (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enduro). So when he tells me this, reassuring me that it is an easy 23 kilometers, I still am not sure accepting this offer was a good idea, mainly because and the nearest hospital was, well, not near (and accidents are Tristan-prone). But, with a hunger for adventure and a need for a break from estrogen (I am living here with five girls), I accepted.

I show up at the HESS compound at 4pm sharp, and Kero proceeds to load up several water bottles on to his top-of-the-line mountain bike.

“I’ve got a camelback,” he says, handing me my materials.“These two water bottles are for you. Trust me, you are going to need them. Oh, and I will carry your identification papers and phone. We cross a stream a few times and people tend to crash in them a lot.”

A shiver runs up my spine, but all I can say is “cool.”

The first couple of kilometers on the road to the trails are downhill. As we speed down an unfinished road he yells over the slapping wind that we are going back the same way; i.e. an uphill climb that will make my legs hurt tomorrow. As we approach a densely wooded verge, I realize there are no visible trails of any sort.

He, however, plows through unaffected, saying: “Watch out for hidden rocks in this part!”

Just as I was contemplating the irony of watching for hidden rocks, I find one, and it almost sends me over my handlebars. Had I no experience riding motorcycles during my youth, I would surely have face planted into the ground. Instead I ride it out with the grace of a chubby klutz attempting Riverdance. . The next 25 minutes are spent at a gruelingly slow pace up a very narrow, very muddy trail ridden with large rocks, low branches, and logs. I only hit one tree in this section and manage not to fall.

After completing what Kero called the first “section,” we begin a relatively steep uphill climb on a jeep trail, and enter another unseen trailhead.

“There is a stream ahead,” Kero says. ”Build up speed and hit it hard or you’ll get stuck.”

I guess I didn’t comprehend just how much speed, and when my front tire hits the water, it stops dead in the mud, forcing me to hop into the mud to avoid a worse fate. My running shoes now each weigh an extra five pounds from the hidden mud that lay in wait beneath the stream.

I simply pick up the bike, carrying it the rest of the way across the stream and pedal on.

While dodging potentially decapitating branches and jumping protruding roots, it dawns on me that I have only been looking out of the corner of my safety glasses (to protect from rocks and mud). The rest of the glasses are covered in mud, fogged to state of uselessness. Once removed, not only does my field of vision increase, my trees-hit-per-kilometer ratio falls noticeably.

We reach the pinnacle of our climbing, and nightfall is fast approaching.

“Hey man, nice job so far,” he congratulates me. “Now comes the fun part! Just stay close on the way down and try to take the same lines. Otherwise it could be pretty wicked -- and pedal hard through the big stream!” And with those words of advice, we begin the long awaited downhill section. He was right about it being more fun, but I would rather clip a tree at 2 mph than at 15! As you’ve probably guessed, I clip several trees, but only one sends me to the floor of the jungle. What proves to be most problematic on this stretch of the ride are softball-sized cocoa seeds strewn about the trail. When they start to rot, they turn a blackish color, matching the ground, but retain enough strength to stay intact when hit by our tires. These little buggers bring me down several times. It is also was not helping that we are losing daylight fast, especially when light intake under the dense canopy is limited to begin with. And then there is the “stream.” Stream (in Kero-world) = approx. 15 feet of fast moving, 6 inch deep water + large rocks + a now completely soaked Tristan.

A few kilometers later comes that hellacious hill climb I had forgotten about due to other distractions. Exhausted, thirsty (I’ve finished all the water, just like he sad I would), and starving, we drop off the bikes at his house after the climb. Fearing I might be late, I start to head off to class. He tells me I can use his shower and borrow some clothes to save the embarrassment of my current condition for another time. He gives me shorts to borrow and Equatorial Guinean HESS shirt to keep. After he drops me off at class, I wear the shirt with pride as I enter the classroom. However, as it is kindly pointed out to me, despite my grooming efforts, I missed several mud spots on my face.

Now, though it may seem as if I was utterly miserable during this jungle adventure, I had a smile on the entire time as wide as the Straight of Gibraltar. And despite the soreness that crept up the next day, I will most certainly be found gallivanting through the African jungle via mountain bike again very soon.

Hash

October 19, 2008
TODAY WE PARTICIPATED IN a Hash. For all you Hash virgins, I’ll explain, and for all you products of the sixties, it’s not what you think.
A Hash is a 6-10km (4-6 mi) walk/run organized by a person called the Hash Hare (either a volunteer or local Hash chapter designee). The Hash Hare is an experienced Hasher who, ahead of time, marks a trail through woods, fields or any type of passable terrain in the designated Hashing area. The trail set by the Hash Hare may include several false trails leading to dead ends for Hashers to follow, making them backtrack to find the real trail. Cold beer and water are served at or near a halfway point and also at the end during the post-walk/run BBQ. All Hashes are given names that have some significance, ours was called “Centurion,” which I’ll explain in a moment.
The BBQ is followed by a “down down,” which begins with a little introductory jingle, followed by the fun part: drinking and throwing around beer. The first beer is respectfully poured on the Hash Hare by one of the other chapter members who stands atop a cooler for a more dramatic effect. (The pourer and the recipient of the beer shower later invited me to play rugby with them.)
Next, cups of beer are handed out to the Hash virgins (who just completed their first Hash). There were about twenty of us virgins and this seemed to give great pleasure to the more experienced Hashers. We were gathered in the center of semicircle, surrounded by all the other Hashers. Beer in hand, everyone sings a song, including the phrase “drink it down down” at the end, which they promptly do. However, Hashers also have the option of dowsing the person next to them in their malt beverage if they so choose. I, being a true gentleman, tossed my beer on the nearest girl.
Another individual beer shower was given to a Hash Transvestite, a title given to a person who both walks and runs. This man was also given a silver mug full of beer with an engraving on it congratulating him for completing his one hundredth Hash in Malabo --hence naming our Hash “Centurion”-- and was then promptly forced to empty its contents. To wrap it up, we sang a less-than-tasteful version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
Our Hash fell on the perfect day to be outside in the wonderful capital of Equatorial Guinea, Malabo. It was overcast, which is awesome because it blocks out the scorching Equatorial sun, saving us fair-skinned Hashers from painful burns. The ground was surprisingly firm and the mud puddles were more sparse than usual, a rare change in this damp climate.
Our group was eclectic to say the least. We had people from South Africa, Scotland, Australia, America, France, Spain, and several locals. There were parents, kids, single men, single women, grandparents and students. All gathered for the same purpose; to go for a hike and throw beer on each other. (It is funny what can bring people together .) I did think it was odd to bring children along, but I was later informed that these Hashes have been tamed to be more family oriented . I was told by an Australian bloke that he did a Hash in the bush in Australia where they all ran the Hash in the nude. The kids weren’t there for that one.
The Hash Hare spoke only French and a little bit of Spanish for our Hash. This created a little confusion when he was trying to explain how the trail worked and what to do if you get lost or tired. He wore his pants tucked in to muddy knee high boots, and had a military attitude. Most people, when they walk, even with boots on, avoid puddles. Not our Hash Hare -- he walked right through huge puddles like they were not even there, making important-sounding commands in French.
I noticed the Hare was nowhere to be found at either of the two dead ends in the trail we encountered.. As we started to backtrack, we noticed him hanging out by another offshoot of the trail, grinning.
A three foot dead snake was spotted by one of the French ladies’ sons. By the time we got up to him, he had poked his discovery several times with a stick, revealing maggots and the sickening smell of rotting flesh.
Passing this point of the trail with great haste, we nearly missed a photo opportunity with a chopped down tree. However, this was no tree you might see along Kelly Drive -- This tree was as big around as of Volkswagen beetle! We seized the Kodak moment, climbing the tree and saying “cheese!” and the rest of the Hashers quickly followed suit.
After the down down, we trudged back to our house completely muddy, sweaty and smelling like a brewery. I knew the combination well, but couldn’t place it. Taking another whiff of the beer-scented air, I remembered; Of course! Collegiate rugby matches!

Visit to the bush meat market

THIS WAS A MORNING none of us were looking forward to. For some of us, myself included, it may be the only chance to see a monkey, alive or dead. These monkeys are not easily seen in the wild because they have become wary of humans, and rightly so.

Since the ban on hunting monkeys last year, to avoid detection the bush meat sellers move from one stand to another every day so they are harder to find. We, however, found them easily, and it was very much out in the open and accepted. The stands are tended predominantly by women, while the stands where a buyer can have the fur removed for them are operated by men. The women who operate these stands act no different than a butcher at farmers’ market. They wear no expression of cruelty or compassion when they grab a fly-ridden carcass to display to a prospective buyer. A woman seller smiled as she traded a limp squirrel for several thousand CFAs (500 CFA= roughly $1). She advertised it as a butcher would a fine cut of steak or juicy rump roast to bring home to the family for a sit down dinner. They conduct these acts no differently the butcher at your local market, because this, simply, is life.

We arrived late, which meant we missed the monkeys for the day. We were told that there had been only one monkey, which is great news for us who are surprised and appalled by the trade. It means sales must be going down.

Everything edible in the bush is sold at the market: snakes, turtles, birds, squirrels and duikers (little antelope). Some animals are kept alive for selling -- they are worth more alive because the meat does not spoil. To keep a turtle or tortoise alive, sellers place them on their backs because they cannot right themselves. Tortoises are very resilient and do not require much in the way of food or water to survive. For this reason, two centuries ago, seamen would take large tortoises aboard and place them on their backs. The meat would keep for a long time. Being on their backs does not prevent them from trying to survive, though. The two turtles we saw were using the last bit of fight in their in their short legs trying to flip back over because their life depended on it. However, the turtles’ fate was sealed long ago.

The process of preserving duikers and monkeys is far more brutal. Hunters break duikers’ tiny legs and bond them together. Broken in spirit and hog tied, they’re helpless, and pant for their last breaths in the beating hot sun at the market. To keep a monkey fresh, hunters break its back, paralyzing it. If the monkey is lucky, which most are not, one of their limbs will instead be chained, preventing them from moving. The glazed-over eyes of the duiker were difficult to look into, like that of beaten dog or scolded child. I could not picture the expression in the eyes of a more cognizant monkey. The sellers take no notice to this aspect of their daily business and occasionally brush the animals, both live and dead, with what appears to be a horse hair brush as a temporary relief from the grotesque fly epidemic.

After the purchase of a carcass, a buyer can opt to have the skin removed by way of flame torch. If you have ever singed hair the hair on your knuckles or arms, then you know a fraction of the smell of multiple animals having their hair burned off. This distinctive smell, combined with the pungent odor of trash piles and rotting flesh make the eyes water and turns your stomach upside down. The group had no incidents of breakfast revisiting them, but the color on some of our faces definitely faded.

These people are not savages. There is no shortage of protein, and they don’t eat monkey meat because there is no alternative. More than 20 other stands are set around the bush meat stands, selling more affordable meats like poultry or fish (Bioko is an island). The sellers of the meat know nothing of ‘animal cruelty,’ though it is, by Western definition, committed by their own two hands every day. For years, the consumption of monkey meat has continued despite the ban, despite the health risks (which are denied and regarded as myths), and despite the monkeys’ scarcity. Last month 47 drills, Bioko’s rarest primate, were counted at the market.

Enforcement on the primate hunting ban should be stronger, along with educating the hunters about the reasons for the ban and their alternatives for a way of life. However, having a shallow and unenforced ban on primate hunting is one incidence of the country’s poor leadership, and sits unnoticed amongst a long list of additional atrocities the monster of a president (see BBC link on the side) commits. Perhaps if the hundreds of millions of dollars used for palaces all over the island went instead toward the children with swollen bellies sleeping on dirt floors just ten feet from the immaculately painted walls, their world could seem less desolate. Maybe if the cities were run on cleaner, cheaper fuel than gas and diesel generators, hunters would not have to resort to an illegal trade. If prostitution and corrupt military did not run the once beautiful island, its resources could be cherished for their intrinsic value and not exploited to the point of desperation. Maybe if the people of Equatorial Guinea had a stronger education system to help them build their own familial empires, they could understand the gravity of hunting an endangered animal and find an alternative to an illegal livelihood. But how could the president know how to fix these problems? He spends no time here, less than sixty days a year, and someone else goes to the meat market for him.

Hey Ya'll

How can I possibly sum up the last 16 days with out wasting the next 16 in doing so? Here is a quick snippet for those of you chomping at the bit dying to know what is going on in the life of Tristan (which we know is all of you :).

We were stationed in Moka, a village south of the capital Malabo of Equatorial Guinea. We stayed in tents at the Moka Wild Life Centre to conduct our research projects (they do accept donations). Originally, I planned to study chameleons, but found myself fascinated by the birds in the area and promptly switch projects to the two types of Turacos at Moka.

The yellow-billed turaco is the smaller of the two species of turacos on Bioko Island. This medium sized bird (40-43 cm) has predominantly blue and green feathers and brilliant red underwings, a red crest, and a mostly yellow beak. The great blue turaco (70-75 cm, ca. 1 kg) has blue, black and yellow feathers, a long tail, a black crest, and a yellow bill tipped with red. They both have very distinctive calls that can be heard from afar, and to the untrained ear may be mistaken for a monkey.

On the subject of monkeys, much to my dismay I saw none . Several of the group members saw a few, but only 2 out the 9 species were spotted. This is sad because not 20 years the area had a rather abundant monkey population. However, with the increase in the country’s wealth (from oil) the demand and price of monkey carcasses has risen. Last year’s ban on the killing and selling of monkeys has done little to deter the hunters. This is due largely in part to the lack of enforcement of the ban.

The hunters are not hunting these monkeys for food or protein, rather the great profit that comes with a kill (an averaged sized monkey carcass can bring in up to $200). This is a fair amount of money considering a full time position earns that much per month on Bioko.

One night we hiked 6 km to Lago Biao and it rained for the first hour of the hike. This, of course, is to be expected when visiting a rain forest. We were rewarded we a splendid view of the lake after the rain stopped. We then dropped our gear and went for swim. The water requires no purification and is the freshest water I have ever tasted.

Camp was set up in the only possible place, that which, unknown to us, a hive of bees also called home. I escaped unharmed and stayed up most of the night star gazing. Jupiter is frequently visible from Moka, and tonight was no exception. Tom, our teacher pointed out several constellations, but the one that stuck with me most was Scorpio[S2] . It is spans such a large portion of the sky of the sky and dominates your view of the sky.

The next morning I awoke at daybreak to the unbearable sound of what seemed to be thousands of bees. I quickly assembled my gear (which weighed roughly 40 lbs.) and ran my ass out of there as fast as I could. My cross country coach would have been proud. I must have been a sight to see, running with a huge bag bouncing this way and that, spinning, swatting and cursing their maker. Had I been spotted by a local, I am convinced they would have thought I was possessed by some sort of evil spirit. Had I seen myself, my thoughts would not have been far off. For as you know, from even a few feet away, bees are invisible and silent menaces. By the time you either see or hear them you are among them and it is too late.

For my readers who are not personally acquainted with me let me firstly thank you for reading. Secondly my hatred for bees is not unjust, I, like my upstanding gentleman of grandfather, am allergic to bees. I do like honey however; I prefer my bees at a distance.

-Tristan John Schreck I

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What you need for a Field Excursion in Moka, Bioko Island

2-3 Field pants, 1 pair for camp, 2 long sleeved shirts, 2-3 T-shirts, 1 Sweatshirt, Tank Top, 3 underwear, 2 Bandanas, 4 Hiking socks, 1 pair Hiking boots, 1 pair Sandals, 1 swimsuit, 1-2 belts, Hand Sanitizer, Deodorant, Hairbrush, Shampoo, Toothbrush/paste, Pocket knife, compass, binoculars, 2 water bottles, backpack (large), Daypack, Poncho, Parachute chord (for clothes line), Camp towel, sleeping bag, 2 flashlights, batteries, Camera, Dry sacks, Duct tape, Winter hat, sewing kit, 50 Tablets of H20 treatment, bug spray, First aid kit, blister treatment, ANTI-MALARIAL MEDICATION, Advil/Tylenol. Plus beef jerky, chipotle peanuts (thanks Grandpa) and 1 case of beer.

Last night we had the pleasure of being invited to one of the Oil compounds for dinner by the lovely Texas couple Mary and Pete Johnson. We enjoyed the pool facilities that were offered and engorged ourselves on a fantastic feast of BBQ ribs, bacon topped mashed potatoes, cauliflower, baked beans and fresh salad.

I had contact with the outside world this morning to find out the Eagles beat the Stealers, good job boys.

Landed

I landed in Malabo airport around 1am Friday morning. I must say after 24 plus hours of traveling it is nice to be at my destination. The weather here is around 84 degrease and humidity unlike any I have experienced before. Attached is a picture of the room I will be staying in for several days until we head up to the field station at Moka. The house is directly across the street from the Presidents new and oversized palace. I wish I could show you pictures however it is not worth spending the night in jail or having my camera smashed. In Equatorial Guinea it is illegal to take pictures of government buildings, workers, anything military related and the ports.

FYI

I am assuming most of my readers do not know where Bioko Island is located. I assume this because according to a survey by National Geographic... About 11 percent of young citizens of the U.S. couldn't even locate the U.S. on a map. The Pacific Ocean's location was a mystery to 29 percent; Japan, to 58 percent; France, to 65 percent; and the United Kingdom, to 69 percent. Shocking I know...

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2002/11/1126_021120_TVGeoRoperSurvey.html