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From Sloth Watching to Orchid Sniffing: A Real Cool Job |
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Osa Conservation |
Okay, now that we’re up here what am I supposed to take pictures of. I mean, why did you bring me up here anyway. I suppose you want me to shoot photos of leaves and sky and who knows what else,” ranted Philip. In a few short hours I had come to realize that my client was mostly bluster and jest and his critical manner not really at a sign of displeasure.The incident described above took place back in the days when half the people in Dominical had never heard of Internet, and those who had weren’t quite sure what it was all about. For me it was something out of science fiction, but I had an inkling that it would one day be very important. Phillip was designing what may have been the first Internet travel guide, and for that he needed photos.
Phillip was a large man, well over 100 kilos (220 Lbs.,) a marked contrast to his girlfriend, Michele, about half that size. As far as I could discern Michele’s primary function was that of camera bearer, which wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. His photographer’s backpack contained four state-or-the-art cameras, eight lenses, 150 rolls of film -- digital cameras were little more than a fantasy back then -- and weighed in at approximately 35 kilos (77 Lb.) Tiny Michele handled the task admirably.“Oh come on Phillip,” I began, searching for words. “Don’t you feel the magic of the canopy? I mean we’re as high of the ground as a 12 story building. Until a few years ago this entire ecosystem was virtually unknown to science. Don’t you feel anything? I mean it’s so different. On the ground your reality is only a hemisphere; up here it is a sphere.” I knew I was rambling, but I couldn’t think of anything clever.Phillip let out a big sigh. “You expect me to photograph feelings?” he queried with a smirk.
That was the moment when I saw it, and an instant later so did Michele. Phillip was railing on about needing subject matter for photos. Michele lifted her hand, pointed and opened her mouth, but no sound came out. I prepared my next words carefully all the time telling myself: “Don’t blow it Jack. You only get a chance like this once in a lifetime.”From Michele’s strange stance, Phillip deduced that something was up. He lapsed into silence. I went for the kill. “Well, I don’t know Phillip. What do you have in mind?” I began as casually as I could muster. “Will that sloth do, the one just over your shoulder? Maybe Michele could hug it while you take her photo. Can you put that on your Hinternet or Interjet or whatever you call that star wars stuff you work with?”
I never saw a large man pivot so quickly. Eyes glued to the sloth he snapped orders to Michele: “Canon 5680 (or whatever it was,) 70 mm lens.” He held out his hand. Seconds later, with all the effeciency of a dental assistant, she slapped a fully loaded and assembled camera into his palm, ready to shoot. And shoot he did. The sloth worked its way out onto a branch, Phillip shouted an order, a different camera landed firmly in his hand as the first was retreived. Phillip never took his eyes off the sloth. Three rolls of film later, he was still snapping away. Not surprisingly, he didn’t notice when five fiery-billed aracaries (small toucans) had landed in the tree. This time Michele didn’t trust her voice, she poked him in the ribs and pointed.
Reluctantly he removed his gaze from the sloth and contemplated the toucans; a brief moment of hesitation, another shouted order and, like magic, another camera appeared.
I spent two more days with Phillip Greenspun and Michele, all of it memorable, but that experience in the canopy is an afternoon I will never forget.
Guiding ecological tourists is the most thoroughly enjoyable occupation I can imagine. It is a really cool job. It is like getting paid to have fun, and I often find myself enjoying the tour as much or more than the tourists. Of course there is lots of effort that isn’t always evident to the visitors, but the act of guiding and teaching about the rainforest is so gratifying that the all the extra work is soon forgotten. This is in large part due to the fact that ecological tourists tend to be some of the nicest people on earth. They come here to see and learn and take away only their memories.
Even after sixteen years experience as an ecological tour guide, I don’t consider myself to be really good at it. Granted I can show you a sloth like Phillip and Michele’s that practically taps you on the shoulder and says “Hey man, look, here I am.” I can take you to a tree that is too big to hug. And, I can get you 40 meters (130 feet) up into the canopy and back down, all in one piece. But I have great difficulty finding a sloth that doesn’t care to be found. For that you need a top ecotourism guide, one who grew up in the rainforest. We have six at Hacienda Barú National Wildlife Refuge, Danny, Deiner, Freddy, Juan, Pedro and Ronald, and I take my hat off to them. I’ve lived at Hacienda Barú for 34 years but I still see twice as much wildlife when I go out walking with one of these guys.
I’ve come to appreciate that the difference is not in visual acuity, but has more to do with image enhancement. “See that sloth over on the far side of that tree,” said Juan casually, not bothering to lift his binoculars. His finger indicated a gray mass located at a point where two branches crossed.
I raised my binoculars. “I don’t think we’re looking at the same thing.” I replied.
“Yes we are,” he assured. “You’re looking in the right place. Look again.”
I did. “Juan, my friend, I think you’ve finally gotten one wrong.” I was still peering through my binoculars. “That is nothing more than a bunch of dry leaves. Look at it with your binoculars.”
Juan smiled patiently. “You know,” he mused, “I’ve never been able to understand why you confuse sloths with dry leaves. Sloths are living, furry mammals. Dry leaves are dead pieces of trees. What?s similar about them?”
“Well ... they’re both gray,” I offered lamely.
“There,” he pointed, “look again. You ever see a bunch of dead leaves scratch its head?”
I knew I’d been beaten, but I raised my binoculars anyway, had a look, then turned and gave Juan an apologetic shrug. “Sorry buddy. Let’s just pretend I never said a thing. Okay?”
Juan’s eyes and mine record the same visual signals and transmit the same information to the optical nerve. The difference is in the brain. His brain enhances the image into a male three-toed sloth, complete with wavy hair, and mine into an unidentified gray mass that is probably dried leaves. That doesn’t mean I haven’t gotten better at spotting sloths; I have. But I don’t even play in the same league as these guys.
Not all signals are visual; all of our senses give us clues about our surroundings. Once, while walking through the jungle with a small group of visitors, an image popped into my mind. Some of you older readers may remember when the words “drugstore” and “soda fountain” were nearly sinonimous. Back in those days, while you were waiting for the pharmacist to measure out your prescription and type up the label, you sat down at the soda fountain and had a cool drink. They had malted milks, strawberry sundaes, chocolate bananas, flavored cokes and all kinds of neat stuff. Lime cokes were my favorite, but my sister prefered hers with vanilla. The soda jerk -- they really called him that -- would put a squirt of flavoring into a glass, fill it with coke from a spigot, throw in some ice and a straw and serve it with a smile. I can almost taste it now. Anyway, that is the image that popped into my mind while we were walking through the jungle, the soda fountain at our corner drugstore.
“What’s that smell?” I asked stopping to sniff.
“Chocolate!” offered one of the visitors.
“No that’s not it,” I replied, sniffing the air again, trying to refine the image. The soda jerk was squirting flavoring into a coke glass. It was my sister’s glass. “Vanilla, that’s what it is vanilla!” I nearly jumped for joy. We followed the scent into the breeze. I had never seen a vanilla plant, but there was no mistaking the smell. We soon discovered the vine-like orchid with creamy yellow flowers climbing on a small snag. The odor near the plant was overwhelming, and we all marveled at its beauty. I later learned that in the wild the vanilla flowers are polinated by a bee that lives only in the rainforest but is largely absent from plantations. Domestically grown vanilla plants are usually pollinated by hand using a tiny brush. I also learned that we have at least two species of wild vanilla at Hacienda Barú. That first whiff on the breeze triggered a long forgotten image and initiated a learning experience. Now we can show you vanilla plants in the Hacienda Barú orchid garden, but somehow it isn’t the same as my first experience with the sweet smelling blossoms.
As we have seen, guiding is not only a teaching experience, but also a learning one that is often as enlightening for the guide as for the guest. The tropical rainforest is the most biologically diverse ecosystem on the planet, and guiding people through it is truly gratifying. Everytime I go into the forest I see something I have never seen before.
These are a few of the reasons the ecological guiding profession is so important both for the for the international traveler and the local economy. Visitors learn about the rainforest, and with that knowledge comes a greater appreciation for tropical nature and the precarious state in which it exists. At the same time ecotourism provides jobs and stimulates local economies, all of which further incentivates people to conserve Mother Nature’s treasures.
With all of these wonderful thoughts in mind, I would like to leave you with something to ponder.
The other day I gave a lecture to a group of visiting university students. During the question and and answer session a bright young lady asked me if our operation of Hacienda Barú is sustainable. “Of course it’s sustainable,” I shot back, a little annoyed at the question. “We started with 330 hectares (815 acres,) half of it rainforest and the other half degraded pastureland and rice fields. Over the last 27 years, have converted 95% of it into wildlife habitat. We will eventually carry out low impact development on less than 5% of the land. When we started, Hacienda Barú provided jobs for three people. Today it employees 34 people. We have returned a great deal more to Mother Nature and to local communities than we will ever take away. I call that sustainable. I don’t know what you call it.”
The young lady wasn’t the least bit shaken by my retort. “Yes Mr. Ewing, I understand what you are saying, and I think the work you have done in habitat restoration is admirable, as are your accomplisments in educational and ecological tourism, but in determining sustainability it is important to consider of all aspects of what you do. During your talk you mentioned that 16,400 people visited Hacienda Barú in 2005, about 80% of them from foreign countries. Those people flew to Costa Rica in airplanes that burn fossil fuels. How many tons of carbon dioxide were emitted into the atmosphere by those planes? Is there enough rainforest at Hacienda Barú to remove all of that carbon? Perhaps I should have asked if any human endeavor is sustainable as long as we remain addicted to petroleum.”
She left me speechless. I didn’t have an answer and still don’t. Is human civilization like a balloon being inflated, each breath bringing it precariously closer to the bursting point? Let’s hope it’s not that bad. Maybe it will be more like a car running out of gas. The passengers won’t die in a crash, they will only have to get out and walk.
Article courtesy of Jack Ewing |
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